Chapter Thirty-Five. When You Attend a Wedding
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WHEN YOU ATTEND A WEDDING
JAMES
As first dates go, this one isn’t bad. Maybe a little forward and intimate, but being near Farren in any capacity is what I’ve wanted my entire life. And now knowing she likes me back and accepted the shawl I crafted for her—it’s almost too much to bear, I’m so happy.
I’m close enough to her to overhear when her mom notices the shawl. “You made this, Farren? I thought you were going for a simpler design.”
“I changed my mind. I … chose this.”
Her mom squints trying to read into her words. “Well, it’s gorgeous work.”
When her mother’s eyes connect to mine, I busy myself with a glass of water trying to look unbothered. Like I haven’t taken Farren’s words to heart. But she did choose me. Her wearing my metal, as old-fashioned as that notion sounds, still fills me with satisfaction.
Minutes later, music sings into the air. That’s our cue and I wipe the smile off my face. I put my everyday stoic mask on, but I’m coming to realize how much easier it is to contain your misery than your joy. Maybe one day I won’t have to do either.
“Let’s get this over with, right?” I fake grumble while offering my arm.
“Whatever,” Farren answers, matching my energy and looping her arm with mine.
Shelly and Jeffrey decided to get married on the flat area along the rolling cliffside by their home.
They’ve let the beauty of their front yard speak for itself, with only a dusting of purple flower petals setting off the aisle and white chairs smushed into the grass on either side.
The ocean sits in the far distance, a nice blue contrast to all the green. Simple. Elegant. Welcoming.
When Farren and I walk down the aisle, arm in arm, my mind goes blank imagining our own wedding. Too soon we part as I go to Jeffrey’s side and Farren to Shelly’s. Then Dr. Walsh walks Shelly down the aisle. She looks more than healthy, happy.
Then the music softens, and the ceremony begins.
Iron is wrapped around all four of their wrists, connecting them together, joining the couple.
It’s tradition, the dragon metal crafted to wind around both their wrists and forearms so many times you can’t tell whose iron is whose.
It’s how the phrase “metals shouldn’t mix” was popularized.
Because if the metals were different then everyone could clearly see the individual’s metal separate from their partner.
No unity. One would always be more powerful than the other, straining the relationship.
Yet, I imagine gold and silver encasing Farren’s and my wrists one day.
I jerk myself from the daydream to listen to their vows. Words float into the air about love, togetherness, partnership.
“Shelly Price, I swear to be by your side from this day and until our last days.”
“Jeffrey Daly, I promise to be by your side from this day and until our last days.”
I try, I really try not to look over at Farren, but when I do, I find she’s already staring at me. I can’t look away and I almost miss the kiss until cheers arise through the crowd.
After the ceremony Farren and I are pulled into a myriad of snapshot pictures.
The small crowd of guests meander toward Jeffrey and Shelly’s home, where outside tables have been set up.
There, I’m expected to socialize. I talk mostly with clients I met making our rounds at the nearby farms. I evade questions about the future and if I plan to keep interning at the sanctuary.
Most walk away or end the conversation when they realize I’m no Farren Walsh, who could talk with anyone about anything, but especially dragons.
“You always claim you’re so likeable and yet … no one wants to talk to you?” Farren says, suddenly beside me.
“Well, you’re talking to me. Couldn’t find anyone better?”
She scoffs. Then glances around before pulling me behind the cottage where no one can see. We’re finally alone once again.
“Hi,” Farren says, blushing.
“Hi,” I echo, letting the stoic mask melt away and my true feelings emerge.
“The wedding was nice, wasn’t it?”
“I couldn’t pay attention to most of it,” I admit.
Farren looks away, not willing to play into the implication. Or well, fact, since she stared at me back. “I love these flowers. Shelly has such good taste,” she says instead.
I take stock of my surroundings, the short pathway to the altar beyond her shoulder. Wildflowers in an array of purple on every table. Got it.
“What’s with that look? Why does it seem like you’re taking notes?” she laughs.
I smile. “Because I am.”
Her eyes go wide. “You can’t just … you can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
It takes everything I have not to say we’ll have our own flower-petaled aisle if that’s what she wants. I shouldn’t play with Farren like this too much, but most of the time I’m not playing. And this time I most definitely am not.
Farren’s gaze suddenly dips outward toward the cliffs, her eyebrows scrunching. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You’re going to think I’m overreacting, but I’m concerned for them. This is the only day we haven’t checked on them since your dad and—”
“And you’re worried,” I finish.
She sighs. “Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“I wouldn’t mind checking on them too.” I glance around the party, no one paying us attention, but also knowing if I don’t take her up on this offer, we should part ways, stop interacting.
We can’t exactly pretend to hate one another if we are together the whole night. “Besides, there I can dance with you.”
I pull her away from the crowd and we walk up the road together. Once we’re out of sight of any guest Farren grabs my hand, and our fingers stay interlocked as we climb down the cliffs. Even in the approaching dusk, this is so much easier without rain and worry.
We slip into the cave, a coolness wrapping around us. I associate the feeling with safety, the little family we’ve become. Nity raises her head as we enter but lays back down when she notices it’s just us. I like how relaxed she is around me nowadays. Dare I say fond.
The Feylings’ lights are on a little early, a multicolored glow that makes Farren’s shawl glint and her dress sparkle.
“Will you dance with me?” I ask.
