Tonight, I was near the bottom of a deep dive into Vance’s Instagram when Rosanna entered the living room. I’ll get to that in a second. First, let me say, I scrolled far enough down Vance’s feed to see Capri, the co-founder of the Carmilla Courtship Society, whom he said had disappeared, but never elaborated. Of course she’s pretty. (In this case does the contraction “she’s” mean “she is” or “she was”?) Anyhow, in one picture they’re at one of their vampire balls (Miami) all dressed up and Vance has his arm around her, but over her shoulder like a friend might do—it could go either way. And the caption is so unspecific that it’s no help in determining their status. In another pic, they’re standing side by side, but the photo doesn’t go low enough to show whether they’re holding hands. It looks like a big maybe. The non-committal vagueness of their relationship in their pics almost seems intentional and staged, as if designed to create gossip. Who knows? Maybe I’m giving them too much credit, but I know influencer types do all sorts of shit to cultivate their platform and stay on message. But the more I go on about it, the more of a creeper I feel, so I’m gonna shut up about it now and get back to Rosanna entering the living room.

  She was dressed down, in jeans and her Luanda hoodie. She still looked beautiful of course, her outfit just puzzled me. “I thought you were going out with Corinne tonight?”

  “I canceled. I was hoping we could go out. You and me. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “That’s perfect actually. I’ve been wanting to talk to you too.”

  We went to the Third Street Promenade. Though we both enjoy it there and it’s close, neither of us had been in many weeks. We strolled the walk street drinking dirty chais. We stopped to listen to a couple musicians—a woman who played the trumpet and another who played the tuba. I wouldn’t have thought just those two instruments alone would be enough, but together they sounded just sublime. When they stopped for a break we put money in their donation bucket and continued on our way. It was then Rosanna apologized again for what happened last week—it was exactly a week ago—when our three Cob?lcescu visitors came over and I had to receive them myself, alone, because Rosanna was out arguing with Bruce. She knew I had been upset and felt I let her off too easy. As we hadn’t talked about it, it had been eating at her all week because I’ve always been so kind to her (her words), taking her in when when she had nowhere to go (her words), and have never asked anything of her (her words). I told her I had been mad, but didn’t stay mad, and that I’d been thinking about it all week too, and began to wonder if I felt obligated to be mad more than I was actually mad. At any rate, I said I was glad we were talking about it now. I told her it was also my fault as I blurred the boundaries of our relationship by wanting us to be good friends and making her call me Orly rather than Imparateasa when it’s just us or our LA friends. She then insisted on waiting on me when we had guests and I agreed, but it’s like I was keeping things blurry by having to say it felt distasteful to be waited on by my closest friend. And that’s when she said, “I’m your friend, Orly, but I’m not your equal. Accept that you are our empress.”

  “Fuck it. Let’s just never receive anyone ever again.”

  “I’m so happy, Orly, that you see me as your closest friend. You are mine too.”

  (Mayuko, should I have said “closest living friend?” Did I hurt you, Button? I’m sorry.)

  (And is it even true? Maybe I said that too casually. I mean, I love Rosanna. I know I really do. But it’s also true that I only met her a few months ago. And at this point don’t I take my deeper thoughts to Darcy or Hisato? I’m not saying Rosanna and I won’t get there. I think we will. But are we there already? Babbling Orly. I have to remember words have meaning. I mean, duh, but sometimes, maybe even oftentimes, I’m just not careful.)

  “I hear what you’re saying, Orly. But I still think it’s more my fault than yours.”

  “And you apologized. Three times at least. What more are you supposed to do?”

  “I shouldn’t’ve let you down in the first place. I shouldn’t’ve went over just because he sent me some crazy messages freaking out. I didn’t have to fight with him or kill him right then, that night of all nights, I mean.”

  “You act like it takes a long time to kill somebody. You were late but you weren’t a no-show.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “That’s what I mean when I say you’re letting me off too easy.”

  “I’m the one who kept bugging you to kill him. I brought it up how many times? We’ll just do better next time.”

  She gently grabbed my arm to halt our walking, and turned to me.

  “You must punish me, Orly.”

  “I’m not Mirela.”

  “But you need to be. Don’t you see? Sonya wasn’t just scolding me. She was stating her expectations of you. And it’s all of their expectations.”

  “How do they know I haven’t punished you?”

  “I know I haven’t been a vampire long, but from what I already know, Mirela was fond of making examples of people.”

