Chapter 31
Two weeks later, Charlie texted him.
By then, Lorenzo had finally gotten around to reading all of Charlie’s columns, or at least the ones he’d written since they’d started hanging out.
To his relief, there weren’t any other horrifying details about his private life—aside from the one about him crying, which he still couldn’t read—but some of the jokes or little turns of phrase were hauntingly familiar.
It was clear that Charlie had been inspired by their time together—by the places and people Lorenzo had shown him.
The writing sounded like Charlie. He could almost hear him reading each one aloud. It was beyond strange to read the column and realize that he was seeing a side of Charlie he hadn’t known existed. Something that Charlie had kept from him, deliberately. It hurt.
But it didn’t just hurt; it made him miss Charlie. So when he got the text, in a moment of weakness, he agreed to meet him in the same coffee shop where they’d run into each other months ago.
It was nearly empty when he got there, which was a relief. Charlie was sitting at a table in the back, but he stood up when he saw Lorenzo. He was dressed nicely, but he looked gaunt. There were dark circles under his eyes.
And he was still so goddamned handsome. A nervous smile lit up his face when he saw Lorenzo, and the hesitation in his amber eyes melted into soft, tentative happiness with every second that Lorenzo didn’t turn around and bolt.
He was fighting the urge.
But he didn’t run. He could still feel it behind his ribs—that knot drawn messy, painful, and tight, urging him closer to Charlie. Some ineffable trace of Charlie’s blood still running through his veins, tying them together. Braiding Charlie into him.
He shook his head, schooling his features into an impassive mask, and sat at the table. Charlie’s smile wavered a bit, but he still looked relieved. “Hi,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
Lorenzo said nothing, glancing up at Charlie only as long as he could bear it.
“I wanted to, um,” Charlie said, sounding unsure. “I wanted to tell you about . . . my column.”
This time, he waited Lorenzo out. “What about it?” he finally grunted, crossing his arms.
The last traces of charm melted out of Charlie’s demeanor, leaving just nerves. He bit his lips. “I want to give it to you,” he said.
Lorenzo frowned. “What? What are you talking about?”
“I spun it off from the site. Cut ties with everyone there. Well, everyone except my editor, but she’s—she’s on board,” he said, quickly, like he was nervous that Lorenzo wouldn’t believe him.
Or that he’d get up and leave. “So it’s ours now.
I mean, we have no money, but we won’t have to answer to anyone but ourselves.
And we spent the last few days building out the infrastructure, so now it has a—well, a forum, basically. Like a beefed-up comments section.”
“Hang on,” Lorenzo said.
“I thought the—if people could talk and connect—it could be like a digital counterpart to your group,” he said.
“And the original column is successful enough by now that—I mean, I think it’ll have reach and visibility.
So supernatural folks could find support and community anywhere—all over the world.
But it’s not just—” He sighed. “I also put some feelers out to other writers—supernatural writers. So they can keep the column going if you don’t . . .”
He trailed off, his rant suddenly out of steam. Lorenzo stared at him. Charlie’s breathing evened out as he waited for a response.
Lorenzo wasn’t sure what to say.
“I wanted to make it better,” Charlie said. “So it wouldn’t be . . . um . . .”
He petered out again. And this time, when he looked back up at Lorenzo, he could see all the hope and fear in Charlie’s eyes.
“You want to . . . give me your column,” he said.
“Yes,” Charlie answered immediately.
“Your life’s work,” Lorenzo said carefully.
Charlie flinched and looked away. “I mean—it’s . . .”
Lorenzo waited. Charlie sighed, took a deep breath, and said, “I don’t think I was .
. . doing it for the right reasons. Not anymore.
I did—I do want to help people. Give them advice that’s useful.
But . . . I got so caught up in ‘making it,’” he said bitterly.
“Getting the column, being published, being known. Living in New York, being able to call myself a writer. I felt successful. And that’s what I—that’s what I was trying to hang on to. And I don’t want to do that anymore.
“Meeting you, and Rachel and Maggie and Isolde—it reminded me of who I want to be,” he said quietly. “So . . . I’m giving it to you.”
“And what would you do?”
He shrugged jerkily. “I don’t know. But I won’t—this thing I created, it won’t be—it’ll be better.”
