Mom sips coffee, unbothered by how uncomfortable she’s making everyone—namely me. “Well, that’s good. It can be a lengthy drive to town and long distance like that can be hard.”
I need us to be done with chitchat. Mom made her awkward long-distance point and isn’t inspired by James’s lack of response. He’s all-consumed with his eggs like they are the only thing in the room. But then Momkeepsgoing.
“Farren isn’t into all that,” Mom says matter-of-fact, but also proud. Like me not being normal is something to be treasured, to be sought after. Nothing about the confusing ways I feel would be desired though.
God, I’m embarrassed, because I’m pretty sure any normal girl would be into “all that,” meaning boys or girls. Yet I’m into no one. I used to think maybe I’m just not a people person, but the thing is—I am. I like people, and talking, and romance. These past weeks, I’ve consumed every dragon training session with Jeffrey with questions about his proposal to Shelly. I’ve lived vicariously through their love story for years.
I want to date and marry someone one day, have sex, become a mom. I want that future and still it seems unattainable. A part of it, a large part, is that I don’t think I get it. And by it, I mean how to even develop sexual feelings. Like I can note someone is attractive, but I’ve never been attractedto anyone. An extroverted romantic who has never even had a crush. It sounds wrong.
Dad bustles into the room, throwing his coat over his chair. “Farren, we’ve got a six-one-two at the Murphy tracks. We’ll head out as soon as we eat.”
I nod. He’s my hero for interrupting this awful breakfast.
He scoops up his plate. “So, what’s the topic of conversation today?”
Mom smiles. “James was telling us about his dating life.”
As Dad’s eyes sparkle in amusement and he lets out a little excited “Oh?” James chokes on his eggs. For the next thirty seconds, the boy spouts into a coughing fit. Dad pats his back. I grab a glass of water and push it in front of him. He sips only to keep coughing.
“You okay?” my parents ask in interloping intervals.
“Yes,” James finally wheezes, clearly not fine, but at least speaking again.
“Good. We wouldn’t want to be known as the family that saved your life and then killed you two weeks later.” Dad laughs. Mom laughs.
They are both terrible. This is their fault. Mom always initiates girl talk with Shelly and me. I just didn’t think she would try it on someone like James Murphy. Discussing his dating life. My god.
“That reminds me. Your parents were very clear about you taking your silver.” Dad sobers up the room.
“I have the hot water ready for you,” Mom adds. I was wondering why a kettle was in the way of my Monday egg making. We aren’t big morning tea drinkers.
“I… um…” James holds up his cast. “I actually don’t need it. The arm is healing well. Unnaturally well, the doctors say.”
I busy myself eating my eggs, not meeting anyone’s eyes. In this one respect I have a secret that is solely mine. My parents, and especially James, must never know.
“Your parents were insistent I not let you miss a day. You’ll want your arm to keep healing fast,” Dad implores.
I look up to watch James’s face. It seems like he wants the complete opposite. But that can’t be right.
“Farren, get James a cup of hot water,” Mom requests.
I stand, used to being helpful. Not used to being James’s maid.
James springs from the table. “No, I’ll do it.”
Since I’m the seat closest to the stove I beat James to the kettle. He beats me to the handle though, picking it up before I can.
I stand back and cross my arms. And I wait. One beat. Two. Surely, he’ll just ask. If we were alone, I think he’d have some snide remark, demand the whereabouts of the mugs. But he’s back to normal James, the one I knew before I saved him. Who wouldn’t have dared lean into my personal space and challenge me totry my worst. I don’t understand these two or three sides of him. Stoic and calm and then arrogant and self-assured.
“Mugs are in the cabinet to your right,” I relent.
He sucks in a breath of relief and grabs a ceramic one and pours a half cup of hot water. Then quickly, like it’s some illegal drug and not what wealthy people use even when they have a simple headache, James empties a small vial of silver powder into the water. With the smallest sizzle the metal drifts to the bottom. James’s fingers twitch over the steam, crafting the silver, mixing it so the particles dissolve properly. One dose of that size could cure the flu, could mend a bruise, or treat an aching back. But it would take a full silver-plated scale ground down to powder to do it. A week of my father’s salary at the bottom of that cup in order to heal an arm that I know for a fact will heal just fine.
I don’t even realize I’m leaning in until James shifts. “Checking my work?”
“No.” I leap back. “Obviously not.”
“You sure?”
