Dessert at Last Call - Part 2

Sapphira & Jenny Jenny opened the door, saw Sapphira standing in the hallway holding another crimson rose, and immediately pulled her inside, kissed her desperately, and began crying before the kiss had ended. “You made me wait,” Jenny whispered. “I never told you to wait at the bar.” “I know, which somehow makes it worse.” “I came when I was certain you were waiting for me rather than merely waiting to repeat last night.” Jenny pressed her forehead against Sapphira’s. “I could not think about anything else.” “That can happen after a first night.” “Do not make fun of me.” “I would never make fun of this.” They sat together on the edge of Jenny’s bed, and for the first time there was no rush, because Sapphira told Jenny that desire was easy, while truth required patience, and that there were things Jenny needed to know before making any further promises. “I did not come tonight because I expected another night in bed,” Sapphira said, watching her carefully. “I came because you waited for me, cried when you saw me, and looked at me as though I had already become something I have not earned the right to be.” Jenny tightened the belt of her robe. “You make that sound like an accusation.” “It is a warning.” “To me?” “To both of us.” Jenny studied her face, still painfully aware of how badly she wanted Sapphira to touch her again. “What are you warning me about?” “That there are things you do not know about me, and once you know them, you may never wish to see me again.” “You are married.” “No.” “You have someone else.” “No.” “You murder people.” “Not exactly.” Jenny gave a short, uneasy laugh. “That was not the comforting answer you appeared to think it was.” Sapphira rose and crossed to the darkened window, where the city lights reflected in the glass, although Jenny noticed with growing confusion that only one woman appeared there. Jenny stood slowly. “Sapphira?” Sapphira turned toward her, and when her eyes changed from dark brown to deep crimson, Jenny stopped breathing. “What are you?” “A vampire.” Jenny stared at her, waiting for the smile, the trick, or the explanation that would return the room to normal, but Sapphira offered none. “That is not possible.” “No, but it is true.” Jenny backed toward the door, then stopped when she remembered that this was her room, her suitcase was open beside the dresser, and Sapphira was the stranger standing inside it. “Did you do something to me?” “I listened to you.” “That is not what I mean.” “I know.” “Did you make me invite you upstairs?” “No.” “Did you make me kiss you?” “No.” “Did you make me want you?” Sapphira’s expression tightened with something that looked almost like pain. “I could have influenced you, but I did not, because obedience is not affection, and affection is the only reason I returned.” Jenny reached for the door and pulled it open. “Then leave.” Sapphira remained still for a moment, looking wounded but unsurprised. “Will you come after me?” Jenny asked. “Only if you ask me to.” “I will not.” “Then you will never see me again.” Jenny’s face changed at that, although she forced herself to step aside. “Go.” Sapphira walked past her into the hallway, and Jenny closed the door quickly, locked it, pressed both hands against the wood, and stood there trembling, not because she feared Sapphira might return, but because part of her already wanted her to. The following morning Jenny did not pack, because she had originally planned to remain at the hotel through Sunday night, although she called Mark and told him she might stay in the city for several additional days to help her grandmother with errands after the celebration. Her grandmother did not require constant care, but she was eighty years old, enjoyed company, and accepted Jenny’s offer without complaint. “You look as though you saw a ghost,” her grandmother said over coffee. “Something like that.” “Was she pretty?” Jenny nearly dropped the cup. “I did not say it was a woman.” “You did not have to.” Jenny stared across the table. “How do you know?” “Because frightened women look different when they are frightened by something they also want.” “That is a very disturbing thing for a grandmother to say.” “I have had eighty years to become disturbing.” Jenny spent the next two days with her family, but the ordinary noise of cousins, photographs, cake, and repeated wedding questions only made her feel more detached from the life everyone assumed she wanted. Mark called several times, and each conversation left her more exhausted than the last, because he wanted updates about the guest list, the apartment, the honeymoon reservations, and whether she had spoken to the caterer, while Jenny found herself wondering when they had last discussed anything that frightened, thrilled, or changed either of them. On Sunday night, she returned to the hotel bar without dressing for seduction, wearing jeans, ankle boots, and a dark green blouse, because this time she wanted answers rather than another performance. Sapphira was seated at the same corner table with another untouched glass of wine. Jenny stopped beside her. “You knew I would come.” “I hoped.” “That is not the same thing.” “No, although I am old enough to understand the difference.” Jenny sat across from her. “How old are you?” “Two hundred and seventeen.” Jenny closed her eyes briefly. “I should not have started with that question.” “It rarely helps.” For nearly three hours they talked, and this time Sapphira did not seduce, flatter, or evade, because she explained how she fed, how the men woke unharmed but confused, why she moved from city to city, and why vampires like her craved women afterward with a need that was emotional as much as physical. “So I was dessert,” Jenny said. “The first night, yes.” Jenny flinched. Sapphira continued before she could rise. “But I returned because you stopped being dessert before morning.” “That sounds convenient.” “It is inconvenient, actually, because a passing hunger is easy to satisfy, while caring whether someone fears you is much harder.” Jenny looked down at her hands. “Have you done this before?” “Taken a woman to bed?” “Made one believe she mattered.” Sapphira did not answer immediately. “Yes, although not often, and not successfully for long.” “Why not?” “Because mortals imagine forever until they understand that I mean it literally.” Jenny looked toward the bar, where the bartender was polishing