The loud clunk stops my heart. I carefully put my backpack down on the desk chair and bend to pick up my phone. Please, don’t be… but of course, it is. A thin spiderweb of cracks runs across the screen, starting from the corner where it hit first and fanning outward. I run a finger over the broken surface and wince as a few small shards of glass get stuck underneath the skin of the pad of my thumb. My eyes burn with anger and frustration, but there’s nothing I can do, so I stuff the phone in the back pocket of my jeans and leave the room. I’m going to be late again.

I find him in the kitchen the next day. The usual mix of unwashed clothes, stale sweat, and burnt cooking oil clings to the air. In the living room, the TV blares some news channel – he isn’t even watching, he just likes the noise. He sits at the table, elbows braced on the wooden surface, a bottle of cheap bourbon in front of him. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence and keeps staring ahead. I know now’s not a good time to talk to him. But when is it ever?

“Dad?” I ask warily and receive a grunt in return. “Dad, can I talk to you a minute?” No reaction. I clear my throat, unsure how to approach the subject. “Dad, I need money…”

He snorts and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t we all? You don’t see me beggin’ for it.”

I know I should just let it go. Maybe ask Josie if she can help me. But Josie isn’t around much these days. After she graduated high school last year, she found a job at the café down the street. She has to work odd hours, and it doesn’t pay much, but it gives her a little freedom.

I gingerly put my broken phone down on the table. The spiderweb spread even further over the past days, and now the screen won’t even turn on. It just stubbornly remains dark and blank.

“It was an accident, Dad… I’m sorry. It… it just slipped off my desk and…”

He shoots a sideways glance at my phone and belches. “You broke it, you fix it. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”

This is getting me nowhere, but I need to try.

“Please, Dad. I’ll pay you back, I swear. I’ll get a job in the summer and…”

“Get a job now, boy.” He bellows at me, his temper snapping, and I hate myself for flinching at his raised voice. “’Bout damn time you pull your weight ’round here. Stop leechin’ off your sister an’ me.”

I want to tell him that we never see much of his money because he spends it all on booze, but I bite my tongue.

“I can’t get a job right now, I got school, Dad…”

I’m actually lying to my father. I have a job. Or several, really. I cut Miss LeBlanc’s yard after school and rake leaves for Mr Sylvain on weekends. Ten bucks here, twenty there. Enough to put a little money in my pocket, not enough to fix a phone. Dad doesn’t need to know that, or he’ll take it from me.

He stands up slowly. We’re almost the same height. Maybe I’m still an inch or so smaller than him, but it’s hard to say because his shoulders are always slumped. I’m thin and gangly, while he’s stocky and heavy. This is the first time he looks at me, his eyes bloodshot and slightly unfocused. I involuntarily take a step back before I make myself stop.

“Oh, there’s ways boys like you make fast money.” He snarls at me, sarcasm dripping like venom from his lips. “At night in that little park you always hidin’ out in durin’ the day.” A sardonic cackle escapes him. “Don’t be foolin’ yourself, though – ain’t nobody payin’ for your scrawny ass.”

My father’s manic laughter still echoes in my ears when I wake up. Nine years later. In my own apartment. Surrounded by the sunlight streaming in through the large windows overlooking my rooftop terrace and the smell of the wildflower detergent still clinging to my sheets. The shame and humiliation 15-year-old me felt at my dad’s words still burn my face. I rub my palms over my eyes, trying to wake up and leave another of my new, too vivid dreams behind. My father was wrong about one thing, though: they did pay for me. But thanks for the suggestion, Dad. I feel sick to my core.

I open my eyes to find Bruno occupying the space beside me. Rashid is gone, back in London. I reach out to weave my fingers into my cat’s soft black fur. He starts purring but when I try to slide him closer to me, hug him against my chest, he lets out a squawk in protest and bolts off the bed. Thanks, bud. Love you, too.

