“That’s it, Micah. I’m coming over.” My mother sounds choked and close to tears. It breaks my heart to know I’ve worried her enough to drive however many hours and come see me in person. 

“No, Mom, it’s fine. I feel better just talking to you. I don’t want you to come all the way here. I can handle it. Really.” I don’t know how true my words are. I’m still sitting on my kitchen floor, blood streaming down my face in hot red streaks; it feels thick and tacky as it dries. I do feel better having spilled my guts out to her—I’ve told her about how awkward I’ve been at work, about the accident with a co-worker, about falling asleep on the bus… 

The only thing I’ve left out is my painfully humiliating crush on the CEO. 

She definitely doesn’t need to know about that. 

“Micah Alan Sevier, I am your mother and I am telling you I am coming over. I don’t care how many hours I have to drive. You may be 26, but you’re my baby and even if you don’t need me, I need to be there for you. That’s it. Don’t argue.” She sounds stern, but I can hear her sniff. 

I’m sniffing, too, though I think I’ve finally stopped crying. I feel a little lighter—like I can breathe again at least—but I’m completely overwhelmed. Every negative, doubtful, self-loathing emotion is spiraling inside my head and I just want to sleep and forget anything ever happened. 

I want to start over, back at my first day of work. I know it’s impossible, but I still have that thought… that wish.   

“Okay,” I mutter, nodding. I know my mom can’t see me, but I do it on instinct. At least she can hear that I’m agreeing with her. 

She lets out a sigh in relief, it's loud on the phone. “Good. Now, get cleaned up and head straight to bed. Try to get some sleep. I have a key, I’ll let myself in. Then we can talk when you wake up and you can think about whether you need to call in sick for your next shift. Okay?”

I nod again, swallowing. “Okay. I love you. Thanks, Mom.”

“I love you, too, baby. I'll see you soon.”

I wait for her to hang up first and turn off my phone screen. I don’t want to see myself reflected in it. I know I look terrible. 

I feel shaky as I push myself off the ground and finally close the fridge, dousing the kitchen in darkness. I don’t look at the blood. I keep my line of sight on my feet instead. Even as I walk to the bathroom and turn on the faucet, I avoid looking in the mirror as I scrub the blood from my face. 

Ragged, exhausted, I drag my feet until I make it to my bedroom. Peeling off my clothes, I change my boxers, but I’m too tired to put on sweats or pajamas. I just fall into bed and pull the covers up around me and over my head. The sheets are dark and cool against my skin; my cave where the sun can’t reach me. 

It finally feels safe. 

I wonder if I’m going to scar—I usually do, at least for a few months after the blisters dry up. The blood helps speed the healing, but it’s not like I’m invincible. Vampires are more human than people think. We still get tired, we still get hurt, need time to heal… 

I wish I was human, I think, closing my eyes.  

My phone buzzes. The light of my screen turns on and illuminates the interior of my blanket cocoon I’m snuggled in. I wince a little at the brightness, but I look at the screen, wondering if it’s my mom letting me know she’s on her way. 

I stiffen, my eyes widening despite the harsh, nearly blinding screen. 

HOPE YOU GOT HOME OKAY. 

My heart stutters as I see the DM. It’s on the same social media app where I accidentally left a comment on one of Vincent’s pictures. And now… he’s messaging me. 

More than a stutter, my heart’s suddenly going crazy. I can feel all the fresh blood rush to my head. The deep pounding in my chest is almost annoying, and something I can’t name makes me ache.  

I swallow hard, thinking of what to say—if I should even respond. 

This feels like the gateway to something dangerous.

After a moment of hesitation, I give in. Maybe it's the adrenaline or emotion that’s making me not think straight, or maybe I’m just so scared of what happens next that I don’t care if I mess up anymore. I just want to hold on to this—to him.

I DID. THANKS. ☺️

It’s another lie, and I can really feel them start to stack up this time. 

I wish I could be honest with you. 

I think about what my mom said—how I should decide if I need to call in for my next shift and say I can’t make it. I don’t want to flake, not when I’m only a few shifts in and have already royally fucked up so badly. 

I groan, looking at the messages. I think about saying something else, maybe apologizing again, but I can see him typing; three small rolling dots blink at the bottom left of my screen. Then they stop. I can tell he’s thinking of what to say and it makes me nervous. 

My phone buzzes. 

SEE YOU AT WORK. 👍

My heart sinks a little in disappointment. I don’t know what I thought he would say, why I would even bother hoping for more. We’re not friends; I just accidentally split his head open and did the same thing anyone in my position would do to try to help, crush or not. 

