Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

No one speaks as Paul navigates traffic. It's as if they're waiting for me to expand on my statement, but I don't want to discuss the fire. Just saying the words aloud causes a flood of memories I'd rather not think about. In my nightmares, I can still feel the straps of the gurney holding me down, leaving me completely helpless.

Time from that night slips and fades from one moment to the next. I remember the smoke. I remember being pulled out. I remember coming to on the sidewalk, then again on a gurney. I remember meeting Stacy. Well, meeting if I am to stretch the word's meaning. I press my fingernails into my hand, mimicking the feel of her fangs before rubbing the spot to try to erase them. She cared when she thought I was important, stopped caring when she found out I was mortal, and then cared again later at the hospital when she learned my last name. Her partner's face was more of a shadowed blur. Not that any of that mattered in the end.

I remember feeling as if someone sat on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I remember Conrad and the strange look on his face as he watched me on the gurney. I'm sure he was traumatized, but we never talked about that moment. Neither of us seems to want to relive it.

My heart beats fast, and I feel like I want to throw up.

The police cruiser is ahead of us. I find its rearview mirror, hoping the driver doesn't look back and somehow see me. I want to beg Paul to turn, but he's unconcerned by its presence, and I can't think of a good reason to ask him to do so.

My hands shake, and I can't make them stop. My fingernails are again digging into my flesh, and I have to force myself to release their hold. The red mark indentations cause me to hide the damage beneath my legs.

I want to fill the silence, but I'm unsure what to say, so I again check the police cruiser for signs of suspicion. I tell myself it's just paranoia because I don't want to go to prison.

Or would it be jail? Jail, then prison.

No, the family lawyers won't let it get that far. I need to lie low as they work this out like they always do.

Yes, I know I'm privileged, and it embarrasses me.

My thoughts churn, jumping around in my head. I don't know what I'm doing.

It's an eternity before the cop car turns. I instantly breathe easier.

My attention goes to Paul's hands on the steering wheel, and I watch him drive. The subtle movements of his fingers instantly give me naughtier ideas—a hope that they could make me feel anything but the depression I've been carrying around inside of me. I shouldn't be having these thoughts. I have to be careful who I trust right now. My baser instincts tell my cautious brain to shove it where the sun don't shine.

The colloquialism feels appropriate because it's not the only thing I want shoved where the sun don't?—

"I think I saw the fire you're talking about on the news. It was downtown, right?" Paul says, politely showing interest in me. The words are like the verbal equivalent of slamming on the brakes and letting the tire screech to a sudden stop. It rips my thoughts out of the gutter. Thankfully, he can't read my mind and all its chaotic ramblings. "If you want to talk about it…"

He lets the invitation dangle and waits to see if I'll pick it up.

My knee-jerk reaction is not to answer. Reporters have been circling for the story, and I don't want my family's pain used for entertainment.

But I look back at Diana, her saddened eyes staring at me, and I know that isn't what they're doing. They navigate their own pain. We're strangers with kindred afflictions on the same path.

"Yes. It was the fire downtown," I answer, my tone hoarse and somewhat off-guard. I clear my throat before rebounding with what I hope sounds calm. "We were all there for my birthday, mostly, kind of. Everything went wrong."

These are not the words I want to use to describe what happened. In my preferred version, fuck and hell would pop into the sentences more.

I glance back at Diana and then at Paul's strong hands. For some reason, those hands fascinate me. They are sturdy and safe, and I feel anything but.

"Kind of?" Paul prompts, and I hear his curiosity as he tries to understand.

"It was my birthday, but it wasn't about me. It was more for associates of my parents, so there were all these people there I didn't really know." I can't believe I'm admitting it out loud. Normally, I sugarcoat my family drama to outsiders.

"How old are you?" Diana asks.

"Twenty-eight." I look back at her, surprised and relieved that is what she wants to know. "How old are you?"

"Five and a half." She holds up her stuffed dog and adds, "Plop is five and a half, too. He was born the same day as me at a zoo."

"You were born at a zoo?" I ask, unable to help myself.

Diana giggles. It's a short, tiny sound, but I see Paul let loose a breath like a weight is temporarily lifted. He looks at me and nods in what I can only assume is appreciation.

"With the monkeys," she says.

