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“My room—”
“Is gone. I turned it into my office after you left.”
I try and ignore the pain that flares in my chest. Can’t blame him—I remind myself. I chose to leave.
That’s on me.
“So you’re kicking me out?”
“That’s not how I see it. You have a place to go: the bus station. And I’m happy to buy your ticket if you’re strapped for cash.”
“How sweet of you,” I say sharply and jump off the stool. I almost ask him if he knows anything about Colt—but that’s doubtful. My brothers have their own tempestuous history with each other.
I grab my suitcase. “I don’t need your cash. I’ll find another place in Mistpoint to stay.”
His scowl darkens. “None of the inns will house a Durand. That hasn’t fucking changed since you’ve been gone.”
I could call Parry, but if I have any hope of mending this rift between me and Brian, then I shouldn’t be asking favors from Parry DiNapoli right now. It’ll only stir the pot, and I need this boil to come to a low simmer.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell Brian. “Thanks for nothing.”
I leave him in the pub. Hoping he’ll come rushing out. Telling me to hold on! Wait! Something that a big brother would do to protect his little sister. But then again, I grew up being bullied by a lot of people in this town and there was only one person who’d ever come to my defense.
And it was never my brothers.
CHAPTER 4
Zoey Durand
Ten Years Ago
Age 14
There has to be some sort of mistake. I stare at my course schedule with wide eyes. The dreaded D word stares back at me. I didn’t sign up for drama. In fact, I remember picking my top choices for electives. Drama did not make the cut. Not even close.
I wanted an elective where I could sit in the back of the classroom and disappear into the wall. Be invisible.
Drama is the antithesis of invisible.
So how the fuck did I get put in this class?
It’s what I want to say to the lady in the school office, but I don’t think that’ll help my cause. While she chats on the phone, I rock on the balls of my feet impatiently and regrip the long stick of my black umbrella. First period is Drama 101. If I don’t get this sorted out pronto—I’m going to be late for class.
First day of high school.
First day at Mistpoint High.
And I’m already seconds from screwing up my one goal: blend in.
Just…blend.
It really can’t be that hard.
Elementary and middle school, I skated by with only a few hallway pushes and shoves. Sure, in fourth grade Macie Byrne tripped me in the cafeteria, and my tray of mushed carrots and a hockey puck hamburger went sailing. Everyone laughed.
Didn’t want that disgusting food anyway.
Oh, and there was that one time in seventh grade where Aiden Gray sat behind me in class and stuck gum in my hair.
I needed a haircut. Anyway…
Up until (possibly) today, I blended pretty well. All things considered. And I had a friend back then. Now Vittoria is gone. The Romanos made a surprise move to Milwaukee last month, taking my only friend with them. Leaving me to face this town and ninth grade with no friendly companion.
I’m on my own.
Mrs. Shields keeps chattering away on the school’s landline, pretending like I’m not right here. Her fire-engine red raincoat squeaks as her arms shift. Her hair is twisted in a stylish top-knot, and she bites on the end of her pencil.
Maybe I’m blending too well.
I clear my throat.
She shoots me a nasty look and holds up a manicured finger. “One minute. This is an important call, honey.” She swivels around in her chair, back turned to me.
Great.
I blow out a nervous, tensed breath. A Mistpoint High sky blue and white pennant flag hangs proudly on the wall. A picture of Mistpoint’s mascot, the Seagull, rests on the front desk. He’s hoisting a Go Mistpoint! sign during a football game.
Brian played for the team growing up, and surprisingly, he said he enjoyed it.
Maybe it was just a good, healthy way to expel his aggression. He bought me a Mistpoint Seagulls T-shirt to commemorate my voyage into high school. I think he was trying to bolster my “school spirit”—but being a part of the spirit squad doesn’t work into my blending in plan.
The phone clicks loudly, and Mrs. Shields spins around, a fake smile plastered to her face. “Now how can I help you, honey?”
I slide my schedule on the desk. “I’m not supposed to be in drama. Is there any way I can get this changed?”
She examines the paper intently. “Let’s see if we can sort this out.” Her lips slowly downturn. “Zoey Durand?”
I suck in a breath. “Yeah, that’s me.”
She purses her lips and slides the paper back. “I can’t help you.”
