Chapter Three. When the Boy You Hate Comes to Live with You #3
For a single moment I forget everything else.
I’ve been wanting Jeffrey and Shelly together since the day they met on the sanctuary.
Giddiness bursts inside me and I holler, throwing myself into Jeffrey’s arms. He expects as much and catches me, spinning me around once before grounding me.
And grounding I need because over by his parents James Murphy witnessed my twelve-year-old-girl-like excitement.
And great, now he’s eyeing me like I’m some sort of weirdo. Which isn’t new.
“Tell me everything later!” I demand of Jeffrey.
A warm smile accompanies a promise. “I will.”
I turn back to my parents. “I still don’t … What about Nity?” I whisper urgently as James’s mother talks to her son by the trunk of their car.
Mom sighs and looks at my dad. They haven’t had time to discuss this. They didn’t have a real warning or preparation. They’re as off-kilter as I am. Just doing a whole lot better at hiding it. “James cannot know. It will remain our secret,” Mom reassures.
Fear spikes through me. “How can we be sure? How—”
“Farren. We’ll discuss this later.” Mom’s expression flashes with desperation and then brightens like nothing is wrong as she meets Mrs. Murphy’s eye over my shoulder.
“Sorry, what was that, Aine?” she says as Mrs. Murphy approaches.
I don’t hear the repeated question, but Mom’s answer rings in bitter clarity. “Yes, we do in fact have a phone.”
It takes all my strength not to lash out.
We’ve all had to pretend for our family.
Dad fooling everyone with a nod and smile as he gets treated as lesser than.
Mom playing the role of mother and wife and nothing else when she is everything—an accountant, a dragon rider, a talented metal-crafter.
We let everyone think my father leads the family as a renowned veterinarian, and they forget my mother’s the one who runs the sanctuary.
We’ve all learned to diminish ourselves.
But never, never, do we have to do it in our home.
Dad tugs me into a side hug. “I know this is a lot, but I think it’ll work out. Why don’t you show him around?” he asks, like he just thought up the most brilliant of ideas.
This may be the problem with not spouting off at dinner every opinion I have regarding my peers. My parents live in a fantasy world where, because I’m polite and cordial, I get along with everyone. Fantasyland is about to burst into flames. Murphy will be the ignition.
In my head I mark the date. For it starts now with this—my parents learning I don’t just dislike some people. I have a nemesis. A nemesis who has every advantage in life and uses them all to play dirty.
Two weeks ago, I saved James Murphy’s life. And to pay me back he intends to ruin mine.
With the hug, Dad finally notices I’m dripping in dirt. “After you show him around, you should wash up Hort and then yourself.”
And that’s it. We’ve gone back to normal, reverting to the language of schedules and chores. Because to keep our secret we have to act normal, preach our plainness. Obeying a silver-crafter is part of that now. Living with James Murphy is a part of that now.
The life destroyer approaches then, footsteps crunching in the gravel confidently, trunk in hand. He doesn’t even glance backward at his parents.
“That was quick,” Mom says, some part of her empathic self wounded by the notion not everyone draws out their goodbyes like seven-course meals.
James’s parents do linger though, standing before the car. “Just one last thing,” Mr. Murphy announces, and his voice demands attention.
“Yes?” Dad says, ever-cheerful. The best of us at pretending.
Mr. Murphy shifts his weight and Mrs. Murphy cuts in. “We just want to make one rule clear. James and your girl will be…” She struggles to find her words. “Friends only.”
I almost object, spew right then and there that I will never be friends with James Murphy. But then Mrs. Murphy’s true meaning vibrates down to my bones. She means no fraternizing. She means …
Mr. Murphy grumbles, finally adding to the conversation. “We expect nothing inappropriate will happen. Metals shouldn’t mix.”
Sex. They are both referring to sex. The flush that flares from cheeks to roots is windburn bad. I sputter. “You don’t need to—” To worry, I’m going to say.
James beats me to an answer. And he does so by looking me in the eye and smiling, an unusual thing.
So unusual it takes a second to reconfigure his features dressed up and actually friendly.
He has dimples I didn’t know existed. Though, something is off.
A split second later I realize why. That smile means one thing.
“I promise. That won’t be a problem.” Then he scoffs, indicating how much of a nonproblem this is.
I think I should be offended. Actually, I know I am offended. While this is a boundary I’m firmly for, my heart beats wild like a caged dragon. Because … well, because …
James keeps the smile, the confident, coy expression. It hits me then. Because that one rule isn’t hard. Not dating me, not even liking me, will be an easy thing.
Which means I’m officially, irrevocably, stuck with him.