My Roommate Is a Vampire(40)

“You don’t have to use social media,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “But if you want to blend in, you need to at least know what social media is.”

“I am not certain that is true.”

“It is.”

His full, plush lips turned down into a pout. My centuries-old vampire roommate was pouting. It was as ridiculous a sight as it was riveting. He bit his lip, and my eyes fell helplessly to his mouth. His front teeth looked no different from anyone else’s. Did Frederick have fangs somewhere, the way Reginald did?

If he pressed those beautiful lips to my throat, would he be able to feel my heart beating beneath the skin?

I still had so many questions. Some of which I didn’t dare admit even to myself.

“The clarity of the photographs you can see on the internet is astounding.” Frederick’s grudging compliment of Sam’s pictures cut into my daydreams, saving me from myself. Thinking about his mouth on my neck—on any part of my body—would lead to nothing good.

I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, feeling a bit flushed. “I’m pretty sure Sam used a filter on that.”

“A what?”

I shook my head. A lesson on Instagram filters could wait for another day. “Never mind.”

Fortunately, Frederick let it drop. “My understanding from Reginald is that there is a way to interact with images you see on social media. How do I do that?”

“Oh. Well, on Instagram you can like a post by clicking that little heart, or you can leave a comment.”

Frederick frowned. “A comment?”

“Yeah.”

“What sort of comments does one leave on Instagram?”

I thought for a moment. “I mean, people say whatever they want. Usually people try to be funny. Sometimes they might try to be mean, I guess. But that would be a dick thing to do.”

“A . . . dick thing to do,” he repeated slowly, sounding confused.

“Exactly.”

Frederick shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded a bit like incomprehensible modern slang, though I couldn’t be certain. Then he asked, “May I leave a comment on this picture your friend has posted of his breakfast?”

His question surprised me, after how openly hostile he’d been to the very idea of social media. It was good that he wanted to learn, though. “Sure.” I pointed to the comment box. “Just type whatever you want to say right here.”

He stared at the keyboard, then began to peck at the keys very slowly with two large index fingers.

“I am still unfamiliar with modern keyboards,” he admitted as he painstakingly crafted his message. “They differ so much from the typewriters I am used to.”

I thought of the old typewriters the Art Institute of Chicago had in its collection, and tried to picture Frederick in his old-fashioned clothes, using one of them.

“You’re pretty good at texting,” I said. “I’d think a phone would be even harder to use.”

Frederick shrugged. “I discovered a feature called talk to text,” he said, as he continued typing. For someone who usually moved so fluidly, who seemed so at ease in his own body, he was a clumsy and graceless typist. It was oddly endearing. “Without it I would never use my phone at all.”

Talk to text would explain the length of some of the texts he’d sent me. Smiling a little, I glanced up at my laptop’s screen. My smile vanished when I read what Frederick was writing.

    While this photograph is nice enough, I fail to see the point of using advanced technology for such pedestrian purposes. Why did you share it? Yours in good health, Frederick



I stared at him. “You can’t post that,” I said, at the exact same time he hit send and the message posted.

“Why not?” Frederick sounded genuinely confused. “You just said people could leave whatever messages they wanted on Instagram.”

“Not when you’re signed in with my account.” I batted Frederick’s hands away from the keyboard, ignoring his protests. “Delete it. That was a mean thing to say.”

“It was not. I was simply asking for clarification.”

“It was mean. Sam will think you’re a dickhead.” Of course, Sam already didn’t like Frederick. I still hadn’t explained why I’d fled this apartment and showed up on his doorstep with no notice, or why I went back to Frederick just as quickly. Knowing my history with terrible living situations and terrible men, Sam was almost certainly drawing the worst conclusions.

The pensive look on Frederick’s face suggested he’d somehow guessed what I was thinking. “Your friend already has plenty of reasons to mistrust me,” he said. “If I were him, I probably wouldn’t trust me very much, either. I suppose you’re right. I do not want to make matters worse by insulting his choice in breakfast photography.”

“No.” I shook my head. “You don’t.”

“Very well,” he said. “You can take the comment down.” He closed his eyes, his long, thick eyelashes fanning out along the tops of his cheeks. I found myself transfixed by them, and by the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“I . . . was once known for my straightforward demeanor,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “It was an admirable trait among men at the time. I gather that now, one must mince words often in order not to offend.” He paused again. “None of this is intuitive to me. I feel I shall forever be a bumbling idiot in public.”