Chapter 28 Molly
Molly
It’s a sunny Saturday, and Elijah stayed over last night, so we drew all the curtains and I snuck out for bagels and coffee.
It was sunny last weekend too, and the quiet days sheltering inside delighted me even more than outings about the city.
We watched movies, I tried to teach Elijah how to play Mario Kart, and even cracked out a couple board games.
It felt like a weekend outside of time, stolen moments tucked under a quilt my grandma made, kisses on my neck, Gemma marching around the apartment and snuggling between us.
All the while I told myself we’re not at risk of crossing any lines, of getting too close.
Dangerous games we’re playing, I know. It’s too domestic, too much time together, but as I told Hailey, this can’t last. We’re not compatible long term, not even really compatible short term, he’s a fucking vampire.
I’m not at risk of falling into feelings too big for my heart to handle, because we’re bound for an inevitable end.
So, then, what’s another stolen weekend?
The barista calls my name and I thank her twice before taking the cup.
I stopped at the bookstore down the street and picked up the first romance novel I could find to give to Elijah in lieu of a bagel and coffee.
I’m already anticipating the way his laugh will fill the apartment when I hand it to him, the kiss he’ll put on my temple in thanks.
‘Molly?’
I turn at my name, not sure who I’m expecting to see, but it’s certainly not James Johnson in the flesh, as if I manifested him from reading and rereading his email so many times.
‘James? I–wow, good to see you, hi.’ I give him a one-armed hug as both of us are holding to-go cups.
He looks the same as he did four years ago, though his hairline has travelled backwards some since.
He was my thesis advisor, and my writing owes much to his years of thoughtful feedback and instruction.
His eyes go straight to the novel in my hand, a paperback with a mostly naked, four-armed alien embracing a human woman titled All the Way With the Alien. I blush immediately.
It’s not that I don’t stand by my choices to enjoy well-written alien smut with my hot not-boyfriend, but James is a Literary writer, heavy emphasis on the capital L.
This… well, I think the debate about what makes a book Literary is stupid as hell, but he’s not putting All the Way With the Alien on his syllabus any time soon.
‘Tom loves these,’ James says of his husband with a chuckle, and it feels like a lifeline.
I laugh, too, and give a mock-solemn nod. ‘Because Tom has taste.’
James’s eyes light up, and I really am so thrilled to see him, even if I am going on two weeks of not having answered his email in my inbox.
‘Want to sit? I have a while, if you’re free?’ James asks, and even though Elijah is waiting, I agree immediately and follow him to a table in the corner.
‘So, what’ve you been up to, Molly? Seems you’re still in the city and still writing, which makes me happy.’
‘Yep, I live nearby actually. Working an IT job, writing sometimes. That story you read was the first I’ve had published in a while,’ I say.
He wants to know if I’m still publishing, submitting my little stories to contests, working on one of the novels I’d told him about in years past. I know he wouldn’t call my daily scribbling of stories in a journal that are fated to rot in my credenza a thriving writing practice.
‘And do you like the IT gig?’ he asks. There’s no judgement in his voice, but I’ve always felt like James could see straight through my bullshit. I think it’s what made him such a good mentor.
‘Not particularly, no. Pays the bills, though. Health insurance.’
‘Fair enough,’ he says, and we lapse into quiet while both of us drink from our paper cups.
I’m about to ask him what he’s been up to when he speaks again, this time getting straight to it: ‘Did you see my email?’ he asks.
I debate lying; I would in fact love to be good at lying right now. But alas, I’m not.
‘I did. I’ve been—’
What? Busy hooking up with a four-hundred-year-old vampire? Hiding from my abandoned dreams by chasing the meaningless carrot dangling from the end of a corporate stick? Terrified to try and to fail?
‘Thinking about it,’ I decide.
James smiles and tilts his head, studying me for a beat before taking another swig of coffee. ‘Molly, you’re a talented writer and a great instructor. If you want to interview, I have your recommendation ready.’
It sounds like a dream, like something I haven’t let myself hope for since starting work at Drummond.
It also sounds impossible. My apartment is tiny, but adjunct professor salary without supplemental income would not cover it.
I would love to be back on campus, back talking about books and writing with my old professors, reading student writing.
Trading corporate bureaucracy with departmental drama sounds like a delight, but this reality doesn’t feel reachable, even with this invitation outstretched in front of me.
‘Thank you, James. That means a lot.’
‘Any time,’ he says with an easy smile. Then, he leans forward on the table and lowers his voice conspiratorially. ‘Now tell me what I can say to get you to apply.’
When I get back to my apartment, with a cold bagel and no cup of coffee, Elijah is holding Gemma like a baby in one arm, my Kindle in his other as he paces slowly back and forth in the tiny space that is my living room.
He’s often moving, I’ve noticed, not one to sit still unless I’m there to sit with him.
The cat jumps from his arms as soon as I’ve closed the door and runs to circle my feet.
Elijah got a carrier for her and has brought little Gemma back and forth with him on the nights he stays at mine.
She travels well, probably from living on the streets for the last months, and we set up a litter box in the corner next to the famous credenza.
‘Welcome home,’ Elijah calls, closing my bright pink Kindle case and tossing it onto my bed before meeting me at the door. He unwraps my scarf–his scarf–from around my neck while I hang my jacket next to his on the rack.
