Page 51 of Road Trip with a Vampire

I was inclined to agree, though tool was a relative concept.

The guy in question had never, for example, accepted money from a nefarious organization to go after the woman he was now interested in.

Or at least, if he had, the show hadn’t gotten there yet.

By episode two his only crime was having minimal career ambition while being jealous of the female lead’s professional success.

So yes, a tool—but probably not in a way a good therapist couldn’t fix.

“I wouldn’t date him,” I chimed in, truthfully.

My phone buzzed with a new text just as the fourth episode started playing.

The female lead had finally dumped the tool and was consoling herself over a pint of mocha chip ice cream with the handsome male lead.

He was currently still just her friend, but I wasn’t born yesterday and knew exactly where this was heading.

“Open your eyes, honey,” I said, reaching for my phone. “He’s been in love with you since tenth grade.”

“There are four more episodes,” Becky said, adopting the tone of someone older and wiser. “They won’t get together until, like, ten minutes before the end.”

“When I am queen, I will change that trend,” I grumbled. “Everybody will get together at the beginning of episode seven and then we’ll have two whole hours of them doing nothing but happily picking out wallpaper.”

It was with this thought in mind that I unlocked my phone.

Peter: Can I send you something?

My phone fell from my hands and clattered to the hardwood floor, making such a racket that my friends looked up from the television to look at me.

“Everything okay?” Becky asked.

“Yep!” I squeaked, scrambling for my phone.

“Who’s it from?”

But I wasn’t listening to her anymore.

This was the first time I’d heard from Peter since I’d left Indiana. I’d nearly texted him dozens of times since then but had always stopped myself at the last minute.

What would I have even said to him? What was there to say?

Apparently, though, he had something to say to me. My heart raced as my mind became locked in a vicious tug-of-war with itself over what to do.

The part of me that made good decisions knew I shouldn’t reply to this. But I wanted to.

So I did.

Zelda: What is it?

Not what I’d imagined texting all those nights I’d almost reached out, but if he was about to send me a dick pic, I needed to nip that mistake in the bud.

Peter: It’s a picture.

Oh shit. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Zelda: A picture of what exactly?

Peter: A picture of a hat.

Not a dick pic, then.

Just a really strange thing to send to someone you haven’t spoken to in weeks whose heart you broke.

Zelda: Radio silence for weeks and the first thing you want to text is a picture of a hat?

I stared at my phone for another full minute after sending. No response. Probably unsurprising given the tone of what I’d just sent him.

After another few minutes of waiting, I turned my attention back to the show my friends were still watching.

The male lead had just brought the female lead a bouquet of flowers, and the eye-fucking between them was exquisite.

Ordinarily this sort of thing was exactly my jam, but focusing on it was impossible.

Had I been too harsh with him?

Right when I was about to text him back to apologize, my phone buzzed again.

Peter: I didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.

Peter: So I stayed away.

Given how our last conversation went, well…that was fair.

Peter: But I need some advice.

Zelda: About a hat?

Peter: About a hat.

“Zelda, can we make more popcorn?” Becky held up the large mixing bowl we’d been snacking from all evening. “We’re all out.”

I barely heard her. “Sure,” I said absently. He needed advice about a hat? What was happening here?

The smart move would be to ignore Peter’s text, block his number, and go back to watching the romance play out on television. But I didn’t want to do any of those things. Suddenly, finding out what the heck Peter was talking about felt far more important than anything else I could be doing.

Unfortunately, though, my friends were there. If there was official protocol for girls’ nights, texting the ex-situationship who’d been the inspiration for the girls’ night in the first place had to be a violation.

Time to go hide in my bedroom for a while, away from my friends. Like a coward.

“Linds? Becky? My mom just texted,” I chirped. “It’s important. She…um…” Think, Zelda. Think! “She needs me to call her right away.”

“Your mom?” Becky asked, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“Yep.” I gestured to my phone, and then to my bedroom. “She’s, uh…waiting for me. Better do this in my bedroom. Be back in a minute.”

Lindsay stared at me. “Isn’t your mom dead?”

My swirling thoughts skidded to a halt. “What?” I asked, blinking at Lindsay in confusion.

“Right after we opened the studio you told us your mom died in a fire a long time ago,” Becky said. “Remember?”

“That’s…” I frantically ransacked my memories, trying to remember what, if anything, I’d told them about my family. Even if my parents were alive somewhere, they hadn’t been part of my life for centuries. How would my mother have even come up in conversation?

