Love and other cursed th.., p.1
Love & Other Cursed Things, page 1
Contents
About the Book
1. Zoey Durand
2. Zoey Durand
3. Zoey Durand
4. Zoey Durand
5. Zoey Durand
6. October Brambilla
7. October Brambilla
8. Zoey Durand
9. October Brambilla
10. Zoey Durand
11. Zoey Durand
12. Zoey Durand
13. October Brambilla
14. Zoey Durand
15. Zoey Durand
16. October Brambilla
17. Zoey Durand
18. Zoey Durand
19. October Brambilla
20. Zoey Durand
21. Zoey Durand
22. October Brambilla
23. Zoey Durand
24. Zoey Durand
25. Zoey Durand
26. October Brambilla
27. Zoey Durand
28. Zoey Durand
29. October Brambilla
30. Zoey Durand
31. October Brambilla
32. Zoey Durand
33. Zoey Durand
34. October Brambilla
Epilogue
A Note from the Authors
Also by Krista & Becca
About the Authors
Acknowledgments
About the Book
Never fall in love in a cursed town.
Tourists flock to Mistpoint Harbor to snap photos of the famous lighthouse, browse the Museum of Curses & Curiosities, and claim their “I survived the Most Cursed Town in America!” pin. But for me, growing up in Mistpoint Harbor wasn’t a vacation. Not when locals have a deep-seated loathing for my family.
They hate my dad.
They hate my older brothers.
And they hate me--Zoey Durand, the girl who shrunk in high school at the taunts and jeers. Like a sad, wilted flower. If it wasn't for October Brambilla, life would've been a real living hell.
But the moment I could leave my family's disgraced legacy and this cursed town behind, I did.
And I vowed to never return.
Until the phone call. My brother is in trouble, and I’d risk just about anything for my family. Even a curse. Even running into October Brambilla, the daughter of the wealthiest, most revered family in all of Mistpoint Harbor.
She is town royalty.
I'm town scum.
She's a goddess and ice queen.
I just want in-and-out.
But she's my total weakness. And she's already been cursed. She wants me gone before I meet the same misfortune. The more she pushes, the more my heart is willing to go up against a stupid old town legend. But my head is telling me to run.
No one returns to Mistpoint Harbor once they leave, and the longer I stay, the more I realize why.
Love & Other Cursed Things Copyright © 2022 by K.B. Ritchie
First Edition - Digital
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, resemblance to events or persons, living or dead, are coincidental and originate from the authors’ imagination and are used fictitiously.
Cover Photo: © Lindee Robinson Photography
Cover design by Twin Cove Designs
www.kbritchie.com
CHAPTER 1
Zoey Durand
People always say you can’t outrun a curse, but I’ve been running for six years. So far misfortune hasn’t caught up and dragged me down yet.
But today, I finally stop running.
No one ever really returns to Mistpoint Harbor once they leave. Hell, even I would keep my ass firmly planted in Chicago if I had a choice. Only a handful of reasons could get me to board a plane back home.
When Parry called me last night, all the air suctioned out of my apartment. An invisible rope wrapped around my waist and started yanking and yanking and yanking. Pulling me home.
I have to return.
As I heave a beat-up suitcase out of a Kia’s trunk, the phrase no turning back now is cemented in my core and practically tattooed to my ass, and I realize the Uber driver is standing a foot away, hypnotized by the town sign.
Welcome to Mistpoint Harbor. The Most Cursed Town in America!
I tug, and as the suitcase wheels thunk hard on the cement, he wakes from his stupor and combs a hand through his tousled, chestnut-brown hair.
“Hey, do you know someone who lives in Mistpoint Harbor?” He jabs a thumb towards the cobblestoned pathway. No cars allowed down the main walk of the tiny town center. “I heard the whole ‘curse’ thing is bullshit to drive up tourism. But never had a first-hand account.”
I shake my head. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m just passing through.” I don’t love lying, but I better get used to it. I can’t exactly tell everyone the reason I’m back. As Parry said, keep this shit on the low. I mean it, Zoey. Don’t tell Brian or October.
My brother, Brian, is easy to lie to.
But even trying to deceive October is like trying to fool Zoltar. You know, the robotic fortuneteller in the 80s movie Big. October is neither robotic nor psychic, but she can stare through me with unblinking, soul-eating eyes, and I unravel into a fucking mess.
She’s a lot prettier than a robotic dude with a mustache too.
Like a diamond-studded glamazon. Wonder Woman in the flesh.
A Wonder Woman who I can’t lie to. I can’t remember what her gold rope is called: an honesty lasso, a fuck-you, give-me-the-truth weapon? Honestly, I only saw the superhero movie because Wonder Woman is hot—my geek card is mostly swiped in Star Wars lore. But Mistpoint Harbor’s very own Wonder Woman will probably strangle me with the fuck-you, liar rope, so I have that to look forward to.
