Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

I spent the rest of the night on the porch with an antique hunting rifle from Grandpa Early’s collection, just hoping that whoever it was would show up again. Did I know how to shoot? No, but there was always the chance I could club the intruder with the rifle or maybe throw a bullet at him. Besides, it was much safer than letting Fitz run loose to patrol for trespassers. I couldn’t risk my mysterious visitor hurting him. Also, the last time I did that, I lost Fitz for about two weeks.

Zeb finally came by for a visit while I was installing my spanking-new security lights. He watched in awe as I deftly balanced on one foot on a wobbly ladder, handing me the wrong tools and cracking jokes about the probability of me electrocuting myself again. (His guess: 97 percent. He wanted to leave some room for the possibility of me falling off the ladder while electrocuting myself.) But he was very evasive and made vague excuses for not seeing me over the last few weeks. He didn’t tell me about the new girl he was dating, and considering how long it had been since Zeb’s last date, this was worth a mention…or possibly a billboard. I had to extract the information from his brain.

A startling development in my fabulous vampire powers was being able to put together mental pictures while Zeb was talking to me. The signal was patchy at best, like trying to watch scrambled pay-per-view. There was a tingly buzzing right behind my ear, then an image would spring into my mind. Zeb told me he spent Friday night reading the Bible to his grandma. I saw him at an Italian restaurant with an unbelievably pretty girl with sleek auburn hair and almond-shaped green eyes. She was laughing, actually laughing, at what Zeb was saying. And I could detect no drunkenness or mental defect on her part, so I could only assume she knew she was dating him. In my vision, he reached for her hand and knocked over a water glass. Then the picture faded out.

“So.” I sat on top of the ladder, crossed my arms, and gave him a smirk. “How is your grandma?”

“Fine.” Zeb sighed. “Driving my grandpa slowly insane gives her a reason to live.

My mom, on the other hand, is focusing on driving me insane…which is not as fun.”

“Still wants to know when we’re getting married, huh?” I asked. Zeb made a miserable face. Ginger Lavelle had never quite shaken those images of Zeb and me playing house when we were little. OK, me forcing Zeb to play house when we were little. She convinced herself long ago that no matter how much we protested or dated other people, we would eventually see things her way and give her the daughter-in-law and grandbabies she’d always wanted.

“Actually, she’s decided she’s mad at you for not following her professional advice.”

“She gave me poufy bangs. I looked like a TV evangelist,” I cried, hopping down from my perch and giving the newly installed lights a testing flick. Zeb winced at the sudden flood of light.

“Well, since you so coldly and callously tossed her aside as your personal cosmetologist, she has decided that you are not worthy of the Lavelle name, and I should instead marry Hannah Jo Butler. Hannah Jo gladly lets Mama give her perms that make her look like an electrocuted poodle.”

“Well, thank God you have someone to make these decisions for you,” I deadpanned as I sat down on a porch step.

“I begged God for a brother, a sister with a lazy eye, anything to distract her, but no. I had to be the only child to the heat-seeking missile of motherhood. Hannah Jo keeps showing up at my house with pies, saying my mother sent her over. She’s been at Sunday dinner every weekend for the last two months. Mamaw is making a Christmas stocking with her name on it.”

“What happened to my stocking?” I demanded.

“She ripped your name tag off and is hot-gluing Hannah Jo’s on in its place,” Zeb admitted.

“Well, good luck to the both of you,” I grumbled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call over the last couple of days. I lost my cell phone.”

I arched an eyebrow. “And you haven’t been able to find your land line, either?”

“Um, nope.” He laughed nervously. “I guess that means it’s time for spring cleaning.”

“It’s September, Zeb.”

Zeb looked down and to the left, a sure sign of lying, and another image came up.

Zeb was walking this girl to the door of a neatly kept trailer. He obviously wanted to kiss her and leaned about twenty degrees in but hesitated and pulled back. So, the girl grabbed him and pressed him into a full-on lip-lock.

I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. I do not have warm, squishy feelings for Zeb. But I am used to being the only woman under fifty in his life. Also, here were two young, vital people, starting what could be a bright future together. They could get married, have children, grow old together. I couldn’t do any of those things. I was wallowing in the depths of self-pity and general melancholy when the picture changed again. In the midst of his (fictitious) description of a Sunday spent hanging out with his parents, I saw Zeb trying to round to second base.

“Ew!” I yelled, vainly attempting to wipe the image through my forehead.

“It’s not that bad,” he insisted. “Better since my dad stopped drinking homemade persimmon wine.”

“No, you big liar, ew to the image of your over-the-sweater action!” I cried. “You were out with a girl this weekend. I saw the whole thing in my head.”

“You read my mind?” he exclaimed. “That’s just…well, it’s extremely cool. But I don’t think I’m comfortable with you knowing what’s going on inside my head.”

“No one’s comfortable with knowing what’s going on inside your head.” I snorted.

“I didn’t mean to invade your mental privacy. Really. I’m sorry. But why’d you lie to me, Zeb? I’m glad you’re going out with someone. Seriously. Is she nice? What’s her name?

Where’s she from? What’s she like? Are you going to answer my questions, or do I have to whack you with a stick until delicious candy surprises fall out?”

Zeb sighed, rubbing his temples. “I don’t want this to be weird.”

“I can’t make any guarantees, but let’s give it a shot.”

“Janie, I’ve been going to meetings, and they’ve been really helpful.”

“All right, then.” That was out of left field. Beyond the occasional overindulgence in wine coolers, Zeb had never had what I would see as a drinking problem. And after seeing what running a backyard meth lab did to his cousins, he never touched drugs. “Do you mean, like, therapy?”

“It’s more of a support group for people who are dealing with alternative lifestyles.”

“Oh.” I thought for about a second before it struck me. “Ohhhh.”

How could I have been so blind? I’d been friends with Zeb for twenty years. Why hadn’t I noticed the lifelong lack of a serious girlfriend? His conflicted feelings about his father? His strange obsession with Russell Crowe? He was the only person in the state of Kentucky who actually saw A Good Year.

I threw my arms around Zeb and hugged him tight. It was the first time I’d touched him since turning that he hadn’t stiffened his spine and gotten all awkward. “Oh, Zeb, why didn’t you tell me?”

Weird pause amid the hugging. “I just did.”

“You could have told me years ago. I would have accepted you, not matter what. It wouldn’t have changed anything. I love you.”

Weirder pause. “Accepted what?”

“You being, you know—” I said, trying to find the most sensitive way to handle this life change without hanging umpteen million crosses around my neck and stabbing him. I tried to learn from our mistakes. “But what about the redhead? Wait, is she a he?