Page 66 of My Roommate Is a Vampire

He opened the notebook to the page I’d been working on when he joined me on the couch, moving a little closer to me in the process.

Our thighs were touching again. My insides were quivering at his nearness, at the solid musculature of his thigh beneath his clothes. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on him that it had on me, though. His eyes were fixed firmly on the art on the page.

“This is fascinating,” he breathed, gesturing to my designs. This early version ofManor Housewas nothing but the barestoutlines of a house and the general impression of a lake. Arrows pointed from the middle of the lake out to the edge of the page to represent motion and modernity; the idea of combining tinsel and cellophane had not yet occurred to me when I’d drawn it.

“You don’t have to say that.” Years of kind words from Sam and other well-meaning friends who didn’t get what I did made it so that false compliments hurt almost as badly as negative—but honest—feedback. “I know you don’t understand what I do.”

“That... might be true,” he admitted. He touched the top ofManor House’s roof with his right index finger. “But that does not mean I do not find it fascinating.”

I watched as he traced over every single line on the page, from top to bottom, not skipping over any part of it, with deliberate care. The house. The lake. The barely intimated trees blooming as rough graphite swirls on either side of the page. The memories of his large hand covering mine as we explored Instagram together—the way my hands had looked pressed up against his chest in the Nordstrom dressing room—rose unbidden, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

I’d always felt my art was an extension of my innermost self, and the sight of his large, graceful hands touching every single part of this early drawing felt almost unbearably intimate.

“What do you find fascinating about it?” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight of his hands touching my work. I felt moments away from melting into a puddle at his feet.

“All of it.” His hand left the page. Ifelthim withdraw as much as saw it and exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. An unexpected, indescribable feeling of emptiness coursed through me. “I do not claim to understand what you see when you draw and build these things. But the intricacy of your detailing suggeststhat whatever it is, it is big and deliberate. This isintentional. It means something to you. I cannot help but respect it.”

His eyes met mine, his gaze so piercing it punched the breath from my lungs.

It took a moment for me to remember how to form words.

“Yeah,” I said. Like a moron.

His expression went suddenly distant and wistful. “There was an artist in the village where I was raised. She drew the loveliest things. The sunset in winter. A child playing with a small toy.” He paused. “Me, when I was just a child myself, laughing with friends.”

I bit my lip, trying to ignore the sudden stab of irrational jealousy that went through me at hearing the wordshe.

Get a grip, Cassie.

“Your girlfriend?”

His smile slipped. “My sister.”

I winced, feeling like an asshole. She had to have been dead for hundreds of years.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He shook his head. “Mary lived a long, rich life, full of art and other beautiful things. The village she married into was small and close-knit. I don’t doubt she lived happily until the end of her days.”

These details about his sister were the first personal details about his life he’d given me, beyond the basics of how he’d ended up in his current situation. I wasn’t sure why he’d chosen to share this with me now—but the decision felt momentous.

In truth, I still knew almost nothing about my weird, fascinating roommate. This small tidbit was like a dam breaking on my curiosity about him.

Suddenly, I was greedy to know more.

“Where did you grow up?”

“England.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his eyes distant as though he were picturing the town in his mind’s eye. “About an hour south of London by car if you were to make the journey today. When I lived there, though, the journey to London involved nearly a full day of travel.”

England? That surprised me. “You don’t speak with an accent at all.”

“I have lived in America for much longer than I lived in England.” He gave me another small smile. “It doesn’t matter where you were born, Cassie. After you’re gone from a place for a few hundred years the accent’s barely detectable anymore.”

After you’re gone from a place for a few hundred years.

I bit my lip, gathering the courage to ask something I’d wondered about ever since I found out what he really was.

“You’ve... been gone from England for a few hundred years?” I asked, dancing around it.

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