This time, I don’t respond. I don’t want to confirm I’ll see him in case I chicken out at the last minute and call in sick. And I don’t want to tell him I’m not feeling well or some other excuse in case I decide to go in. 

Instead, I just shut off my phone screen and close my eyes. I don’t want to dream of him tonight. I don’t want to dream of anything. Not of Vincent or the sun or anything that will remind me of a life I can’t have.

***

It’s a slow drag back to reality out of the dark void of my sleep, but as soon as I start to wake I jolt. My pulse is quick as I wonder if I’ve slept through my alarm. 

Sitting up, I scramble to find my phone in the tangle of sheets, I grab it as soon as my fingers brush it and instantly check the time. I let out a sigh of relief. It’s only noon; that’s early for me to wake up. I’m surprised I didn’t sleep longer with how drained I was after the rollercoaster of events this morning, but I realize I can hear something that sounds like it’s coming from the living room. 

I lay there for a moment, trying to figure out if the sound is coming from outside instead or maybe upstairs, but then I remember my emotionally explosive conversation with my mom. 

Throwing off the covers, I grab a clean shirt and pair of joggers, pulling them on quickly. I exit the bedroom and look down the hall to see the kitchen and living room lights are both on. Empty, folded boxes are leaning against the wall in the hallway. 

There’s a beige, felt coat hanging by my door and tall leather boots that don’t belong to me. 

More emotion swells in my chest as I make it down the hall and peer into the living room. It looks different. Boxes have been unpacked, books and blu-rays neatly organized on shelves. There are family photos arranged in prominent places and some artbooks on the coffee table. In the center of the room is a woman far shorter than me, her round curves filling out her warm sweater and leggings. 

“Mom,” I murmur, and I’m the one that sounds choked. 

I really can’t afford to cry again, so I swallow it down. 

My mom jolts and turns around, her long brown hair whipping across her shoulders. She stares up at me with dark eyes and I see blood well in them, tears threatening to spill over. She sniffs and swallows, blinking rapidly to dry her eyes and keep the blood from falling. 

“Micah…” she says feebly. It’s only when she says my name that I realize she’s really there; she sounds so different than over the phone. 

She rushes forward, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight. 

I hug her back, leaning over her so I can rest my head on her shoulder. It’s really hard not to give in to the burning in my eyes, but I clear my throat and sink into the hug. She squeezes me tight, so hard I’m slightly worried she’s going to snap my spine and crush me. 

“Mom, I can’t breathe,” I wheeze, and she lets go. 

She squishes my cheeks between her hands, yanking my face down to her eyeline so she can examine it. Her brows furrow as she says in a concerned murmur, almost to herself, “The scarring isn’t too bad, but it’s a bit noticeable since it’s fresh. I brought some concealer if you want to cover it up a little.” She lets go of me to rummage through her purse that she’s left on the couch. 

I slowly sink down onto the other end of the sofa, watching her quietly. “Thank you, Mom. I’m sorry for making you come all this way.”

“Don’t be silly, Micah. Of course I came.” She doesn’t look up at me, still focused on finding the makeup she brought. Her purse is always full and unorganized. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s magic and endless inside with how long it takes her to find anything. 

I chuckle a little to myself before I ask, “How was the drive? Is it really sunny?”

She doesn’t make eye-contact with me, still focused on rummaging as she says, “It’s not a good day out there. High UV. But your dad got me those window-tints for the car. You know those ones that have been approved for road safety? I kept getting ads online for them—well, anyway, they’ve been great! And you know I always bundle up…” Her eyes finally slide over to me as she asks, “You didn’t have any protection?”

It sounds like an inappropriate question—similar to one I feared her asking me in college—but I know she’s talking about sun protection. 

I grimace, avoiding her gaze as I answer, “I don’t like wearing it at night. I thought I’d be home before the sun came up—”

“Micah, you know you need to stay prepared.”

“I know,” I mutter, feeling her worry and disappointment. It’s worse than anger. I hate making her worry. 

She doesn’t let it go with just that. “You can’t take any chances while you’re still on bagged blood! It’s not strong enough and you sure as hell don’t drink enough of it or as often as you should—”

“I know!” I don’t mean to shout, but I hear my voice ring through my empty apartment, bouncing off the walls. 

It makes her flinch, her eyes widening as her brows furrow, but it’s not enough to shut me up.  

