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9

Mor

“There aren’t any buttons?”

Bo stares at the iPhone I’m holding like I’m an alien wielding Star Trek tech.

I don’t have any interest in children.

Taking over the raising of Ame was enough for me.

And she was a relatively easy person to deal with.

But after that, I felt good to go on the child-rearing.

Not particularly for me.

But now I have this monster standing beside me who has missed the last seventeen years of the world.

And I can’t help but feel like I have a toddler who needs to have the simplest concepts explained to him.

I remind myself that’s not right.

Bo is a grown man.

He just doesn’t know what cell phones are exactly.

At least not the most modern version.

And when his eyebrows shoot up in wonder when I use mine to pay for our bagels, that’s not naivete on his part.

That is just a man who has never seen Apple Pay before.

He is not a child. You don’t have to mother him.

You just need to explain a few things that he missed.

“Nope. The tech geniuses of the world have figured out how to make touch screens.” I swipe through a few things and open up a couple of apps, just a preview.

“It may seem daunting, but you’ll pick up on how to use a smartphone in no time.”

He looks doubtful, like a confused puppy.

I guide Bo to an empty picnic table.

One of the sturdier-looking ones.

He’s a big man. Even still, he is easily able to fold his body into the seat.

“How old are you?” I ask without considering if the question might be rude.

“Do you mean before the statue incident?”

“Yes. I’m guessing your aging was frozen during the curse.”

He grunts an acknowledgment.

“I’m twenty-three.”

Wow.

He should be forty years old.

Bo should be ten years my senior; instead, he is seven years my junior.

That’s so odd to think about.

Also, he seems to carry himself with more reservation than the twenty-three-year-old men I’ve encountered.

No cocky swagger or smirk of the youth.

But I guess being trapped for over a decade and a half will change a person.

Or maybe he was this way before he was frozen.

“Did you attend Ramla?”

I believe the university has been around for longer than seventeen years.

Hopefully, if he earned a degree, it’s in a subject that has not changed much over the past few years.

If he studied computer science, then he’s got a lot of catching up to do.

“No.” The word isn’t harsh, but it also doesn’t leave a door open for more questioning.

His eyes are on the scarred wood of the table in front of us, and I watch as he digs a thumbnail into a crack.

With his fingers pressed together as they are, I spy no sign of the webbing that I noticed earlier.

If we were friendly, I might ask to see his hands.

I am interested in the way his body interpreted his lineage.

If he’s a monster, then that means he has more than one mythic type in his blood.

And it seems like one of his is a water creature.

But I have no idea what exact mixture would make the form that he wore when he shifted.

The form I saw in that metal statue.

“Did you go to college?” Bo asks his question without glancing up at me.

“I did. I got my undergrad in history, and I earned a master’s in library science. Specifically in archival studies. I wanted to make sure I could properly care for old books.”

“That’s impressive.”

I don’t hear any sarcasm in his voice.

No mockery. But he also still won’t look at me.

Schooling must be a sensitive subject.

My mind goes back to the dilapidated trailer.

Maybe Bo didn’t have the money to attend college.

I’m not sure what the scholarship situation is like at Ramla, but I would hope that they would have grants set aside for mythics in need.

Although, he is from seventeen years ago, and I would say that Folk Haven still has outdated views on monsters.

Was there ever a time when monsters weren’t allowed to attend the university?

That would be a good question to ask Levi or Moira.

Mary Jo—owner of Mary Jo’s Bagels—calls out our order from the window of her food truck.

When I make to stand, Bo waves for me to stay in my seat, and he quickly hops up to retrieve our food.

When he returns, there’s a twist to his brow that almost looks like confusion.

I study our bagels, not seeing anything off about them.

“Is something wrong with the food?” I ask.

“No …” He settles in front of me, eyes flicking back and forth between his meal and the truck.

“It’s only that there was no food truck in Folk Haven. Not that I remember. Not what feels like … a day ago.” His fingers fiddle with the paper in the basket that our food came in.

“This is going to happen a lot, isn’t it? I’m going to keep seeing things that weren’t in the town that I knew.” He heaves a massive sigh.

“I wonder if this place will ever feel like the one I left.”

“Was there any place in particular that you used to like to go to?”

Bo takes his time to think over my question, chewing on his bagel all the while.

I follow suit, enjoying the sweetness of the cinnamon raisin melding with the savory cream cheese.

“I don’t get out much,” he admits sheepishly.

“But I go to Martin’s Alley to bowl sometimes. There’s a hot-dog stand just outside it. Has a special on Tuesdays, two for one …” He clears his throat.

“And the movie theater. Like to go sometimes.”

“I don’t know about the first two. They might be gone, sorry. But if you’re talking about the single-screen theater off Second Street, it’s definitely still open.”

If I hoped that one out of three would be enough to soothe the guy, then my hopes are dashed.

Cobalt flickers in the corner of my eye.

Why can’t I properly shield myself from him?

I don’t go around bragging, but I’m a pretty powerful witch.

Townsfolk still talk about the emotion-bubble obstacle I created for Galen’s Gauntlet two years ago.

That was some talented magic that I doubt another witch in this town could pull off.

The bubbles that, when popped, forced competitors to deal with an onslaught of a certain feeling was my own invention and a contribution I made to earn some goodwill from the local coven.

All this to say, when putting in intentional effort, I should be able to fully block the monster’s grid from my sight, like I do most days with everyone else.

But his aura keeps popping up.

Bo looks despondent as he methodically finishes off what I know to be an extremely delicious bagel.

I want to fix this, but I don’t know how.

I’m not the joy-bringer in my family.

Anthony makes people laugh.

Broderick asks the right questions.

Ame is simply soothing to be around.

But I’m not my siblings.

“What can I do, Bo?” I abandon my bagel to reach across the table and place my hand on his forearm, wanting him to at least meet my eyes instead of staring dejectedly at the tabletop.

His gaze flicks up, sky-blue eyes meeting and holding mine.

“Please,” I press, “tell me what you need.”