august 19th, 2019, 4:23 p.m.

It was probably a bad sign that Iman had yet to move from her position on the couch and it was now past four o'clock. It was probably a worse sign that Iman couldn't bring herself to care.

Beck had left early that morning—slightly hungover but not too hungover to function—saying that he had plans today, but he'd be back to help her with dinner. Dinner. She'd been excited when she'd invited Julien over, when she was physically saying the words to him. She'd felt like she was doing the right thing, like she was being a good friend. So why did she have this awful feeling, like cement was hardening in her stomach?

Maybe it had been the look on his face. He'd looked desperate, lost, hopeless. Iman couldn't remember him ever looking at her like that, and she wasn't sure what it meant, or what she was supposed to do.

Iman sighed, stretching her legs long across the couch and balancing her laptop on her belly. She craned her neck, squinting at the schedule of classes pulled up on screen. It was graduate school. She expected to feel like she had after graduating high school, like anything was possible, like her whole life was ahead of her. Except she didn't. She only dreaded the fact that summer was over and that soon, her free time would be, too.

As she was clicking through, checking class times and adding classes to her schedule, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She expected Julien or Beck, so a jolt of surprise ran through her when she wrestled the phone from her pocket and read the name Hana as the caller ID.

Iman picked up, eyebrows furrowed. "Hana?"

"Why do you sound confused, Im?"

"Uh," Iman sputtered. "I don't know. I guess it's just been a minute since we talked—"

"Yes. I know, I know," said Iman's older sister, sighing into the phone. Iman stretched to set her computer on the coffee table and rolled over onto her stomach. Was it bad news? Good news? It had to be some sort of news. What other reason would there be for Hana to call her, after all? She was busy being married and motherly and rich. "That's precisely why I'm calling you."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. Cam and I are going to be in town for a bit, next week. Like, in DC. Do you think you'll have time to talk?"

Talk. Something about the way Hana said it made Iman's skin crawl. She loved her sisters. She did. She loved her family. It was the things they talked about that she could do without. "Talk about what?"

For the first time since Iman had picked up the phone, Hana was quiet. She said, after a lengthy beat, "I just...I just want to catch up, you know? I just want to catch up."

Iman was saved from having to furnish some sort of reply by the buzz of her doorbell. She jumped to her feet, peering into the security cam. Beck was a fuzzy figure outside the complex, holding a grocery bag overflowing with leafy things. "Sure," Iman said. "I'd like that."

She didn't know why Hana sounded so relieved. "Really?"

"Yeah, I would. Hey—Beck just got here. Can I call you later?"

"Oh, you're still dating—yeah, yeah. That's fine. Love you."

"Love you, too," Iman said, and end the phone call, buzzing Beck up.

A moment later he was in her apartment, dropping the grocery bag off on the kitchen counter and a kiss on Iman's forehead. He flicked on the overhead light, shrouding the kitchen in gold light, and started setting out ingredients on the granite. Spinach, tomatoes, mozzarella, angel hair spaghetti, a mesh bag of garlic. Iman winced.

Beck noticed. "What? Is Julien not a pasta guy? I just figured he'd be a pasta guy."

Of course Julien was a pasta guy. Julien was an everything guy; that wasn't the problem. "No, no it's fine. Thank you. He'll like it."

Beck shoved the grocery bag aside, leaning over the island. The light reflected against his glasses, shrouding his brown eyes in yellowish-white. He was dressed...particularly sharp, in a striped T-shirt and denim dress shirt, his mother's crucifix necklace tossed around his throat. Iman winced again.

You should tell him, Julien had said. But he didn't mean to tell Beck about him, too, did he?

It was fine, she told herself. Julien didn't enjoy getting unnecessarily close to people anyway. The first time they'd ever met, he'd spent the first twenty minutes of their conversation across the room from her. She'd thought it was fear, at first. But no, it was self-preservation.

"Immy," said Beck, reaching out, combing her curls behind her ear. His eyes fell to her mouth for a moment, then lifted again. "You're nervous. You're nervous, aren't you? We don't even have to have him over. We can forget about it and order delivery and crash on the couch with a movie instead."

"I'm not nervous," she lied. Or maybe it wasn't all a lie. She wasn't nervous in the sense that Beck thought she was, but, she supposed, she was still nervous.

"I'm fine," she told him, folding her hands over his. "It's fine. It's—I think he needs help, Beck, and if I don't talk to him, I won't ever find out why."

Something strange, unrecognizable, stirred in Beck's eyes. He hesitated, but didn't shake free of her grasp. "Are you okay?"

Despite herself, Iman was startled. "Am I okay?"

"Yeah," Beck said, dark eyebrows twitching towards each other. He sat up, rummaging through the cupboards until he located a pot big enough to boil pasta in. The pot clanged as he set in the sink and flicked on the faucet. He raised his voice to be heard over the rushing water. "You've been acting weird around me since last night. Is it—oh, no. Is it something I said? While I was drunk?"

