The （Bottled） Blood Is Thicker Than Water Trope
The next morning, there was a commotion in the yard—the sound of heavy equipment, the rumbling of multiple pickups, and male voices saying things like “Jim, you can’t park there” and “Someone back up the trailer.” The crane operator was finally back from vacation, it seemed.
I put on my hoodie, tightened the strings until my face all but disappeared, put on a pair of Aunt Mildred’s sunglasses, and grabbed an umbrella to block the sun before running to the yard.
“Stop!” I yelled, stumbling down the front stairs while gripping the umbrella and sliding my hands farther into the sleeves.
One of the construction workers squinted at me for quite a while before saying, “What the—?” He walked toward me with a confused look. Not the kind of guy you’d ask for help with your homework. “This house is going down. You gotta get outta here.”
Snow crunched under my feet on the way across the driveway toward them.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I live here, along with my…” What should I call Vlad? Vlad emerged from the house dressed much like I was and joined me in the driveway. “I’m here with my fiancé.” I smiled at Vlad, not that you could tell with my face covered.
“Fiancé,” Vlad said. “I like the sound of that.”
“I’m here with my fiancé,” I repeated, mostly for Vlad, “…and our protégé!”
“Stop that now,” Heaven said. “Sister is fine.” Heaven had followed Vlad out of the house wrapped in one of the mauve bedspreads, only her face poking out. The workman looked at each of us in turn with a confused expression.
I channeled Miley Cyrus and Sandra Bullock, the two women I associated most with wrecking balls, and stood my ground. “This is my home. I filed an appeal and you can’t be here.”
I didn’t know if that was true but…oh well.
“Your appeal was denied. You know that.”
Vlad stepped in. “What about an auction? Isn’t the city obligated to sell the home if there are bidders?”
The guy looked annoyed. “I just drive the crane. I don’t fucking know.”
“You need to find out now.”
With some significant grumbling, he got on the phone and talked to someone for a few minutes, during which I reminded Vlad that I didn’t have any money for an auction and I wasn’t taking his. “I would rather go down under my own power than be rescued.”
He shook his head in annoyance. “We’re going to be married. It will also be your money.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” I said.
He looked at me like he was about to tear his hair out. Suddenly, a smile replaced his look of frustration. “Tiffenie, you are keeping your promise.”
“Torturing you with my principles?” I guessed.
“I love you,” he said. “I will never be bored.”
After hanging up the phone, the crane operator said, “You got your wish. There’s an auction, tomorrow, 5:30 p.m.”
The crane remained parked outside, the hooded executioner of our beloved house. What do you do with your last night of happiness? Can you possibly enjoy it? I thought the answer was no, but I was wrong.
Heaven, Vlad, and I sat in the living room in mismatched chairs. A feeling of near contentment settled over me. My family (?) and I were gathered around the fire, ready to get tanked.
I poured Vlad’s bottled virgin blood into three margarita glasses.
“I almost had a gift as well, not for you, Vlad, but for Heaven.” I turned to my new sister. “I was going to give you the deed to the inn before yesterday—”
“Oh, yeah?” She looked back and forth between us two old-ass white people. “What is this, reparations?” Then a funny look came over her. “I imagine white guilt probably hits different for you two, since you were there. Where were you during the Civil War and Reconstruction?” Heaven asked demurely.
“You know, I can’t remember,” I said, truthfully. “I think I was in Italy?”
“Well, that would have been a really nice gift if the house weren’t set to be auctioned off tomorrow,” Heaven said.
I shrugged. “I tried.”
“If you gave me the house, I would’ve pulled a Sandra Bullock,” Heaven said. “You know how in that one movie she lies in front of the wrecking ball?”
“Yes, and then she and Hugh Grant save a community center where old people do aerobics or whatever. Basically us.” If only. “It’s our story, except we’ll have to recast it. Rachel Weisz can play me—”
“What?” A look of amusement crossed Heaven’s face. “You think that’s who you look like?”
“It’s true,” I said. “A guy on the street told me that once.”
She shook her head. “Whatever. Just call me Issa Rae then.”
“Okay, so Issa Rae will play you, Rachel Weisz will be me, and who is going to play you, Vlad?”
Vlad said, “Tiffenie, I have a late Chrithmas gift for you as well.”
I turned to him, expecting him to present me with a wrapped bauble with a bow, a little package from Tiffany and Co. After all, he did owe me an engagement ring.
Instead, he handed me a file. “Not that sort of gift. I hired a private investigator in the Cayman Islands to track down Tiffany with a -y.”
“Oh,” I said, sincerely surprised.
“Now that you froze her account, she’s probably having less fun.”
I flipped through the file. Tiffany with a -y appeared to be living the good life off of ill-gotten gains.
“Thank you, Vlad. This was so thoughtful.” I clutched the file and beamed at him. He saw the real me, the quirky vampire obsessed with my false identity the way some humans are with their ancestors. This was better than 23andMe.
“Maybe we should go to Grand Cayman for our honeymoon, close out that account,” he said. “I would say that we could deal with Tiffany, but it seems she’s already getting herself in trouble. As far as the system is concerned, you’re Tiffany.”
Oh, the irony.
“When are you guys getting married?” Heaven asked.
I shrugged. “We’re not in a rush, right?” We had eternity.
“Have you even told anyone?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Just you. Who else should we tell?” Vlad had already moved on from this topic and had picked up a copy of the Economist.
Engagement announcements were traditional. Tiffany Amanda Blair and Jeff Powers, both of Valentine, are delighted to announce their engagement to be married. Even those two assholes had an announcement.
“Why do we need to tell anyone?” He looked up briefly from his reading, some article about the rules of war. “Our love is our business.”
“You’re supposed to change your Facebook status to ‘engaged,’ ” Heaven said in a “duh” tone of voice. “Put up some photos of your hands with rings, you two in sweaters gazing into each other’s eyes in a local pumpkin patch. That kind of thing.”
That sounded nice.
I might not have social media, but I did have a couple of people to tell. I sent Jessica a text:
Me: got engaged!
Jessica: Congrats!!!! To Tyrone?
Me: lol. no, got back with my ex vlad
Jessica: Drinks on me!
The offer of drinks with a newfound friend rested heavy on my heart.
I looked around at the house that was never really mine.
Vlad’s and my first task as an engaged couple would be to move out of this house that was just becoming a home and away from our new friends.
Could we find a place we loved as much as Valentine?
Cat jumped into my lap and purred, more affectionate than she’d been in a month. I rubbed her head behind the ears. “I know, I don’t want to leave either,” I whispered.