“Did you call your friend over the weekend? Cyrus?” I ask. “So he won’t yell at you.”

“I did—the knobhead. I video-called him, but then he was like… busy and distracted the entire time. Obnoxious. He wouldn’t sit still.”

“Is he usually like that?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Ever since I’ve moved to Japan, Cy is weird. He screams at me if I don’t call, and then when I do call, he’s awkward and barely paying me any attention.”

“Maybe he misses you?” I reason. “Doesn’t know how to say it?”

Jae blows out a breath that reads disbelieving. “Who knows.”

“Maybe he likes you?” I offer. “Is he gay?”

“No no—absolutely not.”

I raise my eyebrow at this. Some humans have weird convictions about being attracted to someone of the same sex. So much so that when they are, they often deny it, and it manifests in the strangest ways.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Positive,” Jae says. “We’ve been best mates since we were little. And I’ve always been open with him about my sexuality. He would tell me.”

I shrug, letting it go. Like I said, the strangest ways.

“Do you have a preference?” Jae asks. “Male or female? Other?”

“Not really,” I say, lifting and bending my arm to cradle my head in my palm against the pillow. “I don’t like drama, and all genders are capable of it. What about you? You’re seeing Lucy the dietician.”

“Not really seeing—”

“Just sleeping with, then?”

“Not recently… I—Well…”

“I’m not judging you, Jae. You’re not on trial. You’re allowed to sleep with whomever you please.”

“Am I?”

The silence is weighted, and I smile. This doctor is something else. “Are you going to answer my question? What’s your preference?”

“I guess I don’t really have a preference… but are we talking sex?”

“You’re always talking sex, so I’m assuming so.”

He breathes a laugh. “Christ. Well, women are more… comfortable? To sleep with. Men are…”

“Not?” I offer.

“I don’t dislike it. It’s just… Obviously, there are loads of ways to have sex. But in my experience, men are always a little gruff and vulgar, like they have something to prove? Some men act like you’re a keyhole to stick their cocks in, don’t they? Like, ‘Oh right, this will fit nicely in here, okay that was lovely, ta-ta and cheerio.’ They walk away whistling and adjusting their monocle because they don’t give an actual shit about the keyhole itself. Or the fact that a person is not a keyhole in the first place.”

“And women don’t treat you like you’re a keyhole?”

Jae laughs. “No. They don’t. And I don’t treat them like one either.”

“I’m sorry that’s been your experience.”

“That’s life,” he says. I don’t like the apathy in his tone.

“Not always, Jae. Not every male is like that.”

“Yeah?”

I smile again. This doctor makes me smile a lot. Something about him is very honest and… Cute? Like he’s not hiding anything from me at all, and I want to wrap his feisty and perverted little personality up and squeeze it against my chest. “Yeah. Don’t give up hope.”

“I haven’t,” he says. “Lately, I’m thinking about a rather leggy gentleman with obsidian eyes that reminds me of bourbon treacle.”

There it is again. I’m smiling.

“Do you have any siblings?” he asks.

“I have an older sister. She’s living in Jamaica.” My sister is interesting. As soon as our father died, she exiled herself from Japan and never came back. She doesn’t even speak in Japanese to me even though we grew up speaking it in the house. Only Spanish or English. When I was a child, I stayed out of our father’s way and did what I was told, primarily because I was afraid of him and didn’t want to be beaten. But she constantly butted heads with him. Mom always said they were too much alike. My sister really hated it when she said that.

“Do you?” I ask.

“No, I don’t. Always wished I did, though. Are you close to her? Your sister, I mean.”

“We talk pretty regularly—at least once a month. And I like her mate. She’s also first-gen.”

“Oh wow, she’s mated…”

“She is. They’ve been together for about twenty years.”

“That’s nice,” Jae says, then pauses. Dead space is hanging between us on the line, as if he wants to say something.

“What is it?” I prompt.

“Do you ever date ranked vampires?”

“No,” I admit. “Ranked vampires are glamorized in human culture, but the truth is they’re rigid and difficult.”

“Is this a warning?”

I laugh. “Maybe? That’s been my experience. I think yours will be different.” I don’t think I’m rigid or difficult. In my mind, I’m much more relaxed and easier-going than your typical ranked vamp. My only point of contention is feeling subjugated.

Only a purebred can assert their rank over me since I’m a fairly old-blooded first-gen. I would never be with a purebred. My father was purebred with an exquisite bloodline, and he used that fact to boss us all around and run a painfully strict household.

When I was young, my mother loved dancing. Merengue, salsa, bachata. Father forbade her from dancing (and eventually from working as a nurse as well). It was “improper” and “unsophisticated.” The wild swaying of hips to lurid music.

When he was away on business, we danced—the hypnotic rhythms of the requinto, bongos and güira floated through the house, and Mom was full of life. Spinning me and laughing. I remember her hair bouncing as we moved and her beautiful smile. We’d cook together and she’d make dulce frío with fresh fruit on top. Sometimes brownies with chocolate chips (usually at my sister’s insistence).