  “Fuck ‘em. All of ‘em. I’ll never hurt you intentionally.”

  “It won’t be easy being your closest friend in the coven. I hope you recognize that.”

  “Stegosaurus.”

  “What?”

  I pointed to one of the dinosaur topiary fountains on the promenade. I’m sure it seemed random to her and probably like a subject change for me and maybe it was. But how could I not stare at it? It always catches my attention. It was near that neatly trimmed shrub statue that Berthold revealed to Kristy he was a vampire and their true relationship began.

  “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?” Rosanna asked, which pretty much confirmed she felt I was trying to get off the subject of punishing her for embarrassing me.

  I tossed my empty cup in the trash. Rosanna took one more sip and did the same.

  “That night. You said you didn’t cry a single tear over Bruce. I believe you. But I’ve wondered if you’ve cried for him since. Please be truthful. I would understand if you did.”

  “No, Imparateasa, I have not. Orly, I liked him, but I didn’t love him. He made me laugh even if he didn’t make you laugh, but even that lessened as his jealousy grew. If I were mortal, I would’ve ghosted him.”

  “You would’ve had to change your number for sure.”

  “Defo.”

  “We might’ve even had to move. It’s better he’s dead.”

  “Were you worried I was hurt?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you for considering my feelings. But I wasn’t hurt. He was just another mortal.”

  I didn’t know what to think but I thought of Vance.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you ladies, but you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I’m not lying. And I just know I’d be kicking myself in the ass forever if I didn’t approach you and tell you so. Would it be possible to get your number?”

  This was annoying. Two guys in thigh hugging Bermuda shorts. We’ll call one Slate and the other Navy. It was Slate who said all that stuff to Rosanna. Even though he wasn’t talking to me, Slate interrupted my thoughts. He also interrupted our conversation which felt close to but not yet finished. Maybe if I put a collection basket on the ground I could use the mind fire on the two of them and passersby would think it was a magic show and toss me their spare change.

  “I’m kinda getting over something right now. I’m not really looking to date at the moment.”

  “I’ll wait a couple days to call. I promise.”

  “You still call? How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six,” Slate said which caused Navy to look away and laugh. “Thirty-four.”

  “She’s twenty,” I butted in.

  “That’s no problem. Young girls are more fun anyway.”

  “How young will you go?” I asked, curious in a general sense, not for me.

  “Twenty,” Slate said stiffly to me and then softened for Rosanna, “Come on, I drive a Tesla. I live on the west side. Nice teeth. No kids. How bad could I be?”

  “Well, first thing is you need to be nice to my cousin.”

  Slate looked at me and apologized “if” he had been rude, but of course he said this for Rosanna and not me. There was more stupid chitchat and somewhere in there they exchanged names. Eventually he tried bargaining, begging for her Instagram if she wouldn’t give her number.

  My eyes wandered elsewhere around the Promenade while thinking I could never kill Vance like she killed Bruce. But when my eyes found Stegosaurus again, I noticed there was now a guy standing there who was wearing the same Luanda hoodie as Rosanna. His was much larger, possibly oversized, but still, what a weird coincidence. Two Luanda hoodies here in Santa Monica. What are the chances of that? I’m guessing most Americans don’t know Luanda is the capital city of Angola or even where Angola is on a map. I didn’t know either until I found out Rosanna was brought there during the war under the protection of the Azunu. I thought of rescuing Rosanna now by pointing the guy out and saying he was better suited and not because of his matching hoodie but because he wasn’t wearing Bermuda shorts that were strangling his balls. LOL. (I didn’t actually think of adding the strangling balls part at the time, I only thought of it now, but it would’ve been funny had I said it to their faces.) I took out my phone and tried to make it seem like I was scrolling through something but he noticed I was pointing my phone at him. Though he looked uncomfortable having his photo taken and like he never smiles, he made the peace sign with his fingers for me. I pressed the button on my screen and lowered my phone. His two fingers changed to five, and with a small wave to me he walked off. I had taken his photo but wished I could have scribbled him instead.

  Plaintive notes, tuba and trumpet entwined, drifted in from down the street.

  Rosanna gave Slate her Instagram.

  Just another mortal.

  We’re home now.

  Rosanna is doing curtsies in front of a full length mirror.

  I want to step behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.

  Our reflection remains blurry.

  But I’m done writing for tonight.

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