glasses. “I am not leaving Mark for you.” “I have not asked you to.” “I mean it.” “So do I.” “I barely know you.” “That is true.” “I have slept with you once.” “Also true.” “And I am not going to cancel a wedding because a beautiful vampire made me feel alive for one night.” Sapphira leaned back in her chair. “That would be a foolish reason.” Jenny glared at her. “You are supposed to argue.” “I want you, Jenny, but I do not want to become the excuse you use to avoid admitting that something was already wrong.” That answer followed Jenny for the rest of the week. She stayed in the city until Wednesday, partly to spend time with her grandmother and partly because returning home felt impossible while she remained uncertain whether she feared Sapphira, desired her, or had simply discovered something about herself that she had spent years refusing to examine. Each evening she met Sapphira in public. They walked beside the river after midnight, sat in an all-night diner where Sapphira ordered coffee she never drank, visited a silent botanical conservatory after Sapphira persuaded the night guard to let them inside, and talked about everything that had been missing from their first encounter, including childhoods, families, regret, loneliness, and the unsettling possibility that Jenny had accepted a safe future because she had never expected to feel anything more powerful. On Tuesday night, Jenny finally asked, “Where do you live?” Sapphira looked at her over the rim of her untouched coffee cup. “In an old townhouse on Bellweather Street.” “Alone?” “Yes.” “Do women often show up there with suitcases?” “Never.” “Do not look pleased, because I was only asking.” “I am not pleased.” “You are smiling.” “I have excellent teeth and occasionally display them.” Jenny laughed, and although she did not go home with Sapphira that night, she allowed Sapphira to kiss her outside the hotel, slowly and tenderly, before returning alone to her room. When Jenny finally drove home on Wednesday afternoon, she expected distance to restore reason, but instead ordinary life made the problem clearer. Mark had reorganized the kitchen while she was gone, chosen a new bank for their joint account, and scheduled an appointment with a realtor without asking whether Jenny wanted to move. During dinner, he spoke for twenty minutes about their future and then became irritated when he noticed she had barely answered. “What happened to you in that city?” he asked. Jenny looked at the man she had once believed she would marry and realized that even before Sapphira, she had been shrinking herself to fit inside his certainty. “I met someone.” Mark went pale. “A man?” “No.” His confusion gave way to disbelief. “You are telling me you had an affair with a woman?” “I am telling you that I kissed a woman, spent one night with her, and then spent several days realizing that the real problem is not her.” “What is the real problem?” “That I was planning to marry you because everything looked correct from the outside.” “You loved me.” “I do love you, but I do not think I love the life we were building, and I do not think you ever noticed that I was disappearing inside it.” Mark argued, pleaded, became angry, apologized, and demanded to know whether Jenny intended to throw away three years for someone she barely knew. “No,” Jenny said, crying now. “I am ending this because I barely knew myself.” She removed the engagement ring from her own hand and placed it on the table between them. The engagement ended that night, but Jenny did not immediately run back to Sapphira, because she knew that ending one life did not automatically create another, and because Sapphira had been right that desire was not yet trust. For three more weeks Jenny remained with her sister outside Columbus, canceled the wedding arrangements, divided belongings with Mark, and spoke to Sapphira by telephone almost every night. Some calls lasted ten minutes, while others lasted until dawn, and during those conversations Jenny learned what Sapphira feared, how she chose the men upon whom she fed, why she kept crimson roses pressed inside books, and how deeply she disliked being treated as a fantasy rather than a person. Jenny returned to the city a month after their first meeting, carrying one suitcase rather than two, because she had arranged to work remotely for several weeks and had booked another room at the same hotel. Sapphira met her in the lobby. “You came back,” she said. “I said I would.” “Mortals say many things.” “So do vampires.” Sapphira glanced toward the suitcase. “You are staying at the hotel?” “For now.” “That is sensible.” “I thought you hated sensible.” “I hate it when sensible is used as another word for afraid.” Jenny stepped closer. “I am still afraid.” “So am I.” They spent another week together before Jenny visited the townhouse on Bellweather Street for the first time, another month before she began leaving clothes there, and nearly three months before she finally arrived with the rest of her belongings. By then she knew where Sapphira lived, understood the rules of the house, had seen Sapphira return from feeding, had watched her struggle against the instinct to hide difficult truths, and had decided that loving something dangerous was not the same as loving blindly. When Jenny finally stood on the porch with her suitcases, Sapphira opened the door and stared at the luggage. “This is a terrible idea,” Sapphira said. “Probably.” “You may regret it.” “Possibly.” “I cannot promise you a normal life.” “I have recently discovered that normal was not doing much for me.” Sapphira stepped aside, but Jenny did not enter immediately. “I am not moving in because of one night.” “I know.” “I am not moving in because you rescued me.” “I did not.” “I am moving in because I have had three months to learn what you are, and despite all the reasons I should run, I trust the woman you keep choosing to be.” Sapphira’s face softened. “That is a much more frightening declaration than love.” Jenny smiled. “I love you too, but I thought I should begin with the frightening part.” Only then did Sapphira take one of the suitcases, draw Jenny across the threshold, and kiss her beneath the warm hallway light, not as a stranger taken home after last call, not as dessert, and not as a woman escaping one future before understanding another, but as someone who had returned slowly, deliberately, and entirely by choice.