Witchy Sour(9)

“According to her friends, my mother wanted to raise me without the knowledge of magic,” he said. “The rumors say your mother might have felt similarly to mine.”

I set the tea kettle on the stove, not sure if I should be flattered or nervous that I was considered important enough to spur rumors. Reaching above the cupboard, I removed a small vial of Liquid Lighter. After adding a few drops onto the burner, a perfectly blue flame sprouted up and began to boil the kettle. “If both your parents were magic, why would they want to keep it a secret from you?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. My parents were killed when I was young, so I only have hearsay to piece their stories together, and I’ve heard conflicting facts. It doesn’t help that I didn’t hear these stories until my adult years. As a child, I was placed in an orphanage. I never did get to ask them why they wanted to raise me away from here, and by the time I reconnected with the magical society, so much time had passed that it was hard to track down friends of my parents to find out information.”

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry.” I dropped the piece of bread I was holding, missing the toaster by a mile. “I shouldn’t have asked. I had no idea.”

“How could you? We just met.” With a tight smile, Liam reached over and picked up the bread from the counter. He dropped it into the toaster and pushed the lever down. “It was a long time ago. I really don’t mind talking about it.”

“How did you find out about this place?”

“Well, things started to happen when I turned sixteen. As you can imagine, growing up in an orphanage wasn’t easy. Things didn’t get any easier when I entered the foster care system.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“I think that maybe you can.” Liam’s eyes turned knowingly in my direction. “Some of the families I had were...well, they didn’t like me much, and they didn’t hesitate to let me know it. Then there were the other ones. The ones where it wasn’t what they said, but what they didn’t say. Sometimes indifference stings more than outright meanness. Never having someone at a school event. Never having a parent who cared enough to stop by for career day. Never having someone to ask why I was upset, or sad, or angry. That can hurt more than sharp words.”

I opened the fridge behind the bar. I was grateful he couldn’t see my ears as they turned a bright shade of red. His words hit home more than I cared to admit, though how he could’ve guessed was another question entirely. I kept my head stuck in the fridge for a bit longer than necessary.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, pulling the eggs out and setting them next to the stove. “I wouldn’t wish that sort of life on anyone.”

“I survived. Even so, I was an emotional kid. When I turned sixteen, things changed. I’d get angry. The others would say something hurtful, and then shortly after, something bad would happen to them. Once, one of my ‘brothers’ blamed me for taking the family car and going for a joyride. Of course I didn’t do it, but his parents didn’t believe me. They punished me and gave their kid the keys to the car. He drove it to the movie theater and when he came out, the car was totaled. A semi-truck had run into it—a freak accident. Nobody was hurt, thankfully, but still.”

“That sounds a little like a coincidence,” I said hesitantly.

“I agree.” He looked over at the toaster as the bread popped up. “But then it happened more and more. The family didn’t let me go to prom. That year, the prom center had a sewage leak that ruined the entire event. They didn’t let me play sports one afternoon, and a football came flying through the window the next day. They locked me in my room without supper, and the power went out and spoiled all the contents of their fridge. And that was just the beginning.”

“How long did it take you to put two and two together?”

“A long, long time,” he said. “I gave myself every reason to believe it was a coincidence, used every rationalization technique I could muster. It wasn’t until my junior year of college that I started digging into my history.”

I picked up the toast and set it on the plate, then turned to crack eggs over the pan. “That must have been a shock.”

“You cannot imagine,” he said. Then he hesitated and gave a shy smile. “Well, you probably can.”

I laughed. “I’ve been here a few weeks, and I’m still not sure I believe it.”

A friendly silence took over as I finished cooking breakfast and passed it to him.

“There you go. I’ll stop asking questions and let you eat,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”