"I'm boring. I was born in a hospital," I tell her. I mean, I assume that's true. I didn't know my mother wasn't my real mother until a few months ago. For all I know, I could have been born in a back alley.

The break in the sorrow lifts a little of the weight off me, too, if only for a few seconds. I turn to Paul. "And how old is your dad?"

I try to make it sound like a playful question and not to analyze my asking too closely, but I want to know.

"Three hundred," Diana answers.

It takes me a moment to realize that she is joking. In my world, three hundred is a believable answer. I remind myself that they're human.

"You look good for your age," I say with a small smile.

Shit. Am I flirting again?

I need to stop flirting. The man just buried his wife and mother to his kid. That makes me a creepy asshole deluxe.

As we stop at a red light, Paul adjusts his rearview mirror to look at his daughter.

"Knock a zero off the end. I'm thirty," Paul corrects with fake sternness.

"Yeah, old," Diana shoots back. "The store didn't even have enough candles for your cake."

Paul readjusts the mirror so he can drive.

"He was born with…" Diana stops and screws up her face as she thinks really hard. "In the sewer. He's a boy. Boys stink."

I can't say I agree with that assessment. I still have his coat around my shoulders, and there is nothing wrong with his smell.

Paul turns into the parking lot of a small diner. "Does this work? You're probably used to fancier. I can?—"

"It's perfect," I say. No one will think of looking for me here. Even if the funeral guests don't go to the wake, they would never come here.

I pull down the visor and flip open the mirror as he finds parking. I'm horrified at the puffy-eyed mess staring back at me. My mascara has rubbed off a little—waterproof my ass—and a light smear crosses my temple. I lick my finger and rub my face to clean the smudge the best I can. That morning, I tried to tame my brunette, naturally curly hair, but several strands had come loose. I smooth them back the best I can before giving up.

I close the visor as Paul gets out of the car. He opens the door for his daughter.

I follow them inside. The diner looks like it was birthed in the 1950s and then led a hard life, though someone had cared enough to clean it. Utensils clank a little too loudly to accompany the murmur of conversations. The smell of burgers permeates around us like a bad perfume.

I think I love this place.

A busy waitress waves her hand toward the only empty booth. I pause to squirt hand sanitizer on my hands out of post-pandemic habit. Paul grabs menus from the hostess stand, and we follow the waitress's directions. People glance up as I pass, but their attention doesn't last long. They're more concerned with their own lives.

I look down. The moment feels surreal. It's my feet moving over the cracked tiles, but this is not supposed to be my life. This is not where I'm supposed to be, but I don't want to leave.

Maybe I don't have to go back. Maybe I can slide from my life into Paul and Diana's like I'm sliding into the booth.

The fantasy is fleeting. Stupid, honestly.

I can't have this, not beyond this stolen moment. Eventually, they'll realize who I am and that I don't belong.

It's the story of my life. My last boyfriend only wanted to get close to my family's power and money. I have no idea why I put up with his supernatural misogyny for so long. Then there were my parents. They hadn't wanted me. Sure, my father loved me in his neglectful way, but I was like another living doll in his collection of children. And Lady Astrid pretended I was her mortal embarrassment. Although, it seems she had considered my mortality less embarrassing than the affair. I wonder if she didn't know about my affliction when she let everyone think I was hers.

"Tamara?" Paul's voice disrupts my unraveling into self-pity. He's offering me a menu. Diana is sitting next to him.

"Oh, thanks," I say.

"Bathroom." Diana tries to slide out of the booth.

Paul points at the restroom sign. "There and back."

She leaves Plop behind as he lets her out of the booth.

He cranes his neck to watch her until she disappears behind the door.

"How did you get left behind at your family's funeral? Won't someone go back looking for you?" he asks. "I think someone would notice you're gone."

"No. I had to get out of there." It's not a complete lie. I don't say why I had to leave.

"I get that." He nods. "Funerals suck."

Indeed, they do. Everything about them.

"Good on you for putting your self-care first." He looks at the menu, and I do the same.

I only pretend to read it. My mind can't focus on the words, so I stare at the once-glossy pictures. Even the salads look unhealthy under the greasy lamination.

The waitress appears, and I set the menu down. I ignore her perfunctory greeting before saying, "Coffee."

"Same," Paul says, "and an orange juice. Thanks, Bonnie."

I glance at the woman's name tag before she hurries away.