Lorenzo didn’t know what to say. He stared at Charlie, and Charlie stared at him.
The bell over the coffee shop door jangled as a large group came in, laughing loudly. Charlie and Lorenzo shared a look, then got up from their table and stepped over to the sliding glass door at the back of the shop.
There was a small patio out back, fenced in from the property next door, that was just big enough for two tables.
Tonight, there were paint cans and plywood boxes stacked everywhere, and large tarps draped over most of the furniture and walls.
Lorenzo turned and saw that a mural had just been painted on the back of the shop: a vision of the Blue Ridge Mountains—a hillside covered in riotous, bright wildflowers.
Charlie cleared his throat, and Lorenzo tried to take a step back, but the painting equipment didn’t leave them much room. Charlie suddenly felt a million miles closer. Touchable.
“So,” Charlie said nervously. “What do you think?”
“I—I don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “I’ve never . . . run an advice column—forum—before.”
“You’d be great at it.”
“Charlie,” Lorenzo said quietly, and Charlie looked up at him.
He took a steadying breath, like a skittish human, and then made himself ask. “Why did you do it?”
“Which part?” Charlie whispered. Lorenzo was close enough now to make out the texture of his stubble where he hadn’t shaved, and the dark, delicate skin under his eyes.
He didn’t answer Charlie’s question. Charlie swallowed and said, his voice small and hoarse and painfully familiar: “Because I didn’t want you to stop liking me.”
Lorenzo looked away and clenched his fists. Charlie stepped closer, even in the cramped space on the patio. Lorenzo didn’t back away.
Staring up at Lorenzo, he said lowly, “I’m so sorry. I love you, and I screwed up.”
Lorenzo closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth rolling off Charlie’s body, but he felt icy all over. He longed to touch him, and was dying to turn and run. He felt screaming and leaden; suffused with fear and sick with hope.
He hadn’t known Charlie was lying before. What if he was lying now?
Charlie was craning his head like he wanted to close the space between them. Lorenzo’s eyes flickered over his neck and caught at the edge of his collar.
He lifted a hand to touch Charlie there, making him gasp. But Lorenzo just leaned in and gently pushed on the collar of Charlie’s shirt, brushing back the fabric far enough to see his bite mark.
It was still there. In fact, it looked as fresh and tender as the day Lorenzo had given it to him.
“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry,” Charlie said breathlessly.
His heart thumped, sending blood flooding through his body, just under his fine skin.
“I wore a collared shirt because I—I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see it. ”
Lorenzo stared at the two ripe blooms of red on Charlie’s skin, remembering the night he’d made it. The night Charlie had asked for it. The taste of Charlie’s blood. The openness in his face.
Vampire bites heal quickly. Vampires are predators that look just like their prey; they’re meant to blend in among humans, and quick-healing bites help allay suspicion. Most bites like this would have been gone a day or two later.
But Charlie’s looked like he’d gotten it last night.
Lorenzo was close enough now to feel the warmth every time Charlie exhaled, a violent gust against the backdrop of soft heat that rolled off his body all the time; the brush of his shirt, the tickle of his hair at Lorenzo’s temple; and his pulse was right there, the familiar tempo of it like a song he’d gone too long without hearing.
“I read online that vampire bites usually fade pretty fast,” Charlie said quietly, standing still as Lorenzo pulled back just a hair, just enough to look him in the eye.
“But . . . every day I woke up and saw that it was still there . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper.
“I was so happy. I didn’t want it to go away. ”
Magic is intent.
And Lorenzo had forgotten that humans had their own magic too, sometimes, if they wanted something badly enough.
“Magic,” he whispered.
Charlie laughed a little, almost nervously. “What?” he asked, blinking up at him, just as lost as Lorenzo was.
Lorenzo came closer, giving Charlie a chance to back up or object. But he didn’t; he held still, looked up at Lorenzo, and then swayed closer; and Lorenzo kissed him, slowly, carefully, and fully.
When they broke apart they were both panting like humans. Charlie clapped a hand to his bite mark, swallowing, and Lorenzo cradled his face in his hands.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
And he brought their lips together again, Charlie’s fist tight in his shirt, not letting go, and Charlie’s pulse warm and steady and perfect under his palm.