Big Vamp on Campus - Molly Harper Page 0,16

young to be distributing advice so freely. “That sounds like a terrible first date.”

“Besides, you’re dating that cute blond vamp I see you with around the dorm, right?”

“Yes, though I haven’t been seeing him around as much lately,” I muttered.

“Ah, high-school-sweetheart syndrome. Classic, especially if you decide to go to the same college. He finds his friends, throws himself into securing dude bros for life, and expects you to be happy with a movie date in his room on a Sunday, huh?”

“Not exactly like—yes, OK, very similar to that.”

“Well, if you’re going to dump him, do it now. Don’t cheat. Your boyfriend will just turn all of your problems back on you because you crossed the line.”

“I don’t cheat,” I told her sternly.

But instead of being cowed by my menacing tone, she shrugged it off. “OK, so you know your limits. That’s good. Look, if you want to stay in the relationship, that’s fine. Just draw some lines over what you are and aren’t willing to take from the boyfriend. If you’re having trouble figuring out what those are, talk to your girlfriends about it.”

“What about talking to my boyfriend about it?” I asked.

She arched her brow. “Uh, sure, if you want to cause problems.”

“Right, ridiculous,” I mumbled. “How do you know so much about relationships?”

“A lifetime of counseling girlfriends through theirs,” she said, grinning. “I take a more low-maintenance approach. I see drama coming, I drop the guy like a hot rock and move along. It’s less traumatic for everybody that way.”

With the exception of Georgie, I didn’t have any girlfriends. Even back at the Council office, I’d kept to myself unless dealing with my underlings, and I certainly didn’t have friendly relationships with any of them. I didn’t have friends beyond Jamie on Facebook, which I’d only joined because Jamie swore by its messaging feature. I wasn’t close with anyone in Jane-slash-Jamie’s family circle. Being around this many women was a new experience for me.

I didn’t like it much. Clearly, living in such close quarters with Brianna wasn’t working out. I was too easily annoyed to enjoy group gatherings with my fellow residents, if the mandatory board-game night I’d attended my second week was any indication. Meagan seemed perfectly pleasant, but I didn’t know how to interact with her. I didn’t like the awkward conversational pauses while I tried to interpret her microexpressions.

“So did you really break both of your roommate’s arms because she stole your body wash?”

I scoffed. “No, it was her collarbone. And her ribs.”

My dismissive tone made her snort. “Well, some of the nicer girls on the fourth floor would like to send you the vampire version of a muffin basket. We really don’t like ‘Galadriel.’ She’s rude and snotty and flashes fang at us if we try to talk to her in the elevator. And when we complain, her little coven of human fans tell us we just don’t understand her pain and loneliness.”

I burst out laughing. “That sounds about right.”

“You know, if you ever want to talk about this sort of thing, boyfriend problems or trying to avoid breaking your roommate’s bones, I’m just on the fourth floor. You can always come up and see me,” Meagan offered.

Why couldn’t I turn her down flat? I doubted very much that any sort of friendship with Meagan and the other Gan Girls would do much for me. I couldn’t interpret her face, which was currently configured in a hopeful expression that I found rather . . . cute? I found that I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I didn’t want to take that expression off her face. This was a new sensation for me, caring how my actions affected someone other than Georgie or Jamie.

I didn’t like it. I liked being able to predict my reactions, my emotions. I liked my self-interest. It kept me from having to do things I didn’t want to do.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I told her gently. And her responding smile could have lit up the eastern seaboard.

“Great!” she cried. “I’ll see you around.”

I gave her a little wave as she slung her backpack over her shoulder.

“And lay off the hipsters,” she told me in a mock-stern tone. “They’re bad for you, like eclairs and lead paint.”

“Will do,” I promised, even though a tiny part of me was still curious about that poetry seminar. It was tempting, the idea of going to an event that would require thinking about more, more than the drudgery of campus life, the