I peel my carcass from out of my sheets and start the coffee maker. I’m grateful for the gurgling noises and Bruno’s desperate meows to get my attention, now that he wants my attention. It’s simply too quiet in my apartment.

So this is my life now. I have a boyfriend for a few weeks, and then I don’t. It’s like having a part-time boyfriend. Well, no, that’s bullshit. Rashid is still my boyfriend when he’s not with me. Or I’m with him. Because the next time I’ll see him will be in London. The thought alone is making me want to puke. 

I’m not even sure what exactly I’m most nervous about. Leaving my country? Getting on a metal bird? Flying across a fucking ocean? Being trapped in said metal bird for nine hours? Arriving and getting lost in a completely foreign city? Okay, Rashid promised me he won’t let that last one happen. He’ll pick me up at the airport and not let me out of his sight. And I’ll probably clutch his hand like I’m a fucking kindergartner. Jay-zuhs. I really need to get a grip. I’m supposed to be a grown-up.

While Rashid was still here last week, my passport came in the mail. My own fucking passport. Together we booked my flight to London. I did it mostly myself; Rashid just hovered by my side, making sure I didn’t accidentally book a flight to London, Wisconsin. As if. I’m not that dumb. No, I don’t believe Rashid thinks I’m dumb either. Just quietly giving his support, offering advice on flight times, layovers and so on. I’m grateful he was here for it and for his help.

I didn’t miss that his credit card magically appeared on the coffee table next to my laptop when it came to paying, but I resolutely ignored it. I know he only meant well, and his income is much higher than mine, but I can do this. I need to do this myself. He didn’t push the issue, though. Just quietly pocketed his card again while I punched in the numbers of my own. My own fucking credit card. How is this my life? 

Only two years ago I was living at Josie’s and couldn’t even open a bank account for a lack of a steady income. I still considered myself homeless, although I lived at our old family house again – on and off.

I always imagined it’d be temporary. I returned to live with Josie at times before. Sooner or later I always returned to the streets. I knew Josie wanted me to stay permanently, and she would have moved heaven and earth for me to make it possible. I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t be an extra burden for her. And the memories of living in that house. They were just too much. They were like an anvil pressing down on me. Forcing the air out of my lungs and constricting my pipes so I couldn’t refill them. Being in that house was suffocating me day by day.

It’s better now. The house looks different. The awful smell is gone, and so are so many reminders with it. The happy moments help that I’m creating there with my family: Josie, Soso, Mal and the twins – with the latest addition in the form of my boyfriend. It’s mostly the knowledge that I can leave any time I want which helps. Going back to my own four walls. Knowing that my girls are happy and protected whether I’m there or not. I don’t have to stay for them. And I don’t have to return to the streets ever again. I have my own safe place.

Even during my homeless years, Josie let me use her address when I needed one. I know Josie used it to fill out an application form after she started working at Big Mal’s Market, hoping it would result in the odd job for her good-for-nothing baby brother that didn’t involve selling his butt. It resulted in two babies and an upcoming marriage (for her). 

The wedding in May was something to factor in when I booked the flight. Of course I need to be here, but I also hope Rashid can make it. Be my plus-one. He doesn’t know for sure yet if he can but he promised he’ll try. First I’m flying to London. Lawd, help me. Or help the world. Letting me loose can’t be a good idea.

I also own a laptop now, which is pretty amazing as it is. I didn’t have one when I moved in here. It arrived a couple of weeks later by mail with a note attached from Bas Mutters saying it’s for administrative work connected to my job as a custodian, but I was welcome to use it for private purposes, including porn. Yes, Bas specified that one on the note. I’m officially allowed to watch porn on my work laptop. I’m sure it came straight from Bas’ boss’ bosses – my vampires – who wanted to make sure that all of my needs were well looked after. Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. No judgement if you’re into that kind of thing. Whatever floats your boat. But for me? Watching someone get paid for sex? Not floating my boat. 

So instead I used my laptop not for porn but for booking a flight to see my boyfriend, who makes sure all my needs are well looked after. So I guess it served its intended purpose. 