I try to exhale a mountain of apprehension. The Uber driver frowns at the sign, then back at me. Crestfallen at my declaration. “Well, damn. Thought I’d finally figured it all out.”
I wish I could tell him the real truth. There’s nothing to figure out. It’s a legend—you either believe or don’t—but no one will tell you where to put your faith.
Some people who live in Mistpoint think just like him—it’s all bullshit. A legend created generations ago to attract tourists to the harbor. Others, like me, don’t spit in the face of fate. Some things can’t be properly explained.
Like how Mistpoint has more accidents, more missing persons, deaths, and all-around misfortune than any other port in the country. And yet, it takes a whole unearthly energy to uproot yourself from this town just to leave. I got out when I was eighteen. I almost didn’t go.
Shit, I was a breath away from staying.
Sometimes I wish I did. This town has a magnetic pull, an energy that I don’t understand. Brian, my oldest brother, used to tell me that being born here is like adding another root to the family tree. We’re tangled underneath the earth with the generations before us. Only way to truly leave is to hack yourself away. And when you do that, you leave the ground rotted. You leave the tree decaying.
My stomach churns, and I shake that image from my head.
My hand tightens on the handle of my suitcase. “Thanks for the ride,” I tell the Uber driver.
He closes the trunk. “Don’t forget to rate me. I’m a five-stars kinda guy.” He gives me a wink—and I can’t tell if it’s friendly or flirty. And one thing is for certain, I don’t need to be in a relationship right now. Not even a flirtationship.
Nothing’s worse than falling in love in a cursed town.
So I avoid eye contact and mumble out a noncommittal, “Yeah, definitely.”
He lingers for a second, and I’m quick to casually pull out my cell. I try to manifest my destiny. The one that says leave me alone!
Sure enough, I hear the slight bang of a car door. When I glance back up, the car is peeling away.
I sigh heavily. What the fuck am I doing? I’m back home for zero-point-five seconds and I’m already on edge. Living here is like trying to play whack-a-mole with fate—and I’m the kind of girl that doesn’t like to go down with any ship. I will jump overboard and swim my way to shore before an ocean tries to drown me.
People in town probably think I left to avoid a curse.
As the legend goes, live here long enough and misfortune befalls.
The curse never scared me growing up. Ultimately, I had a very different reason for leaving, but avoiding a curse was like a little consolation prize that I don't take for granted. Being back here now, I feel the weight of the risk I'm taking. Six years. I've avoided a curse for six whole years. I can't forget that.
I’m getting in. Getting out.
I’ll do what I came here to do, and I won’t stay long enough to get fucked over by some generations’ old legend.
That’s the plan.
Let’s just hope fate doesn’t fuck with it.
CHAPTER 2
Zoey Durand
Two minutes. That’s all it takes for someone to spot me walking down the main path towards the old docks. As soon as the five-foot-nine girl does a double take, she doesn’t go about her day. No. She speeds up her pace towards me like she spotted prey, and I’m just that dumb rabbit caught doe-eyed in the forest.
Awesome.
I should have known that I’d receive an unwelcome party on my arrival. Thi s party of one has a name.
Amelia Roberts.
Reddish-brown hair in a neat fishtail braid, a J.Crew wardrobe, and perpetual snotty attitude—she’s made my life absolute hell since the ninth grade. The Roberts own The Mistpoint Harbor Historical Museum of Curses & Curiosities near the east side of town. A tourist hot spot in any season.
I had the unfortunate experience of working the ticket booth when I was in high school. But people treat Amelia and her family like royalty in this town. They ass-kiss to ensure the museum records their own families favorably.
Believe me, there’s a whole section on the Durands in that museum and none of it is kind. No amount of ass kissing could change that.
It made me an easy target growing up.
And right now, that bullseye is growing hotter and angrier on my chest. Screw it. She’s going to have to chase me. I grip the handle of my suitcase and bolt towards the docks.
“Zoey Durand!” Her shrill voice calls behind me.
Cold March wind whips against my cheeks. My grin spreads. And then I hear a snap. The wheel of my battered suitcase breaks off from the uneven cobblestone. The corner of the hard case skids across the ground.
“Fuck,” I groan, slowing to a stop in pathetic defeat.
Amelia lands behind me as I turn around. She’s not breaking a sweat. Barely panting.
I remember she’s literally Miss Mistpoint. She won the contest the year I left, and it’s not even some small-town beauty pageant. No. It’s a fucking expert-level treasure hunt that the elders in the town put together. Classic Nancy Drew shit, and Amelia won in record time.
Under the cold overcast, coastal sky, we have a thirty-second staring contest. Birds chirp and fog rolls over the lake not far from our stand-off, but I know better than to flee again.
I blink.
Shit.
