Page 62 of The Blood we Crave

I imagine it would be easy for any normal person to be attracted to someone conventional, someone like Conner Godfrey. For the longest time, all I wanted, all I craved, was to be normal. To feel what others felt, to have an average life. It’s all I dreamed of while I lay awake in those foster homes.

But I’m not. I have never been.

And someone like Conner…he doesn’t make me feel.

Even now, knowing Thatch is nowhere close to me, I can feel him. His eyes. His energy in the room like the air, surrounding me.

He does not pluck the strings of my heart and play them as a melody he knows from memory. There is no immediate need to implode if I can’t get close to him. My body does not soften and ignite the way it does for Thatcher Pierson.

Never for anyone else but him.

There is a long, bloodred string that is looped around one of my ribs, one that if I followed, if I tugged, would lead straight to the Prince of Death himself. A thread I would follow over and over again, even if I knew it would lead me to a bitter end.

That’s love, isn’t it? Falling even though there is no one to catch you? No expectations. Just blind, whole-body, purifying love.

There was no darkness in him too much, no monster or harsh fantasy too scary that would keep me from loving him. Everything I know, everything he is, and everything he is to become, I would love all of it.

I would die for him.

I would kill for him.

I would bleed for him.

And that is a once-in-a-lifetime connection that is not easily matched by someone who is simply conventional.

“It’s a beautiful piece, but I didn’t keep you back to admire your jewelry, unfortunately.” He taps the top of my hand, pulling away and rounding his desk to dig through the drawers.

“Your teaching isn’t boring, by the way. I’ve just been tired,” I mutter, blinking away the haze of my secret love.

“Yeah, yeah. I know a lie when I hear one, Miss Abbott.” He smirks. “Still haven’t been sleeping? Have you thought about going to the doctor for that? It could be insomnia, and they do prescribe medicine for that.”

“Sleeping pills that make me sleep like the dead? No, thank you. I’d rather be deprived of a few hours of rest than wake up feeling like I got hit by a train.”

“Stubborn, stubborn.” He laughs, shaking his head as he retrieves a stack of papers and holds them out in my direction, beckoning me to take them. “Hopefully you won’t be too hardheaded about this.”

I roll my eyes but take them, assuming it’s a part of class requirements, but when I look down at the boldly printed black letters, I’m proven wrong. I trace my fingers along the stark white sheets.

“An internship? In New Hampshire?” I lift both of my eyebrows in shock.

He nods, folding his hands in front of his lap. “It’s a forensic entomology program at Dartmouth. It has limited availability, but I thought it would be an exceptional opportunity for you.”

“I-I—” I stifle myself, shaking my head, struck in awe by this act of kindness. “I don’t know what to say. How did you find out about this? How did you get me an application?”

Maybe once when he’d asked me what I wanted for my future had I mentioned forensic entomology. It’s a rare field, jobs are extremely competitive, and I never truly expected to have it as a career.

The study of insects during a criminal proceeding is often forgotten, even bypassed, but it can be an integral part of an investigation. From the time of death to where the crime took place, the live and dead creepy-crawlies found at a murder scene can tell you quite a bit.

It’s a combination of the things I’m passionate about; there would never be a more perfect job for me.

Death and bugs.

“I went to graduate school there. I pulled a few strings with some friends I have back home. The position is yours next year if you’d like it.” He winks. “Pending paperwork, of course.”

I squeeze the papers in my fingers, knowing this is something incredible. My future lying in my hands, a job that I’ve wanted for years. All I want to do is tell my mom. To call her and hear her voice. The older I get, the more I grieve her.

I gather all these experiences, these moments that I’m desperate to share with her, and it keeps hurting the more I age. There is so much I want to tell her, so many things I’ve done and seen. It feels like a wound that deepens over time. The scar tissue has covered the outer layer, but the inside is still aching, still bleeding with all the pain of loss.

Could I leave the place that has her grave? The town where her memory haunts like a ghost?