Page 93 of My Vampire Plus-One

“I am now that you’re here.”

“I mean it,” I said. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt at all. I promise.” I could tell from the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes that he was lying. But then, if whatever was wrong with him had been serious, Frederick would have said something.

For the moment, I decided to let it go. In an echo of all the times Reggie had asked me the same question, I asked, “Can I come in?”

He grinned, all straight white teeth and boyish charm, clearly glad for the change of subject. “Please do. Let me give you a tour of the place where I’ve been crashing while Frederick’s friendwards my apartment.” He waved theatrically to the room we were standing in. “Actually, this is it.”

The bedroom had a similar vibe to the rest of the apartment. Which was to say, the furniture was gorgeous and very obviously antique, while the art on the walls pushed the definition ofeyesore.

Reggie caught me staring at the canvas that hung over the bed. It was covered in what looked a lot like soda straws. He said, by way of explanation, “Cassie loves making this shit. I guess that means Frederick loves it, too.”

“How do they manage it?”

He frowned at me. “Manage what?”

I shrugged, then gestured vaguely to our surroundings. “You know. The wholevampire-human-relationshipthing.”

“Ah. That.” Reggie reached up and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Honestly, even leaving that part aside, I can’t think of two people who are more different. But I know they’re happy, and almost disgustingly in love. So they must manage well enough.” He paused, then added, “I don’t think it’s going to be avampire-humanrelationship for much longer.”

My mind shorted out. “You mean he’s going to— She’s—”

He nodded. “Frederick told me just before you came over, though I know they’ve been talking about him turning her for a while. Last night there was a copy ofWhat to Expect When You Become a Vampireon the dining room table.”

I stared at him. “That cannot be an actual book.”

“It is,” he said. “It’s apparently the seminal work on the subject. I flipped through it last night and although I’ve been a vampire for centuries, evenIpicked up a few things.” He shook his head ruefully. “Wish it had been around back in the 1740s when I was full of questions.”

My head was spinning.

Cassie was becoming a vampire because she’d fallen in love with one.

It was too much to process.

Suddenly it was difficult to look Reggie in the eye, so I averted my gaze. I spied a strip of lacy pink ribbon sticking out from beneath the bed. I wouldn’t have noticed it, given that it wasn’t out of place with the rest of the apartment’s eclectic decor, if I hadn’t for sure heard Reggie trying to hide something in here before I came in.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing.

His eyes went wide. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He jostled me in his rush to get to the bed, then kicked whatever it was further beneath it.

Okay, now I wasreallycurious. I bent down and, before Reggie could stop me, extracted something that looked like it was part journal, part art project made by an exuberant fifteen-year-old who’d just learned how to work a hot glue gun. It was so full of scraps and bits and bobs that the cover barely closed.

“Is this your bullet journal?” I was tempted to start leafing through the pages. But if a bullet journal was anything like a regular journal, this had Reggie’s private thoughts in it. It wasn’t my place to pry.

He swallowed. “How do you know about my bullet journal?”

“Cassie told me.”

“Great,” he muttered. He eased the thing from my hands, then set it carefully down on the bed. “Yes, it’s my bullet journal. It’s helped me. Emotionally, or mentally, or whatever. More than I thought it would when I started.”

The vulnerability in his voice was unmistakable. “It’s none of my business what you write about in here, of course,” I said. “Butif it’s helping you process what you’re going through, I think it’s a good thing.”

“Most of the entries aren’t about The Collective.”

Reggie opened the journal’s cover. And then he began to slowly turn the pages, one at a time, giving me a few moments to look at each one before turning to the next one, and then the next.

The first entries were very short, the multiple cross-outs and terse lists making it obvious he’d at first been full of disdain for the entire idea of keeping a journal. That changed quickly, though. The entries soon became more vibrant‚ incorporating bits of fabric and markers and brightly colored stickers to track his thoughts.

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