This moment is so normal, so human. It suddenly makes me uncomfortable, like I'm missing something important about my environment. These people can't all be benign. I find myself scanning the other patrons. The guy in the corner could be half-troll. He has the features for it. Then again, trolls aren't known for their love of milkshakes, and he has two. The woman with blue hair and facial piercings looks like she has a scar on her neck. She could be feeding herself to vampires. The lady with the white cotton ball hairdo, pearl earrings, and pink button-down sweater stuffing sugar packets into her purse could be a serial killer. Hey, it's always the ones you least expect, right?

The panic rises in my chest as I work myself up.

I look out the window, searching for police cars.

"Do you have someone?" Paul asks.

His question turns my attention back to him. "No. I'm not seeing anyone."

A small smile cracks the corner of his mouth, and he glances up from the menu. "I meant family. Someone you can talk to about today."

"Conrad. My brother. Well, adopted brother." I try to hide my embarrassment at automatically thinking he was flirting again. "And my mother."

He lowers the menu to the table and furrows his brow. "I thought you said…"

"Birth mom. I haven't met her. I've been looking, but…" I shrug. "It is what it is. My father had an affair. After I was born, he and his wife raised me. I only discovered Astrid wasn't my biological mother a couple of months ago. It's all very soap opera."

"And Conrad?"

"He was in the foster system. I think they got him because he was like…" I force myself to stop before I say he's like me, not supernatural. "I don't know. So, yeah, it's just me and Conrad now. What about you guys?"

"Nancy was an only child, and her parents have both passed," he says.

"That's Diana's mom?"

He nods.

"And your family?"

"My parents live in Kansas City. My mom hasn't been feeling well, and they couldn't make the trip. She's a nurse. I hated her working during the pandemic, but it's a calling, you know. She had to quarantine away from my dad. We worry that it's affected her health long term, but she says she's fine. My dad is in construction, which apparently is hereditary because so am I. Only he works on giant skyscrapers, and I have no desire to hang out forty floors in the air. He's also a fireman. Most of my extended family lives in the Midwest. I've been thinking about taking Diana there for a visit. Might be good for her to get out of the city."

Paul rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. There's a vulnerability in him that he tries to keep hidden, but it resonates with me.

"I wish they handed out a manual to parenting at the hospital for your exact child so I could know how to fix things. Chapter one, she'll get diaper rash. Chapter two, she'll try to eat sand when playing chef and scare the crap out of you, so you end up in the ER. In chapter three, the neighbor kid will break a window and try to say she did it."

"Chapter four, her mom dies, and she has nightmares?" I ask.

He nods. "The school counselor says to talk about her feelings. The internet says I should be talking about my feelings and telling her details about the death, so she doesn't wonder for the rest of her life. Honestly, I don't think either of those would be helpful to her. Memory boxes. Rituals. Routines. I followed all the guides, and she stopped talking."

This topic is way beyond my scope of expertise. I can barely figure out my own problems. I can't give him advice about his.

I say nothing, hoping he will continue to talk. I find myself drawn to the soothing timbre of his voice.

"But then you appeared, and she—" His eyes dart to the side, and he stops talking. He stands to let his daughter into the booth. "Did you wash your hands?"

Diana holds them up to show him before sliding into the seat.

I turn my attention back to the window as they discuss the menu. I could never be a parent, constantly putting myself on hold to take care of someone else. As attractive as I find Paul, his focus is entirely on his daughter—as it should be. Still, a selfish part of me wants to finish our conversation before the interruption.

Bonnie arrives with our drinks. I take the coffee and start plying it with sugar and creamer as they order. When it's my turn, I give a slight shake of my head.

"I don't want anything either," Diana says, even though she'd ordered a grilled cheese.

"You should try to eat." Paul glances at his daughter and then back at me, his eyes widening.

I want to tell him it's not my responsibility and that I have my own worries, but she's just a child. Guilt instantly floods me, and like everything else in my life, I find myself trying to please those around me.

I point at a picture of a hamburger on the menu and say, "That."

Bonnie tries to leave a millisecond into me saying the word.

"I want that too," Diana states.

"All right, then." The waitress hurries away before anyone else can change their mind.

Paul stares at me and gives a small nod of thanks.

Aside from a few niceties, we fall back into silence, and I don't know what to say to fill it. Everything I want to talk about would be considered flirting, and I can't do that with him here, today, in front of Diana.

