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Before I climbed off the sailboat, I looked at Brian one last time. His glare was as intense as it is today. Accusatory. Like I fucked him over. Like I held power to make Zoey stay and instead I opened the door and kicked her out of the Harbor.
All I know is that Brian Durand used to hate my family more than he hated me. Until that day. After Zoey left, I became the number one Brambilla on his long shit list. And Brian, he’s just another cursed Durand in the history books.
Brian Durand
Cursed at Age 30
Sole Survivor of a car crash that killed three other former Mistpoint High football stars
Nine years have passed since the crash, and the town hasn’t recovered. Even though one of Sheriff Carmichael’s sons was behind the wheel, most of the town still blames Brian for the loss.
Zoey watches her brothers and Parry intently. I wonder if she’d rather join her family than be here with me and Amelia.
Without thinking, I splay my fingers over hers.
Her head jerks to me in surprise. Lips caught open.
I open my mouth, heart ascending to my throat. “I’m not forcing you to stay,” I whisper tensely. “If you’d rather be with your brothers—”
“No,” she cuts me off quickly. “Brian practically gave me a one-way ticket out of town. I’m definitely not welcome over there.”
“You’re not welcome over here either,” Amelia grumbles under her breath.
I shoot her a look, hoping Zoey didn’t hear.
Zoey is only focused on me. “And I don’t…I don’t want to leave you either.”
My heart is filling at a heady rate. She’s making me feel. I don’t deserve any love. I swallow an ascending lump, about to shift my hand away, but she clasps ours together. Her eyes ask, is this okay?
Yes.
What am I doing?
Zoey thinks I’m so strong, but I don’t have the strength to say no. I don’t want to say no.
I want her here.
Without thinking, I take her hand in mine. I hold her tighter. Feeling the beat of my heart thump madly, passionately.
Anna Roberts returns to the microphone. The band plays a low melodic tune, and everyone’s whispers fade into the wind.
Anna addresses the beach. “For those that have been cursed since the last ceremony, I ask you to stand.” With a motion of her hand, certain individuals rise.
My heart freezes over. Quickly, I let go of Zoey. Cold slices through me in painless, numb waves. And I rise to my feet, feeling Zoey’s eyes on me. She’s the only one looking. Everyone else stares at Colt Durand.
He’s standing and staring off at the lake, unaffected by the attention. Almost somewhere else. Haunted. Lost.
I notice a handful of others on their feet. A girl in a Mistpoint High sweatshirt grips tight to her bejeweled crown. Her hair is fixed in two high buns, and a thick bandage hides her entire left cheek.
Tina Ricci
Cursed at Age 18
Scarred from burning her face on a curling iron
On the other side of the beach, an older man is standing, his grayed beard contrasting his dark-brown skin. He owns the local bookstore, selling just as many trinkets as he does novels.
Edgar Johnson
Cursed at Age 71
Developed hay fever and permanently lost his sense of smell
The wind grows louder, and Anna speaks over the howl, “Today, we recognize those that have seen misfortune, and we welcome them to proudly wear their crowns.” She waves us on.
Edgar and Tina place their crowns on their heads, no hesitation.
My palms sweat. Colt locks eyes with me, and something passes between us. An understanding. An acceptance.
I’m a Brambilla.
He’s a Durand.
Yet, here we are. The same place. The same outcome.
This town curses us all.
And just like that, we rest our heavy crowns on our heads.
My ears ring, barely registering the change in song. The band plays a more uplifting tune, and Anna Roberts tells us to approach the old wire fence that the lake has nearly washed away. The fence sections off the beach from a dangerous rock wall where boulders slid into the lake. Now water crashes against the slick rocks and sprays the air with mist.
A safety hazard, the town decreed decades ago.
Their solution? Install this rinky-dink, cheap fence to stop reckless teenagers and little kids from climbing the rocks and drowning.
Hundreds of locks cling to the wire fence with desperation, like they’re trying not to drift away themselves. After the short trek there, I find my lock near the bottom of the fence in seconds. I can’t miss the bright pink metal. Black ribbons are still knotted, some frayed. Others are almost unspooled from the soft crashing waves.
Boots ankle-deep in ice-cold lake water, I fit my small key in the lock. And for the first time since I placed it on this fence when I was eighteen, I unlock it.
It’s supposed to be a moment of unburdening, but I will never unburden myself from what happened.