Beck's face had turned a bright shade of red, and now Iman's did, too. She'd been trying very hard to forget about that, but she guessed she wasn't that lucky. "Oh, it's..." Iman grabbed for a bag of spinach, pretending to read the ingredients—which were, of course, spinach. "It's...well..."

"Well?" Beck said. The faucet switched off, and it was quiet again, too quiet. "Im, it's okay. You can tell me."

"You may or may not have said you loved me."

Beck sputtered, fumbling with the pot and nearly dropping it to the floor. There was a distinct splash as water splattered across the wood. Beck just stood there, frozen.

"Beck?" Iman said. The poor guy didn't even look like he was on the same plane anymore. He'd asked, she knew, but maybe she shouldn't have told him...

"You know what they say, you know?" Beck began. "About drunk people."

"No," said Iman. She returned the spinach bag, carefully. "What do they say?"

"That it brings out people's truest intentions. Bad," said Beck, setting the pot on the stove with a dissonant twang, "and good."

Iman's heart surged within her chest. She remembered a brighter, louder day, the building swarming with bright-eyed college students hoping for a chance to showcase. She remembered making a beeline for the Smithsonian, convinced it was hers for the taking, that nothing stood in her way now—and colliding with the broad, muscled chest of a man she'd never seen before. He was dark-skinned, curly-haired, over-energetic. I'll make you a deal, he'd said, shortly after that.

What sort of deal?

It was the first time she saw him smile. Maybe, by then, it was already over. If I get the job, go out with me.

Of course, she had gone out with him anyway. It had been a risk. A massive risk that could have ended much worse. Maybe it still was going to end much worse. But here, now, Iman thought it was the best risk she'd ever taken.

"You meant it," said Iman, out of breath. "God. You really meant it?"

Beck chewed his lip, stepping around the island, taking the seat in front of her. "I did. I didn't know when to say it, but I guess my body decided for me. I do love you, Iman. I love everything about you, and every time I see you, you know, I just thank God."

Iman's heart was going one thousand miles a minute. She laid her hand on his cheek, watching as his warm face split into an even warmer smile. "I love you too, Beck."

When he kissed her, perhaps that was when she decided.

She was going to tell him.

She was going to tell him everything.

When Julien arrived, Iman stopped him at the door.

He was in a dark Def Leppard T-shirt and a jean jacket, looking uncharacteristically edgy. Maybe, though, it wasn't uncharacteristic at all. Julien's style was hard to predict, after all; the only thing Iman could bet on was that he would not step from the house looking like anything less than a nine out of ten. You never know who you'll meet, he'd told her once. Long as I've lived, that's the one logic that has yet to be debunked.

From Julien's elbow hung a tall, narrow bag; he adjusted it, flipping it over to his other arm. "You're giving me a weird look," said Julien, dropping his voice to a whisper. In the dark hallway, his eyes were black and bottomless, like two obsidian jewels. "Why are you giving me a weird look? Is everything okay?"

"Um," said Iman, pausing to listen to the hiss of the stove as Beck threw something on it. The scent of garlic jutted sharply into the air.

Julien recoiled almost automatically. "I see."

"I couldn't tell him, you know," Iman said, still whispering. "I mean, what was I supposed to say? Maybe don't use so much garlic because, oh yeah, Julien's a vampire?"

"Probably would not have the been the wisest move," Julien agreed.

"Yes. Thank you. Also," added Iman, leaning against the doorjamb. She plucked at her collar as if there were a necklace sitting upon it, glancing over her shoulder into the apartment. "He has a...a cross around his neck. It was his mom's so it's kind of a sentimental thing."

"Christ, Iman," Julien said, widening his eyes at her. "You should have told me I'd be allergic to your boyfriend! Is he trying to kill me? Are you?"

"No, no, no!" Iman said. "I just—"

"Immy?" It was Beck, calling from the kitchen, his voice carrying loudly over the gentle RNB music on the speaker system. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah! Just a second!" she called, turning back to Julien. "I'm sorry, Jules. It's not my fault you're a creature of the undead and the world doesn't have a lot of you. Just don't do anything stupid and we can talk after dinner, okay?"

Convinced she'd given a fair warning, Iman pivoted on her heel and started to follow the overwhelming scents of garlic and parmesan and oregano. Only a decisive, exaggerated Ahem stopped her from going any further.

She turned again. Julien was behind the threshold, raising his eyebrows at her in question.

"Oh," Iman said, shaking her head. "Right. Come in."

Julien's shoulders jerked as if a curse had been physically lifted from his body. He stepped forward, handing the bag to her. "You like Cabernet, don't you?" Julien said, then paused. "Unless—heaven forbid—you're a white wine person?"

"No," said Iman, grinning at him as she led the way from the cramped front room and into the kitchen. She lifted the wine bottle from the bag for a moment, examining its label. "Cabernet's just fine."

Beck's back was turned when the reached the kitchen, where both the smells and the RNB were marginally louder. Iman thought she saw Julien wince, as if the surroundings brought him corporeal pain, but she could have—or perhaps she hoped—that she imagined it.