My thoughts bounce from my problems to theirs, to random memories from my childhood. I worry about the cops, Conrad, and what the future means for us without family protection from the supernatural. I think of Uncle Mortimer assuming the role of patriarch and wanting to auction me off into an arranged marriage. Sometimes, the universe feels too full, and I can't process everything. Maybe that's what grief is, feeling everything pressing in all at once.

The food appears, and I find myself eating, not because I'm hungry, but because it's there. The burger looks nothing like its picture, and it occurs to me that not many things in life look as advertised.

"Your burger all right?" Paul asks.

I realize I've been staring at it. I glance up to see Diana is holding her burger the same way.

"Yeah, it's good." I take a bite. Diana does the same.

When I put it down to grab a fry, Diana copies that too. Paul doesn't appear to notice. Or maybe he does, but he's too weary from the day's events and chooses to ignore it. I grab my drink to see if I'm paranoid. I'm not. Diana takes a drink.

So that's weird.

I put my hands in my lap and sit back. Diana does that as well.

"Finish your hamburger," Paul tells her.

She stares at me and doesn't move.

I don't want her to get into trouble, so I start eating again and try to ignore it. This is only one meal.

"So," I hesitate before asking, "you said you are a contractor like your dad?"

It's small talk, but it's better than silence.

"Somewhat. Not on the skyscrapers. I prefer houses, apartment remodels, whatever needs doing."

I look at his hands. That makes sense.

"How about you?" he asks.

"I'm a searcher," I say.

Diana holds a fry and mimics my hand gestures.

"What does that mean?" He watches me as if he's really listening for the answer. His eyes are kind and inviting.

And safe. He makes me feel safe, and he shouldn't.

Damn. I wish he'd do something to make me less attracted to him. I glance around the diner. The blue-haired vampire bait is on her phone. Her eyes meet mine, and she stares at me while her lips are still moving. Is she talking about me or staring because I looked at her first?

"Searcher?" Paul prompts me to get back into the conversation. He glances over his shoulder to see what I'm looking at.

"Let's see." I turn my attention to Bonnie, who hasn't returned to the table since dropping off the food. "I've been a waitress. A barista. A florist. A shipping clerk for my father's business. He fired me because I messed up a shipment for one of his important friends."

I don't know why I admit that last part. Maybe it's because they don't know any of the players. I'm still unsure what was in the cargo container, but it had to have been questionable, even by supernatural standards.

"Your dad fired you?" Paul shakes his head as if he can't imagine it.

That further proves my assumptions about him are correct. He's one of the good guys, and I'm a visitor in his normal world.

"It's fine." I shrug it off, reminding myself not to speak ill of the dead. None of that matters now, anyway.

"So you haven't found your passion yet," he concludes.

"That's a kind way of putting it." I glance at my little copycat and take a giant bite, finishing the burger by shoving it into my mouth. She tries to do the same and ends up squishing it on her face.

"Diana," Paul says in exasperation, reaching across the table to grab napkins from the dispenser to wipe the mess. He gives up and slides out of the booth. "Come on. Let's clean you up."

I watch them leave me alone in the booth. This is not how I thought today would go.

Vampire Bait side-eyes me as she leaves the diner. She holds her phone in such a way that she could be taking my picture. The attention makes me uneasy, but I can't look away. She flips me off before disappearing down the front sidewalk out of my view.

Bonnie passes by and drops off the check without saying a word. I realize I don't have any money on me. The backpack is in the car. The reminder makes me think of the police and the legal mess I'm in.

"It's almost over," I tell myself.

Even now, Conrad is probably talking to the lawyers. I think ahead to when I'll be back home, soaking in a bathtub, trying to forget this long day. Usually, that would include a bottle of vodka, but I haven't drunk liquor since the night of the fire.

Strangely, the thought of leaving Paul and Diana makes me sad. I don't know them, but I'm drawn to their kindness. They represent a life I've never lived.

It'd be selfish to introduce them into my dangerous world. After today, we'll part ways, and that will be it. Paul would become a pleasant fantasy filled with what-ifs that could never be. Perhaps, someday, in random passing, I'll hear of how a woman named Diana graduated from college, and the thought will make me smile as I remember back to this normal moment.

That is all this can be. I can't make it into more.