I carefully entered the number on my card, checked, double-checked and triple-checked that I had the right airport, date and time. My gaze briefly flickered to Rashid to make sure he didn’t spot anything that didn’t look right, and when he smiled his approval, my eyes returned to the screen. The little cursor hovered over the last button: confirm and pay. I went over all the details again. Took a deep breath. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. I pressed the button. The little swirly circle appeared. Nothing else happened. I shot Rashid a panicked look, but then the website refreshed. Payment accepted – booking confirmed. The breath I’ve been holding left my body in a whoosh. Holy shit, I was really doing this. 

Rashid leaned over to me and pressed a kiss against my temple. “You did it!” He said between more kisses. “I can’t wait to show you my home.” 

I was still trying to breathe, but his enthusiasm made me smile.

“We need to celebrate this. Let’s go out and celebrate!” Rashid grabbed my hands and tried to pull me to my feet.

“Are you crazy? I just spent hundreds of dollars. I can’t afford to go out!” I squeaked in panic.

“But I can. Come on!” He looked at me with big pleading eyes.

“Rashid, please…” I whined and rolled my eyes, feeling suddenly drained and worn out.

“Wendell, please…” He matched my tone. He mocked me. My boyfriend mocked me. And his smirk told me he did it on purpose. That won’t do.

“You know years ago when I started that thing with Louis…” He knows what thing. “Josie suspected I found myself a sugar daddy. I hadn’t, but you…” I poked my finger accusatorily into his chest. “Surprisingly tick a lot of the boxes.” I tilted my head and pretended to give him an assessing look. Rashid frowned.

“You’re older than me….” I held up my index finger.

“I’m not old enough to be your dad…”

“You’re richer than me…” I added my middle finger.

“I’m not rich. I only have a job that pays well…”

“You like spoiling me…” I raised my ring finger and wiggled them for more effect.

“And what’s wrong with that?” He pouted, and it made him look adorable. How could I resist? I sighed dramatically, desperately trying to suppress my giggle. It’s so easy to get him riled up.

“Okay, sugar daddy.” His frown deepened, and I kissed the frown lines away. “One meal. Nothing too fancy. And the next one is on me. Once my next pay cheque comes through.”

Rashid’s happy grin returned, and we ate at Miss Green Bean’s, where we went on our first official date. He paid back then because he lost a bet (he said) and he covered the bill again that time. I was still not 100% comfortable with it, but relationships are about compromise. I paid for the flight myself, and I know it makes him happy to spoil me occasionally. So I let him. Occasionally. And try not to see it as payment for the sex we’re having later. Because it’s not.

Before I’m off on my first international adventure, I’m meeting Daniel Molloy. I’m only slightly nervous about that. We texted a couple of times and phoned twice, but I’ve only met him in person once, the day after my birthday last year. 

Tonight will determine if I’ll actually work for him on a more permanent basis, which is a big factor for financing any future trips to London. Assuming I’ll survive the first one. Don’t get lost and accidentally drown in the Thames. Look the wrong way crossing the street and get wiped out by a double-decker bus. Put jam on a scone before clotted cream. Apparently that’s a deadly sin for some. There’s so much I don’t know.

~ 2 March ~

As was my custom during my days as Louis’ walking snack bar I make my way to 1132 Royal Street a little early. It’s actually only midday, and any resident vampires will still be fast asleep. That’s fine. Mari will be there, my friend and the vampires’ housekeeper. She usually leaves the house well before sundown, before the vampires wake up, to get out of their way. Knowing her, she’ll have cooked up a storm for me and it’ll be good to have a chat with her. Maybe Barney, Bruno’s fearless feline mother, will be up for a cuddle. It’s not cheating on Bruno since it’ll stay in the family. And Barney and I have history. Cuddling history.