“I know I’m still on bagged blood, I know it’s not as potent and there’s probably all this shit mixed into it that messes with things. I know I fucked up my rations and things are “so much easier” for you because you have Dad—I know the spiel, okay? But I don’t have a donor! I don’t know if I want that.”

I feel sick, shuddering. It’s something I’ve heard before in every possible way my mom can put it. “Things will get easier when you have a donor.”  

My mom’s stare sharpens as she snaps, “What do you mean “you don’t know if you want that”, Micah? You want to stay on bagged blood forever?”

“Yes!” I hiss and grab a pillow to hug and calm me down. I swear under my breath, sighing gruffly as I close my eyes and sink deeper into the sofa cushions. I can feel her gaze burning into me. “I mean, you always complain about the paperwork and the yearly check-ups from the bureau. How annoying it is for you and Dad to constantly be on that damn watch list and how hard it was to even get approval to be on the list. That hardly sounds easier!”

My mom lets out a breath and I can see she’s hurt by my outburst. She brings out the concealer she’s found, placing it on the coffee table before she slowly sits next to me on the sofa. She puts a hand on my knee, rubbing it a little. Her tone is gentle as she says, “I’m sorry. I just know how hard it is, and yes, things did get easier when I met your father. I hate seeing my baby suffer, and it makes me angry, because I know it’s not fair. Yes, it’s a horrible legal process to be permitted to feed from a partner, but in my view, it’s also worth it. The sun doesn’t burn as badly, my thirst is so much more manageable. I want all of that for you.” 

I squeeze the pillow tighter. “I know you do. I hate making you worry, but after everything that happened at home… It’s hard for me to even think about drinking from a human—”

“That wasn’t your fault, Micah!” My mom’s the one shouting now, and I know it’s her mother-bear instincts defending me. 

It’s hard to argue with her, it won’t do any good. I swallow, saying, “I know you think that, but I’m still messed up about it. Okay? That’s why I moved all the way out here. So I didn’t have to think about it and be reminded all the time…”

She nods, clutching my knee a little tighter. “I know… and I know you blame me, too.”

“Mom I don’t blame you—”

“Sure you do. It’s my genes that made you like this. You’re a vampire because of me.” She sounds so sad and I realize this is her own inner voice—her deepest worry, that I resent her. Now she’s the one not looking at me. “You know, when you were born, you looked exactly like your father. Even now, you look so much like him with your bright blond hair and crystal clear blue eyes. You were such a beautiful baby boy.”

I smirk a little as she gazes at me, like she can picture me as a baby again, and I bet she can. I bet it’s how she sees me all the time. 

“I may look like Dad, but I’m you down to my atoms.”

She laughs a little, leaning into me more. “It’s true. You are… But, seeing you looked nothing like me when you were born, I thought we were the rare case. It’s so rare for a human to be born from a vampire, it’s such a dominant trait, but I thought maybe we got lucky. Maybe you wouldn’t have to deal with all the stigma and propaganda and hardships… I mean, the way people believe such ridiculous things about us—that a bite will change them or that we’re monsters—it makes even existing hard. I know that better than anyone.” Her smile fades and sorrow takes over her expression. 

It makes my heart twinge. 

She swallows as she continues, saying, “But then I saw your little fangs. You were so cute! And such a well-behaved baby.”

“Not like Lucy, huh?” I grin as she smacks my leg lightly. 

We both chuckle. “Don’t let your sister hear you say that,” she warns, though I can hear in her tone she agrees with me. She snickers and shakes her head, gazing up at me. She puts her hand tenderly against my scarred cheek and I can see her shoulders slump. “I used to wish you weren’t a vampire—just so things could be easier for you… But if you weren’t, then you wouldn’t be you. And I’m so lucky you’re you. My wonderful son. I love you and I just want you to be happy. I see you’re not happy.”

I sigh, dropping my gaze as I admit, “I’m trying to be happy, but it’s hard even thinking about finding a donor or marriage and going through that process. Hell, I barely have a crush on a guy!” 

She’s quiet for a moment and then I see her loom closer as she tries to catch my gaze. I flick my eyes up to look at her to see her brows have raised. “You have a crush on someone?” Her worried face suddenly looks gleeful. 

I blush, shoving my face into the pillow I’m holding. I want to scream. 

“No! That’s not the point!” I shout, but it’s muted and muffled as I talk into the plush fabric. 

“Yes you do!” She snatches my emotional support pillow away, tearing it out of my grasp. 

“Hey—!”

She puts her hands in mine, grinning at me like a maniac. “Tell me everything.”