On days like this, it was easy to convince myself that all was well with the world. I was grateful that I could not only endure the sunlight but enjoy it. There were few benefits of being the only hybrid (vampire-normal/whatever) alive, and this was one of the most important.

Once over the bridge, I took a boulevard that led to low hills and then exited onto a street that wound through expensive neighborhoods, each more wooded and exclusive than the last. I hated showing up anywhere empty-handed, so I stopped at the posh market in town.

Everyone here had that trust-fund look of studied casualness as they parked luxury cars with bike racks, drank organic soy chai lattes, and jogged in gear designed by NASA scientists.

My mutt barked at a dog walker with a trio of pewter gray Weimaraners.

“I agree,” I said. “But it’s rude to say so aloud.”

I left Rosemary in the truck and went inside the market, conscious of my dirty jeans, sweaty T-shirt, and work boots. You’d think I’d get over my discomfort in these places, but I always felt like the scholarship girl who didn’t fit in anywhere.

The difference now was that I wanted others to see me as an ordinary chica, instead of what I’d become.

It was warm enough to grill tonight. I tried not to look obvious as I lingered by the butcher counter, before picking out two strip steaks dripping with glossy garnet juices. As the butcher wrapped the meat, I caught a reflection of myself in the mirror behind the counter.

Strands of long black hair had come loose from my ponytail and my damp T-shirt clung to my bounteous chi-chis. When I wiped at smudges of dirt by my eyes, I smeared my mascara.

I bought a bottle of pinot noir, radicchio, two baskets of blackberries, sourdough bread, and a Nylabone for Rosemary. While I was waiting for my turn at checkout, I picked up a copy of the latest Vogue and flipped through it.

I stopped at a page with an ethereally beautiful blonde modeling boots and little else. Her name was Ilena, and I’d met her when she was with Ian. She’d called me a “pretty chubby little pickle,” and I was fairly sure she meant “pretty chubby,” not “pretty and chubby.” Either way, the insult still rankled. I shoved the magazine back in the rack.

Once in my truck, I gave the chew toy to my dog, who let it drop to the seat.

“Don’t be like that. I’ll share my steak with you later.”