Page 128 of The Good Vampire's Guide to Blood & Boyfriends
That was an even more terrifying prospect than the lingering threat of Travis. The idea of being known, of being loved, of loving in return and having to trust that day in and day out they might continue to keep loving each other—or they might not. But being willing to take the risk anyway. And really, what’s more human than that?
“You’re being surprisingly chill about this,” said Brennan.
“Oh, I was not chill the other night. Cole had to talk me down from putting out a hit on you.” Brennan hoped that was a joke. “And if you ever bite him again, nonconsensually or in a way that causes real damage, I know where you live, and I think it would suck to spend an eternity without a dick.”
Brennan blinked.
“Because I would cut yours off.”
Brennan gulped and crossed his legs unconsciously under the table. “Got it.”
Mari eyed him.
“Now go home and take a shower, you look like shit.”
Brennan went home. Brennan took a shower. Brennan drank blood.
Then he went for a run.
Muscle memory led the way, but he knew where it led. The bridge beckoned.
It felt appropriately symbolic. The bridge was where he turned. The bridge was where, almost a year ago now, he had tried to kill himself.
His shoes pounded against the path until he was there, at the center of the little stone bridge, and he slunk down to sit with his back against the rail. Looked at his scar-free wrists.
Dying would be objectively easier than dealing with all this alone, Brennan thought, not for the first time. But the familiar dark blanket of depression wasn’t comforting like it used to be. He couldn’t sink into a murky spiral anymore. He didn’t want to die.
But he was so fucking ashamed.
Almost a year ago, he’d hurt people like this. He’d distanced himself from the few half friends he had freshman year, his family, the teachers who were concerned about him. He didn’t even know when he’d last called his mom, and he felt sotired.
When he’d attempted suicide, he hurt the people who cared about him. It was an objective fact. His mom still couldn’t look at him without crying.
He couldn’t do that again—not to anyone, not to his mom or his friends, and not to Cole. He’d been so sure Cole would be afraid of him when really, he was afraid of himself. If he could hurt everyone close to him before, what could he do with those same self-destructive tendenciesplusfangs and eternal life?
He thought, after his attempt, after his hospitalization, afterso much therapy,he’d be fine. He thought he wasgoodnow.
But maybe there wasn’tgood.Maybe there was just better. Maybe there was justtrying.
He wanted to talk to Cole.
When he was a kid, he’d perfected the art of being alone. It was almost unfair that Cole could undo all that in such a short time.
Brennan looked around at the bridge, looked at the place on his wrists where his scars used to be, and he called the one person he wanted to talk to least but needed to talk to most.
Before he could organize his thoughts, the ringing stopped and his mom’s voice filled Brennan’s ears.
“Hello?”
That didn’t give Brennan much to work with, tonally.
“Mom,” Brennan said.
“Brennan,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, you know.” Now that he had her on the line, this was starting to feel like a terrible idea.
“No. Not really. I kind of thought you might be dying when I saw your number.”
