Oh, sure, I reflected, they’re glad to see me when I have a good plan for killing someone, but when I want a relationship update, I’m not hearing from a single soul.
Not that I was bitter or anything. Or mad, or hurt. Or knew if vampires had souls.
I could feel myself shake all over like a dog coming out of a pond. Regret, impatience, flying off me. Was it my place to worry about souls? No. That was up to a higher power than me.
I glanced outside to see that it was just full dark. Before I could have another thought, I picked up my cell phone and speed-dialed Eric. I had to do this before I lost my nerve.
“Sookie,” he said, after the second ring, and I let myself feel surprised. I’d truly doubted he’d answer.
“We need to talk,” I said, making a huge effort to sound calm. “After my visit to Fangtasia, I understand that you’re dodging me. You made it clear that you don’t want me visiting the club. I assume you don’t want me dropping by your place, either. But you know we have to have a conversation.”
“Then talk.”
Okay, this was going pretty damn badly. I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know I was wearing my mad face. “Face-to-face,” I said, and it sounded like I was biting out the words. Too late, I had second thoughts. This was going to be painful in the extreme. Wouldn’t it be better to just let our relationship drift away—avoid having the conversation I was almost certain I could script ahead of time?
“I can’t come tonight,” Eric said. He sounded as if he were on the moon, he was so distant. “There are people in line to see me, much to be done.”
And still his voice was empty. I let my anger rip, in that sudden way I have when I’m tense. “So we take second place. You could at least sound sorry,” I said, each word distinct and bitter.
“You have no idea how I feel,” he said. “Tomorrow night.” And he hung up.
“Well, fuck him and the horse he rode in on,” I said.
After gearing up for a marathon conversation, Eric’s quick cutoff left me overflowing with restless energy.
“This is no good,” I told the silent house. I turned on the radio and I started dancing. That is something I can do, though at the moment my skill was not important. It was the activity that counted. I threw myself into it. I thought, Maybe Tara and I can do a dance exercise program together. She and I had done routines together all through high school, and it would be easy for Tara to get back in shape that way (not that I needed to bring that up when I asked her). To my dismay, I was huffing and puffing after less than ten minutes, a not-so-subtle reminder that I myself could use a regular exercise program. I drove myself to continue for fifteen more minutes.
When I collapsed onto the couch, I felt relaxed, exhausted, and just about in need of another shower. As I sprawled there, taking deep breaths, I noticed my answering machine was blinking. In fact, it was blinking frequently. I had more than one message. I hadn’t checked my e-mail in days, either. Plus, I’d gotten that call on my cell phone while I’d been in the shower. I had to reconnect with the world.
First, the answering machine. After the first beep, I heard a hang-up. I didn’t recognize the number. Then a call from Tara to tell me she thought baby Sara had allergies. Then a request to take an important survey. It wasn’t too surprising that amid all this exciting communication, I began to think about the lawsuit again.
Jane Bodehouse loved wrestling. Maybe if I called the only wrestler I knew, a guy named T-Rex, I could get her some ringside tickets. She’d be so happy she’d drop her lawsuit against Merlotte’s . . . if she was even aware of it.
And there I was, back to worrying.
After my phone messages, I checked my e-mails. Most of them suggested I enlarge my nonexistent penis or help desperate lawyers get huge sums of money out of Africa, but one was from my godfather, Desmond Cataliades, the mostly demon lawyer who had (in my view) given me the bane of my existence when he “gifted” me with telepathy. In his view, he’d endowed me with a