I feel unsteady, my heart still thudding too loud since seeing James again, an unsettled feeling crawling over my skin, under my clothes, across my scalp. Elijah’s hand falls to my forearm then slides to my wrist, squeezing it until I look at him.
‘What happened?’ he asks. I look to the ceiling, then back to him.
‘Remember what you told me before my birthday? About starting to live my life like I want to?’
I’d written it down in my notebook and run my fingers over the words every day for a week.
If you aren’t chasing what your heart desires most, you ought to get started.
‘What’s this about?’ Elijah asks.
‘I’ve been doing the safe thing for years–working at Drummond, only going back home for Christmas because I can’t stand facing my parents’ disappointment that I stopped chasing the thing I’ve loved most since I was a kid.
I don’t date because I don’t trust that I’ll know if someone’s being dishonest and I keep applying for promotions I don’t really give a shit about and then I’m somewhere between devastated and relieved when they get given to someone else. ’
I kick off my boots and walk further into the apartment, wishing it was bigger so I could pace better.
Elijah watches, the deep crease between his brows visible.
I can’t help but think he’s been making that same face since he was still human, the wrinkles and lines he’d earned forever frozen on his skin.
Gemma runs beneath the bed, her favourite hiding place.
‘I have friends here, but I’ve been so fucking lonely, like weeks will go by where my days look exactly the same and I’m too scared to change it. You’re the first fun, spontaneous thing I’ve done in months and you’re not even human!’
For his part, Elijah doesn’t interrupt my crash out of the year, just watches and listens, maybe formulating a response, maybe thinking I’m an idiot. How many humans has he met just like me? Wasting their lives not really living.
‘When I broke up with Matt, I was so sure that I was standing up for myself, securing the future I wanted. And now we’re on year three of me pretending I know what I’m doing while spinning my wheels, and I’m just…’
Pressing my lips together into a line, I stare at the funky pink rug I bought after breaking up with Matt. It was the kind of thing Matt would have said is tacky, too young, too bright, and I revelled in buying it for my apartment.
‘I’m so far from where I wanted to be,’ I conclude with a shrug. To my mortification, my chin wobbles and eyes burn with tears.
Elijah frowns and meets me across the apartment, hesitating for a moment before pulling me into his chest, wrapping me up in his arms, my head against him. He has no heartbeat. The comfort I feel is instant, and I wonder if maybe this is how he could compel me into doing anything he says.
‘What happened?’ he asks.
‘I saw one of my old professors,’ I whisper, but I know he heard me. He always hears me. ‘I was so ashamed of the things I haven’t been doing. All the goals I’ve left unaccomplished.’
‘Moll,’ Elijah mutters, holding me closer and swaying our bodies slightly. My arms are wrapped around his back as tightly as he holds me. ‘You’re not out of time. You can always start again.’
‘But I’ve been sitting in place,’ I admit. ‘It’s like you in that mansion for a century, but worse because I only have this one life to live. It scares me to think that another three years could go by, and I’ll be right where you found me.’
Elijah presses more kisses to my hair, his palm gliding up and down my back as I cry into the front of his sweatshirt.
‘Dear Molly.’ He squeezes me tighter then pulls back to look at me.
He looks heartbroken at the sight of me and wipes his thumbs over my cheeks.
The tenderness of the action starts a new torrent of tears.
‘You’re capable of anything in this world that you can imagine.
In a way that is so singularly human, in a way that an immortal being can never achieve. ’
‘Why not?’
One of his dimples appears while he thinks about it.
‘Mortality, maybe. A beating heart. I don’t know, but you have it, this uncapturable thing in your beautiful brain.
It’s evident in everything you write, the way you think.
You are so alive.’ Elijah tucks my hair behind my ears, holding my head between his hands lifting my jaw to look at me better.
My lip wobbles still, and I sniffle in a way that is grossly unbecoming, but his eyes are full of tenderness and care.
If I didn’t know what we are and what we aren’t, I might mistake it for something like love.
‘You feel alive to me,’ I say honestly. ‘You don’t feel dead. Or undead. Whatever you are.’
‘Ah, because I’m so indelibly charming?’ he teases.
‘Something like that.’
Elijah pulls me back against him and I exhale into the feeling of it.
When he’s unbearably kind and patient, it makes me crave things I can’t have.
Makes me wonder what universal forces I would need to bargain with to keep him like this, sleeping in my apartment with his cat, scratching my back while I fall asleep, treating me like I’m already his.
In all of the vampire media of my childhood, the answer was relatively simple: make her a vampire too.
But would I want that? Would I actually, really want it? I used to think the answer was an unequivocal yes, but that was when magic was a fantasy, something I dreamed about being real, not a tangible man in front of me with an infectious laugh and expressive eyes.
‘Sit with me?’ he asks, dipping his head to the couch. ‘Let’s watch a movie and wait to think about existential planning over dinner.’
‘Deal,’ I sigh, and giggle when he hauls me over his shoulder for the three steps to the couch, where we’ll spend the day tangled up in each other.
Editor’s Note in Knuckle Butter journal regarding ‘Nocturnal Affairs’ by Molly Mason
Mason crafts a surreal story about two souls finding an unlikely companionship in the quiet hours of the night. Her soft prose and thoughtful attention to detail left us with a feeling of radiant comfort amid the characters’ mutual grief.
The story also serves as propaganda in favour of adopting a hedgehog, but that’s just icing on the cake that is this delight of a story.