Gesturing for Julien to grab a barstool, Iman set the wine down on the counter with a gentle thud. Beck flinched and turned around, surprise painting his face when he noticed Julien sitting at the island. "Oh! The guest of honor," said Beck. "How have things been since your house was warmed?"

A flicker of amusement crossed Julien's face. "It's barely been 24 hours, my friend. If that."

"A lot of things can happen in a day."

More amusement. "I suppose so."

Beck swiveled back to the sink to drain the pasta. "Where did you say you were from, again?"

"All over," said Julien, at the same time that Iman said, "San Diego."

The two exchanged a questioning glance behind Beck's back.

Iman leaned over the counter and explained, "He just moved here from San Diego."

Beck shot Iman a sideways glance. "How'd you meet if he's been in San Diego this whole time?"

"Old friend, I said," Iman reminded him.

"I knew her before college," Julien piped up, which, Iman supposed, was not entirely a lie. He had known her before college, but not because she hadn't been in college yet when she'd met him. More because she had travelled to a time in which her present self was not yet in college. Time got complicated when it came to the two of them. "High school."

Beck clicked his teeth, motions for Iman to hand him three plates. "Gotcha."

Julien was deliberately avoiding eye contact with Iman. He stared down at the counter, drawing circles across the granite with the tip of his nail. He hated this. She knew he hated this: lying, tiptoeing around the truth. He'd always hated it. It's why he kept to himself, most of the time. The less people he knew, the less people he had to lie to.

Iman felt a lump form in her throat. It tasted bitter, like guilt. Maybe this hadn't been the right decision.

"Im," Julien said. "Do you have a corkscrew? I'm far too sober right now."

That, at least, drew a laugh from Iman's chest. She rummaged through the drawer beside the sink before recovering a wine opener and tossing it at him. Julien caught it with ease, rising to his feet as he worked the screw into the cork. "So what's for dinner, Chef?" He asked Beck.

Beck turned with two plates of pasta, steam still rising up towards the overheads. "Garlic parmesan pasta," he said, as proudly as a child who had just built his first snowman. "A personal favorite."

Iman could tell Julien was fighting a grimace. "Yeah," he said. "Mine too."

For a night Iman had expected to be painfully awkward, it was almost...pleasurable. She watched Julien and Beck stagger through the hills and bumps of acquaintance until they formed what she thought was a gradual comfort, Beck even making Julien laugh a few times. Julien told stories, lots of stories, careful to cut the vampire and/or time traveling sections out of them. Beck talked about his favorite books and his affection for cottage cheese (which, no matter how long Iman had been dating him, she would never understand). Iman told them about the Smithsonian and the strangest people who had ever come to visit—including a woman that still seemed to believe beehives were in style.

She kept glancing at Julien, checking to make sure he was okay, and though he made a few faces as he took slow nibbles of his pasta, Iman could no longer understand where her worry had come from.

She thought he was okay.

She thought he was okay, until he stood towards the end of their conversation and said, "Where's your bathroom, Iman?"

Iman peered at him, trying to gauge the details of the situation through his face. Yet his eyes yielded no clues. "First door on the right," she said, gesturing down the hall.

Julien gave her and Beck a lopsided grin. "Thanks. I'll just be a second."

She wanted to let him go. She wanted to trust him, to believe him—and she almost did. When she heard a conspicuous thud, however, she was on her feet.

Beck looked at her, alarmed. "What? What is it?"

"I'm...just gonna check on him!" she said, and left Beck only with a nervous smile as she scurried after Julien.

The hall was quiet, the lights switched off so that the floors and walls were drenched in early twilight blue.

It's okay it's okay it's okay

She knocked on the bathroom door. "Julien?"

He's fine he's fine he's fine

From behind the door, there was an audible groan. "Iman—" he cut off with a strangled grunt.

"Can I come in?"

A bitter, humorless laugh. "Oh, I really wouldn't—"

Iman pushed the door in, and nearly hit Julien in the head as she did. He was on the floor by the toilet, crouched on all fours with his head hung. It was the weakest she'd ever seen him, and it clutched at her heart. She fell to the floor. "Julien!" she said. "What is it? What's going on?"

But she knew, didn't she?

She'd guessed it when she'd seen the look on his face after he spoke with that girl, Sera. She'd guessed it when he'd winced at all the sound and color in the kitchen. She knew. She didn't want to know, but she knew.

"I can't do this," Julien said, his voice guttural. He lifted his head, ever so slightly—just enough for Iman to see the burning crimson that had engulfed his brown eyes. "I can't—everything's so loud, I just—"

"Jules," she said. She took his face in her hands and tilted his head up. His eyes, a devilish red, looked at her, terrified. Fangs probed into his bottom lip, drawing blood. "Tell me what you need, okay?"

Julien let out a long, haggard breath. "To feed," he said.

"I need to feed, Iman, or—or I don't know what's going happen."