Til Death (Immortal Memories) by R. M. Webb Page A

apparently I’m operating on high speed today - and throw it open, not even bothering to leave the chain and peer through the crack first. There’s Thomas, his arms laden with groceries. Apparently he can be out during the day. I’ll have ask him about that later.
    I step aside, making room for him to enter. “What have you done?”
    “I thought you’d be hungry. I brought stuff to fix it.” Without another word, he steps passed me and drops the bags on my counter. Part of me wants to protest, to remind him that I can take care of myself, but I’m too hungry for all of that nonsense.
    “Thank you,” I say, digging through the bags next to him, pulling out eggs and sausage and bacon. When we’re done, there’s enough food on the counters to make breakfast for months.
    “I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought it all.” There’s fresh fruit and yogurt, hearty breads and donuts. “But I also don’t know how to cook, so I’m afraid you’re on your own.”
    I forget, for a moment, what he is. “Not even eggs?”
    “I have no need for eggs.” There’s a bit of an apology in his voice and I feel awful. He has no need to feel sorry for what he is. I think part of what makes him so appealing is that he has no need for human things, like eggs.
    “Well my friend, I have all kinds of needs for eggs.” I hit him with a wide smile, making certain he’s aware that I’m not uncomfortable because he’s a vampire. “Want me to teach you how to cook?”
    He’s taken aback by the question, like it never crossed his mind. “My sister knows how to cook …” Pain flits through his eyes.
    “Your sister?” I can’t help but notice he used the present tense. Knows. His sister knows how to cook. And therefore she must still be alive.
    “Yes. She’s embraced the traditions of each generation we’ve lived through, inserting herself into society, living amongst mortals …” There’s pain in his eyes again.
    I’m eager to bring back his smile. “I’d love to meet her someday.”
    Thomas swallows hard. “She and I are estranged. For now.” Well that’s not the way to his smile. I murmur my apology and he shakes it off. “But,” he says lifting his eyebrows, “if you teach me to cook your favorite breakfast, then I can surprise you with it another time.” Another time. More mornings spent with Thomas means more nights spent with Thomas.
    I show him how to crack an egg, how to pierce the sausage so it doesn’t burst open while it cooks. We laugh at the things he doesn’t know. Like whole bean coffee needs a grinder. I dig through my cupboards and find some instant coffee, but the next day, he arrives with both a grinder and ground coffee.
    We move through a series of late nights and early mornings. We talk, taking turns asking questions. I ask about his ability to walk in the sun and he laughs at the superstitions of mortals. He asks about my childhood, and bit by bit, piece by piece, I open up to him, telling him the things I’ve kept tucked away in the furthest reaches of my heart.
    And when I scrape together the money to pay my electric bill, I find it’s already paid. For the rest of the year. And I get a thank you note from the apartment manager for paying the remainder of my lease up front. And Thomas learns to cook and he shows up on my doorstep proudly bearing more and more exotic meals. He’s taking care of me and I let him. I soften the hard walls and sharp lines I’ve built around my heart and I let him in.
    “It doesn’t make you weak to accept help, you know,” he says one night after a scrumptious dinner. We’re curled up on my couch, a tangle of arms and legs, and I’m leaned into him, sipping wine from a glass he’d bought just for me.
    “How doesn’t it make me weak? If I’m incapable of taking care of myself, that certainly doesn’t make me strong.” The wine is good and has gone to my head.
    “Think of a handful of spaghetti.” Thomas has fallen in love with food.