“Do you even like dancing?”
“I like the idea of holding you in my arms.”
She blushes as she steps closer to me. “I’m not very good,” she admits.
“I’m not saying I’m any good. Or I won’t step on your toes.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“No one will find us here,” I whisper.
We sway to nothing more than the beating of our hearts.
“You aren’t wearing your glasses,” I note. Curiosity has gripped me the last few hours realizing how much I like knowing she’s wearing my lenses, that she didn’t shatter my gift the moment I gave it.
She touches her face like she’s forgotten too. Then smirks at me. “Well, you said girls in glasses weren’t your type.”
“And you believed me? I thought you’d realize by now how I was lying through my teeth, trying to describe the opposite of you, so you wouldn’t see right through me.”
“Oh,” she says simply.
“I do like how I can see your eyebrows better without your glasses.”
“My eyebrows?” she asks, aghast. Her fingers draw to her dark brows as if she must verify they still exist.
“You shaming what I find attractive about you, Walsh?”
“No, I’m just—”
“Surprised?”
“Appalled.”
I laugh. “Then I won’t mention anything else.”
“Wait, no.” I can see the curiosity enter her eyes; those eyebrows bend for a moment. “What else do you like about me?”
“You first.” My heart stops at the idea of her noting anything.
Her head tilts. “This freckle by your jaw.”
“The freckle by my jaw?”
“Yes, this freckle really does it for me.” She points.
I nod, playing into her game. “You must have it bad to note my freckles.”
“Just that one freckle, Murphy.” She holds up her index finger, places it gently against my jaw, right by my ear. She’s practically cupping my face. “Just the one.”
“Ahh, so without this one freckle?”
She slowly shakes her head. But her teasing eyes tell a different story. One of a similar desire I know is spinning in mine.
“Well, I’ll have to make sure it’s never covered then, won’t I?”
I can read everything I need to know in her eyes and the way they crinkle around the edges now. Like when her eyebrows pull into a more serious expression a moment later.
“I like the sound of your voice,” she whispers. “Not just the sound,” she corrects. “I like talking with you.”
I still, the irony of it all pressing in. “And for so long I couldn’t talk to you.”
“I know.” Her head tucks nicely on top of my shoulder. “It’s funny how I used to think you were quiet. And now when you are, I realize how much that’s changed. You’re … you’re my best friend.”
My heart skips, literally skips. Best friend. It’s a simple phrase. But when it encapsulates Farren, it’s everything. Her kindness, her passions, her beauty, the way she’s my best friend as well as the girl I love.
“Is that weird?” she asks. Because of course, right as she’s saying she likes to talk to me, I’ve gone silent.
“That means I’m your type,” I whisper.
She flushes. “Look who was paying attention.”
“When it’s about you I pay attention to everything. Because you’re my best friend too.”
Since she’s in heels, I lean up to kiss her.
She’s as eager as I am. My hands meet the metal on her back, the metal I’ve spent hours crafting for her.
Watching her in it and now feeling the copper under my palms as I hold her does something to my brain.
Want turns to need and we’re both kissing more frantically than ever before.
I shift my hands down to her waist. She shifts hers up to my hair.
It’s unimaginable I can have her. That I can experience happiness like this. And maybe we don’t need to be scared. That together it’s all possible.
A rustling makes us break apart. “Did you hear—?” Farren starts.
We turn and behind us in the cavern sits Hort, munching on gold. The sound of his golden scale grating across the cavern floor like a dog with a bone.
“Hort!” I holler.
Hort’s head perks up and tilts at my call, unabashed and curious.
Farren’s laughing. “Do you know how often he’s been doing this?”
“No idea.” More than twice now by the way we’ve caught him lounging and chewing the metal like an overgrown hatchling. I look up at Nity, throwing up my hands. “And you’re still letting him do this?”
Nity’s large eyes slide to us before closing again, a look of He’s your responsibility, not mine.
My heart hurts looking at him. He was probably weaned off of silver too early.
Enough to produce his metal coat, but not enough to grow into what his healthy natural size should be.
Maybe all these golden snacks explain why he’s grown so well these weeks.
A blessing if that means my father will not want him, if he won’t have to race again.
Hort decides my call wasn’t dire enough to be listened to and returns to munching. I look back at Farren, a laugh caught in my throat. I’m about to tell her we might just want to let him eat it, when behind her something catches my eye. Movement at the entrance of the cave, like a shadow shifting.
Before I say or do anything, Nity rises from her slumber.
Zilar, Electrum, and Oria awaken at the commotion and one snort from Nity and the three scurry behind their mother.
Farren yips, initiating hide-and-seek, and the hatchlings—already scared—dive into the tunnels of the back wall, completely out of sight.
“Something’s here,” I warn.
Farren stiffens and scans. “Can you see what?”
Nity growls, a low throaty noise that rattles our surroundings. Her focus pulls to the entrance of the cave and Farren joins me, peering into the fading light. I ready myself for my father, his cold voice. I’ll have to fight him. I’ll have to get Nity and the hatchlings out to the sky.
A few more shadows shift and suddenly before us emerge ten men, all clad in black masks and metaled weapons. Fear spikes through me. Not my father. Not my father at all.
Farren’s expressed her worst-case scenario enough times for me to know who stands in front of us though. I know poachers when I see them, and I know they are only after one thing—the dragons behind me.