Before I can even knock on the door, it flies open, and Mari greets me with a big hug, followed by punching my right biceps for being so absent. I follow her into the kitchen, where an absolute feast awaits me. While I eat my body weight in vegan gumbo, vegan boudin balls, cornbread, and dirty rice, we catch up with everything that’s been going on in our lives since we last met. This is so different from the last time we sat in this kitchen together. More than three and a half years ago, on September 23rd.

After my second slice of checker cake, I remember Rafa mentioning a new guy in Mari’s life, and I wonder if he’s still around.

“So, um… Rafa mentioned you caught a serious case of Silasicitis around New Year’s Eve? How’s that going?” I tease her.

Mari stands at the kitchen counter, doing… something. I don’t even know what, but in all the years I’ve known her, I have never seen her sit still. At the very least her hands are flapping around, bracelets jingling, when she’s talking.

“That cousin of mine needs to mind his own business, por Dios,” she grumbles and waves her hands in a dismissive gesture.

“Come on. Tell me. That guy – Silas? – he’s a bartender at ‘The Nook’?”

Mari mixes up some ingredients in a bowl and very determinedly averts my gaze.

“Yeah… his name is Silas… as you know.” She makes a circular motion with one hand. “Ex-military.” Another wave. “British military, mind you. He was a helicopter medic. Someone saving people, not killing them, mijo. Dad’s Nigerian, mom’s Israeli. Came to Nola on holiday last year and just… stayed. Can you imagine?” She shrugs.

“Yeah, thanks for giving me his CV. What about you two? Are you a couple now?”

“Nah.” She pounds the ingredients in her bowl with a little more force, and I sense there’s maybe more to the story than her easy dismissal. “We sometimes hook up. Quiet type, pero divertido… fun in bed. You know.” She throws a look at me over her shoulder.

I’m curious to know more – not necessarily about Silas’s… talents, but about why they’re not together. They live in the same city, work just a stone’s throw from each other. It could be serious. It would be so easy. No fucking ocean between them. But before I can form another question, Mari throws one at me.

“So, my other cousin Gina said she saw you at Rafa’s party.”

A nervous tingling starts in my stomach. “Oh yeah? I don’t even know your cousin Gina?”

“She saw you dancing with Rafa. Said you were the talk of the whole damn evening. Said it looked like Rafa finally came out. And, mijo, she even asked if you were his amante! Can you believe that?”

I snort. “Right, and she missed the part where he proposed to Elodie?”

“You know my family. Everyone thinks Rafa’s gay just ’cause he moisturises and knows how to dress in something other than overalls and flannel shirts.” I hide a smile because it’s exactly what Mari thought as well when she tried to set me up with her ‘hotter than her abuela’s salsa’ cousin. Mari pushes the bowl away and snaps her fingers at me. “Let’s go outside and have a pucho!”

I stopped smoking a while ago – the last one I had was last November when we found out about my father’s death – but this is another tradition with Mari, so I bought a fresh pack on the way here. I offer Mari one when we’re in the backyard and then light both our cigarettes. For a moment, we just stand there in companionable silence. It’s funny how all the members of the extended Sucre/Bernal family seem to tempt me into smoking. This is only regular tobacco, though.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. It’s actually like one of Rashid’s breathing exercises. The realisation makes me grin. I take another drag, hold it in my lungs until that familiar warm rush spreads through my chest, and exhale slowly through my nostrils, like a dragon breathing fire. And old dragon where the fire is extinct. I chuckle and shake my head. I wonder what Rashid would say if he saw me now. He never commented on my smoking last year.

Mari next to me clears her throat. “So, my cousin Gina also said she saw you with another boy that night.”

The fuzzy feeling inside me evaporates as quickly as the smoke in the humid New Orleanian air.

“Maybe. There were a lot of people at Rafa’s party. Half of Nola, it felt like…” I reply defensively.

“A white boy, she said. Redhead. Freckles. Cutie. She said you were totally into each other. Talked all night?”

I wrap my arms around my torso and take a few quick drags. “Yeah. So?”