A vague recollection of a bring-your-family-to-work event early in Yoga Magic’s existence drifted to the front of my mind. I must have come up with a flimsy excuse for why I hadn’t brought anyone with me and told them my mother was dead.

Crap .

“That’s…what she wants to talk about, actually,” I stammered. Speaking of flimsy excuses. “She’s alive! Isn’t that great?”

I fled into my bedroom and closed the door without waiting for my friends’ reactions to that nonsense bomb. Then I texted Peter.

Zelda: Okay show me the hat.

Three little bubbles appeared as he started replying. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my phone, gripping it in both hands as I waited for Peter’s reply to appear. The same way anyone who was totally not invested in speaking with their ex again would do.

When the picture showed up, I laughed so hard Lindsay and Becky must have heard it in the next room.

Peter had sent me a picture of himself, stone-faced and wearing the hat I’d bought him in that singing-chicken restaurant in Nevada. It was obviously a selfie, and a blurry, poorly executed one at that. I couldn’t begin to guess why he’d sent this to me.

Even if seeing his face again was the highlight of the past few weeks.

Peter: I think it’s broken.

Peter: It won’t make noise anymore when I push the button on the brim.

Peter: It just sits on my head, cluckless.

Every additional text he sent just made me laugh harder.

Zelda: I can’t believe you kept the hat

Peter: Why can’t you believe it?

Zelda: I thought you hated it

Peter: I never said I hated it.

Zelda: You said it was the stupidest thing you’d ever seen and were going to throw it away as soon as my back was turned

Peter didn’t text back right away, though my phone showed the text was read.

As I waited for his response, I noticed the television volume had been cranked way up since I’d fled to my bedroom. Probably a passive-aggressive signal from my friends, letting me know they hadn’t bought my excuse at all.

When I looked back at my phone, Peter had replied.

Peter: Let’s just say the hat has grown on me.

I smiled despite myself.

Zelda: I told you it’s a good hat

Peter: You did.

Zelda: It’s broken now, though?

Peter: Apparently.

Peter: It’s stopped clucking altogether. And one of the eyes has started falling off.

I examined the picture he’d sent, trying to see what he was talking about. The eyes mounted on the hat’s brim were certainly lopsided, but they’d been that way when I’d bought it. It was part of the hat’s charm.

Zelda: The eyes look the same as always

Peter: Really?

Zelda: I mean it’s hard to tell from a picture but yeah I think so

Peter: Assuming for a second that one of the eyes IS falling off, what would you suggest I do to repair it?

I was about to reply with some basic sewing advice when the absurdity of everything Peter was asking hit me like a wake-up call. This man could hotwire a car and fix a broken table with his bare hands. Yet somehow, he didn’t know how to sew a fuzzy eyeball back on a hat?

Zelda: Re: the hat not clucking, have you checked the batteries?

Peter: I have not.

Peter: Do you think I should?

Okay, something was definitely off. There was no way in hell he wouldn’t immediately think to change its batteries.

Zelda: Why did you really text me, Peter?

Zelda: I know you hate this hat, and even if you didn’t, you’d know how to fix it without advice from me.

My phone showed my text was read, but no response came.

After a minute, text bubbles appeared, then disappeared.

Appeared again before vanishing a second time.

I imagined him staring at his phone, wherever he was, thinking through how to backpedal out of this.

His furrowed brow. His mouth turned down at the corners in a scowl.

Peter: I don’t actually need help fixing my hat.

I snorted.

Zelda: I didn’t think so

Peter: You’re right, I think the hat is stupid.

Zelda: I know

Zelda: What’s going on?

Another long pause.

Peter: You made it clear that you don’t want to hear from me. But I’ve been worried about you, given that some members of The Collective are still at large.

Peter: More than worried about you. I’ve been driving myself crazy. I just wanted to know that you’re all right. And safe.

My heart twisted at the caring sentiment even though he should have known I could take care of myself. I pressed my phone against my forehead, letting the complicated feelings his words invoked ripple through me.

Zelda: My stake-tipped dagger lives on my bedside table within easy reach

Zelda: I’m fine

Peter: I am still concerned about you. But good. I’m glad.

Zelda: So you just used the hat as a pretext to check in?

Peter: Yes.

Peter: I’m sorry for reaching out under false pretenses.

Zelda: Why did you?