“Du er søt,” he replies, his tone soft. Before I can ask what that means, he adds, “The second thing is, this necklace isn’t actually a good-luck charm. I just found this stone that looked like … well, the whole truth? I was trying to make somebody jealous.” His fingers can’t stay still, worrying each other or stirring his hot chocolate or combing through his hair, and I finally realize he might be as nervous as I am. “I’d had kind of a shitty breakup, and I knew I was going to have to see the guy again sooner or later, so I decided to give myself this whole huge makeover. I got a leather jacket and started wearing ‘dude-necklaces’ with mysterious origin stories … Ugh.” Gunnar rubs his face, wincing at the memory. “It’s so embarrassing now. Like, I sincerely believed he’d see me again and think I was more interesting, and wonder what he was missing out on.”

My heart goes out to him. I’ve never had a breakup, of course—good, bad, or otherwise—but I really know what it’s like to want someone to notice you and feel something about it. “So what happened?”

“Nothing.” Gunnar smiles, hitching one shoulder. “We saw each other again, he was polite, and he didn’t say anything about my dude-necklace or my clothes or anything else. And that was it.” He fidgets with the nachos, pulling out a chip and then putting it back. “And I felt stupid for thinking he would care enough to be jealous, but then … it turned out I kind of liked the New Me? And it wasn’t about the jacket or the necklace or whatever—it was about the fact that I’d decided to become someone who was happy without him. So I kept the necklace, because it reminds me that I’m strong enough to pick up the pieces.”

“Wow,” I repeat. The lights mounted around the rink make his bottom lip shine, and I really want to kiss him all of a sudden. “It kind of sounds like it is a good-luck charm.”

“Maybe.” Gunnar tugs at the stone around his neck, rubbing it with his thumb, the fingers of his other hand drumming the table. “But anyway. Thing number three.”

He looks around the room, fingers tapping away. His eyes find mine, and then they dance away again, and finally he sets his jaw. Unease is prickling the back of my neck by the time he finally manages to spit it out, his eyes filled with regret.

“The third thing is … I’m a vampire.”

15

It’s my turn to wait for a punch line, and his to sit in an uncomfortable silence until I realize he isn’t joking. I try to believe I’ve misheard him, but I know I haven’t. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but—”