Mari squints at me. “So Gina tells me she’s worried Rafa’s new man is cheating on him, and I’m like, ‘No, Rafa’s with a girl.’ Pero what is Wendell doing with a white boy? I thought he was steady with that Indian guy?”

I shake my head. “He’s not Indian…”

Mari raises an eyebrow at me.

“Yeah, I am with Rashid. Doesn’t mean I can’t talk to other people at a party, does it?”

Mari turns around to face me fully.

“Gina says you had your hands all over each other, and by midnight you were stroking each other’s tonsils with your tongues.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s not true.”

“Gina swears it’s what happened.”

I carelessly fling the butt of my cigarette aside. “Then Gina is a blabbering, lying bitch, who should keep her mouth shut. Because it’s not what happened!” I turn on my heel and storm back inside. I end up in the parlour, and pace the room up and down in front of the empty fireplace.

It’s not what happened.

And I don’t even know who I’m trying to convince here.

When my pulse calms down a little, I slump down on one of the settees and bury my face in my hands. My memories of that night are hazy, but I think it’s the one I sat on when Louis gave me his blood after the attack.

It takes only a minute for Mari to appear in the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Does Rashid know?”

I keep hiding my face behind my palms. “No. There’s nothing to know. Because nothing happened.”

“That’s not what Gina…”

“Fucking hell, Mari!” I shoot up from the couch and brush past her. “You’re fucking a Nigerian ex-medic/bartender. Where are you getting off judging me?”

Gawd, I wish I could storm out of the house, but it’s not dark yet, and I can’t blow my meeting with Daniel Molloy. For a moment I pause in the hallway, unsure where to go, but then I turn to the small room, just opposite. The one that used to be mine whenever I came here, for more than a year, to allow Louis to feed from me. It still looks the same. A single bed, a chair, and a small dresser. I slump down on the bed

I can hear Mari swooshing down the hallway back to the kitchen and sit on the bed. Barney comes sauntering into the room, taxes me with a quizzical look and then follows the noises coming out of the kitchen. Mari is clearly upset and lets the pots have it. I swear, in the way our tempers flare, we are too similar.

I rub my knuckles over my face. I’ve acted like an ass, and I know it. I should go and apologise to Mari, but I also know it’s safer to give her some time to cool off. So I pull out my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and stare at the picture on my lock screen. It’s a selfie Rashid took with my phone at the Krewe of Barkus parade. We’re both grinning like idiots, and Rashid is pressing a kiss to my cheek. We look like a glitter bomb detonated right above our heads (which is probably exactly what happened) with tiny pieces of confetti clinging to our hair and skin in every color of the rainbow. I press my forehead against the cool, smooth surface of my phone screen. Thirty-four days…

I take a deep breath, unlock my phone with a swipe and start typing.

WD: I’m at 1132. All quiet on the western front so far. Catching up with Mari.

I slightly wince at the last part, but it’s not a total lie. That was the plan after all.

I check the time automatically. It’s only afternoon here, so evening in London. Not too late, and it doesn’t take long for the three happy, dancing dots to appear.

RC: Did she cook for you?

WD: You know it. 😉

RC: Tell her I said hi.

If she’ll ever talk to me again…

WD: Will do.

His next text takes a little longer to come through. The dots appear and disappear.

RC: Are you spending the night?

I’m smiling. I know he’s worried but trying his best not to show it.

WD: No, DM has some tapes for me, and we need to talk about a few things. Then I’ll head home and let him do his fang thing.

Should I have mentioned the fang thing? Oh, it’s not like Rashid doesn’t know. And no fangs are going near my neck.

WD: Won’t be walking home, I’ll get a car.

No reply, but the ticks behind my last message stay grey. Delivered but not read yet. I better go and make amends with Mari. I stand up with a huff. Before I reach the hallway, my phone buzzes again. Twice.

RC: Be careful.

RC: I love you.

My smile widens, and a warmth spreads through my chest that is very different from the nicotine-induced one earlier. This one feels real. Deep. Healing.

WD: I’ll be fine.

WD: I love you too.