Page 80 of Lucy Undying (Dracula #1)

80

Salt Lake City, January 11, 2025

My Butter Chicken,

I’ll be on this path every evening, walking it, waiting for you, for as long as it takes. But I can’t leave any more letters here for now, because people are always watching me. So know that this one contains my whole heart.

And you were right. We were both right. Dracula is here. We’re closer than ever, and we’re in more danger than ever, and I need you to stay safe. Which means you have to stay away from me. The only way this works is if we keep Terminator Lucy off Goldaming Life’s radar. I’ll only leave another letter when I have a solid plan ready to go.

I miss you. I wish I’d brought your journal. At least then I could have your words in my arms.

I never told you about the daydream I had when reading your journal. (We needed more time. We’ll have more time, soon.) I read about you plotting to run away with your beloved, and in place of imagining you and this mystery person (I hadn’t realized who it was yet), I imagined you and me. Even before I knew who you were, Lucy and Elle were already blending together in my head and my heart. I was always falling for every part of you.

It does feel like cheating that I got to know teen you, though. You’ve only known the current me, and she’s a bit of a desperate mess. But here’s a story from my childhood:

I went to summer camp when I was thirteen. My mother wanted me to do private tutelage straight through the summer, but Dickie suggested that giving me a summer away might cut back on the volume of runaway attempts. “An emotional reset,” he called it. That’s probably why he let me go to London, too. Sneaky bastard.

I didn’t know what to expect from camp. I’d spent so little time around kids my own age. But it was magical. We were in the middle of nowhere, in a lush, dense forest. The air itself hummed with humidity and insects and life. I loved everything about it. The sunburns, the bug bites, the creaky bunks, the mediocre cafeteria food, the campfire singalongs. I painted and I learned ukulele and I excelled at archery. I made bracelets and lopsided ceramic pots and friends I was sure would last a lifetime.

I even had my first crush and my first kiss—the crush was on a counselor named Samira who was so cool I couldn’t even function around her, and the kiss was with my bunk mate Alyssa, who just wanted to “practice” once, which turned into nightly practice sessions for the rest of camp. (I don’t know if she wrote me after. If she did, my mother never let me have the letters. I looked Alyssa up a couple years ago, and she’s lead singer in a lesbian punk band. Samira is married with two kids and writes critically acclaimed young adult novels. I’ve always had good taste, is what I’m saying.)

I’m thinking about that summer now, everything green-filtered woodsmoke scented sunshine, and how happy I was. How happy it was possible for me to be once I was away from my mother and my bedroom and everything being a Goldaming meant. It’s a good reminder. I haven’t always been miserable, and I know we can be not miserable together in the future.

Dreaming of that future (and also, always, of you),

XOXO

Iris