Page 59 of My Roommate Is a Vampire

“You hadn’t expected it to be so what?” I asked, as I guided him past the ostentatious shoe department that had its own wine bar.

He stopped abruptly when we reached the display of five-thousand-dollar winter coats that looked like they’d been cobbled together from rhinestones and trash bags.

He frowned at them. I could only guess at what he was thinking right now.

“I hadn’t expected this establishment to be so...much.”

He didn’t elaborate. But he didn’t have to. I understood what he meant perfectly.

My hand was still on his elbow as I steered him towards the men’s department, applying only the gentlest pressure to encourage him to move to the left. It was noisy in there, the store filled with shoppers and salespeople and piped-in generic background music—but even still, I heard the way his breath hitched at my touch as easily as if there’d been no one else there at all.

I tried to follow the signage for the men’s department, but there were so manyotherdepartments in that massive store it was a challenge. There were also way too many other people. It was nearly as crowded in there as it was in the main area of the mall. It felt like we were bumping into yet another well-dressed shopper every ten feet.

We must have wandered around Nordstrom for a solid ten minutes before finally finding the men’s department. It was on the sixth floor, past the home goods section, and at the very opposite end of the store from the mall entrance. It was so much smaller than the cumulative parts of the store dedicated to women’s clothing that it felt a bit like a forgotten stepchild.

What they did sell to men, though, looked just as expensive as everything else Nordstrom sold. Racks of suit jackets in conservative colors, adorned with thousand-dollar price tags, greeted us. Just behind them was a silk tie display that took up an entire wall.

Fortunately, they did seem to sell more casual stuff as well. A little further into the section we found jeans that would make Frederick stand out a lot less the next time he went out.

“Can I help you?”

A slender woman in a black sheath dress, with her dark hair pulled back into a severe but elegant bun, appeared at Frederick’s elbow. I noted her name tag—this was Eleanor M.—and the fact that she looked about my age, albeit far more put together. I wondered if Nordstrom required employees to buy the clothes they wore to work the way The Limited did when I worked there back in college.

“Yes,” Frederick said. “My name is Frederick J. Fitzwilliam. I require clothing.”

The salesperson’s eyebrows shot up. “Clothing?”

“Yes.”

She continued to look expectantly at Frederick, as if waiting for clarification. When none came, she pivoted on one of her expensive-looking, three-inch heels to face me.

“What he means,” I began, feeling a bit awkward, “is he wants to try on some jeans. And some casual shirts. He already has a lot of suits but wants some clothes he can wear, like—around the house, or to a coffee shop. Things like that.”

“Ah.” She gave me a knowing smile. And then, in a conspiratorial stage whisper she added, “Your boyfriend’s a real workaholic, always-at-the-office type, isn’t he?”

Boyfriend.

My heart lodged itself in my esophagus at the same time my stomach did a not entirely unpleasant somersault. I glanced at Frederick. From the thunderstruck look on his face, I could tell he’d heard exactly what she’d just said.

“Oh... he’s... ,” I stammered. I tried to laugh. “He’s not my—”

But she wasn’t there to hear the end of my sentence, already walking away and gesturing for us to follow her away from the suits and towards the men’s section’s more casual clothing. I glanced at Frederick, following just behind me. I didn’t think a person’s eyes could evengetthat wide.

“Our store’s men’s department is the largest one out of all the Nordstroms in the Chicagoland area,” she boasted, oblivious to my rioting thoughts. “Our suiting options are especially robust. But I gather you aren’t here for that.”

“No,” Frederick agreed. He gestured to me, adding, “Cassie says I need to wear more casual clothes in order to blend in with modern society.”

The salesperson hummed, nodding sagely. “Yes. Well, you’ve come to the right place.” She stopped walking when we reached several racks of jeans. “Are you interested in distressed jeans or a more classic look?”

Frederick raised a suspicious eyebrow at the salesperson. He gingerly plucked at a pair of jeans that were so distressed they looked like they’d soaked in a vat of acid for two weeks.

“I amnotwearing this,” he said, flatly. “God’s thumbs, Cassie. This garment is more hole than fabric.”

“He’d like a more classic look,” I said, very quickly, to the salesperson. I steered Frederick to a rack of jeans that I thought he might find more acceptable.

He blinked. “These?”

“These,” I agreed.

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