“You can’t be here,” Amelia says, breaking the tense silence. She crosses her arms over her cashmere sweater.
My stomach twists. I didn’t expect anything kind to leave her lips, but I wish those words weren’t the first thing I heard since I’ve been home.
“Take that off,” Amelia suddenly says in disgust.
“What?” I frown, confused until I realize she’s fixated on my bracelet.
“Take. It. Off.”
Don’t worry, my jewelry isn’t cursed. Amelia is just wearing the identical bracelet. Translucent beads strung together; every purchase gives 50% to a marine wildlife charity. It’s become a basic bitch bracelet with about a billion Instagram ads, and I actually like it.
I make a noise. “You take it off.”
Amelia is taken aback by my courage. “Seriously?”
“Did I stammer?” I say roughly, and I can’t help but think October might be a little proud of me.
After a long, awkward beat, Amelia tugs her sleeve to hide her bracelet. Acting like the exchange never happened, she repeats, “You can’t be here.”
“Too late for that, Amelia,” I say. “I’m back.”
Her pink lips purse, and her eyes drop to the suitcase in my hand. She inhales a sharp, choked breath. “You’re planning on staying?” She looks mildly horrified.
Like big bad Zoey has come to wreak havoc on the town. Only I know she’s never seen me as a big baddie. Most people only relentlessly try to crush things smaller than them.
People are cruel that way.
And I know better than to think she’s worried that me staying here means I’m opening myself up to being cursed. Amelia couldn’t care less.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” I bend down and grab the orphaned wheel from the cobblestone.
She huffs. “You’re going to have to explain yourself to everyone in this town. If you think you can waltz back like nothing happened and we all embrace you with open arms—”
“No worries there, Amelia,” I cut her off. “I definitely don’t want to be embraced by your arms.” I rise to my feet, a good five inches shorter at five-foot-four. I try to tower.
“Stop hunching, Zoey.” I hear October back when we were just teenagers. “You know what you look like?”
“Short?”
“And like a frightened doe.”
“I am frightened.” Not of her. I was in awe of her. This cursed town with these gossiping, judgy people—that’s what scared me. Even if I was born here. Lived here all my life until I left.
“Frightened deer end up mounted on walls. You want to be mounted on someone’s wall, Zoey?”
“No.”
“Then stop hunching.” Her voice was hushed, icy breath, but her fingers were soft, warm. They skimmed my waist, slipped up my spine, traveled with gentleness along my shoulders. And before I knew it, I was standing straighter.
If only to reach her height.
Like I’m evoking the memory of Mistpoint’s Wonder Woman, Amelia’s eyes heat on me as she says, “October won’t want you here either.”
October won’t want you here either.
Those words are the equivalent of unsheathing a sword and sticking the point at my throat. I go stone cold, and my chest deflates at the mention of October. If the Roberts are royalty in Mistpoint, the Brambillas are gods.
October Brambilla was a goddess herself back in high school, and Amelia reminded me every day how lucky I was that someone like October would even dare give me a second of her prized attention.
How lucky I must be.
“You don’t know that,” I mutter weakly under my breath.
Amelia must hear because she says, “Did you lose brain cells in Cleveland?”
“Chicago,” I correct.
She ignores that. “October and I are best friends. Still best friends. I know her better than you ever did. Like I said, she won’t want you here.” She places her hands on her hips and appraises me slowly. Starting at my worn leather boots and up to my black turtleneck. “Save yourself the embarrassment, Zoey, and just leave now.”
My nose flares.
I’m not here for October. So even if she allegedly won’t want me here, it changes nothing. Other than blossoming hurt in my chest. But that feeling can be drowned out with a bottle of red and singing some 70s hits at the top of my lungs.
Right now I have neither liquid courage nor Stevie Nicks to help me through this. So I can’t stop the anger from bubbling. And there’s nothing and no one who will stop these words from coming.
“I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to say it,” I snap. “I’m not leaving. And if you have a fucking problem with that, Amelia, then you can go eat a bag of dicks.”
My anger carries my feet, and I turn around, headed back towards the docks. Leaving Miss Mistpoint in a stunned puddle.
Fuck, that felt good. I hardly ever stuck up for myself in high school. It was easier shrinking into the shadows than pushing back. But I wished for those words to leave my lips thousands of times.
Maybe not exactly those words…phrased so…ineloquently. Bag of dicks? Could’ve had a better punch, but hey, at least it was something.
Endorphins start pumping through me. I feel high, and I let that electric feeling carry me further and further through town. Seagulls squawk and fly towards the pier. The boardwalk along the docks is dotted with shops, bars, and restaurants. Further up the walk, multi-colored houses splatter across the cliffs, creating a picturesque landscape that many visitors love posting on Instagram. The fresh water is endless. Only boats visible in the horizon. But somewhere on the other side of the great lake is Canada.
