I think about how when Parry’s parents were killed from an animal attack on a full moon, they became a staple in the Harbor’s history.
Don’t go camping at Edge of the World on a full moon. You’ll die like Mr. & Mrs. DiNapoli.
I believe bad fates reoccur here. Animal attacks happen, and this one just happened on a perfect full-moon day to spin a tale.
But Parry—he never believed a pack of wolves ripped their tent and killed them. He’s convinced they were murdered from a stranger passing through. A stabbing in the dark. And what better place to hide a killing than a town full of ghost stories and shitty detective work?
He was fifteen back then.
His older brother became his guardian, and Enzo DiNapoli even took over their parents’ job. Cemetery caretakers. Enzo is the local grave digger, and I’ve rarely seen him. He only comes out at night.
Parry only comes out during the day.
Our eyes meet again, and his soften a fraction. “Just…don’t get close.” He manages to speak without the stutter this time. Glass shards still scatter the floorboards.
Realization hits me. “Jesus, Parry, I’m not going to get cursed touching some broken glass.” I shuffle closer and squat across from him.
“You don’t know that.” He’s quick to scoop more glass in a rag. “This place has a way of making a one-in-a-million freak accident become a sure thing.”
Impossibly true.
And definitely true.
I’m not that confident a piece of glass won’t impale my heart. But when you grow up in Mistpoint Harbor, you learn quickly not to let that kind of fear consume you.
“I know I’m not indestructible, just like no one here is,” I say like he’s forgetting I grew up in this town too. “Don’t baby me just because I’m back.”
He holds my gaze with more softness.
Like I said, he’s Colt’s friend. Where you found one, you’d eventually find the other. They even sailed together on the high school team. But in a way, Parry has always been like a third brother to me.
When I knew I was bisexual, Parry was the first person I told. I love Parry, and he’s the kind of person that’d take your secret to the grave.
At fourteen, I wasn’t really ready to come out to anyone else.
Now, though, I’m fairly sure most people in town know I’m bi.
Parry says quietly with that natural smokiness, “I’m not babying you.” He stops for a beat, then sighs heavily. “Okay, maybe I am. But fuck, Zo, you left. And you’ve avoided getting cursed this far.” He throws the last bit of glass in the tray.
I see where this is going and my stomach sinks. “Parry—”
We both stand up, and he cuts me off quickly. “I asked you back here, Zoey. Me. And you fucking came.” He laughs like he still can’t believe his own eyes. “So if anything bad happens to you…”
“It won’t be your fault.”
His green eyes pierce me. “We both know that’s not true. Just do me a favor and try not to get into trouble.” He sets the tray of glass on the bar. Shards clink like windchimes.
“Avoid broken mirrors, black cats, and walking under ladders, got it,” I joke.
“I’m serious, Zo.”
I know.
Agreeing to staying out of trouble in Mistpoint is basically agreeing to be locked in a bedroom. I can’t do that.
That’s not why I came home, but I don’t want Parry to regret asking me here.
I leave my suitcase on the ground and take a seat on the barstool. “You didn’t force me home, Parry. I could have said no. Hell, I could have told you to go fuck yourself.”
He grabs a fresh glass from the shelf. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did.”
“Because you’re nice.”
“Because I’m used to it from Durands. Your brother tells me to go fuck myself on a daily basis.”
Brian.
My oldest brother is also Parry’s boss. And the only reason Parry continues to work at The Drunk Pelican is his greatest trait and his biggest flaw.
Loyalty.
“You still hate Brian?” I ask.
“Some things don’t change in six years.” His brows rise. “Some things are everlasting.” He pours me a beer from the draft. “Like my hatred for Brian. Like the busted jukebox only playing Frank Sinatra.”
“Like the rot on this roof,” I add.
“Like your blonde hair.” He eyes my hair as he slides me the beer. Maybe I should’ve dyed my hair blue or green to be less predictable.
I focus a little harder on his scar. It looks healed. Can’t be new. “Some things have changed.”
Our gazes meet in a heavy beat.
“It was a sailing accident,” he breathes in a panty-dropping voice. But I know he’s not trying to drop my green Yoda panties. For one, Parry DiNapoli is gay.
For another, Colt would kill him.
I cup the glass of beer. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”
He smiles softly. “It’s in the fucking museum now, Zo. There’s no hiding anything. Plus, everyone here is nosy as hell—that hasn’t changed.”
“You mean we don’t live in Gossip Harbor?” I feign shock.
He lets out a small laugh. “Exactly.” After a beat, he continues, “Colt and I were sailing in the Spring Royal Regatta, and he got ca-ca-cauught up in the lines.” He clears his throat, then says, “I cut him free from the rope, and the wind just picked up at the worst time. I got knocked back and my knife…” He waves at his face.
I want to say I’m so sorry. But something else leaves my lips. Something worse. “You’re still hot.”
He laughs. Those full-bodied kind of laughs that shake the ground.
I try hard not to smile, already feeling the guilt spring up from being completely and utterly tactless. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
He can’t stop laughing. He braces his fist on the bar, bent over. “You definitely did.”
“I have no tact,” I remind him and take a large swig of the beer to stop my word vomit. To be honest, I just don’t do well with those somber situations. Where people need condolences and hugs. I don’t know how to be that person. No one ever gave me those tools. And here, in Mistpoint, it feels like everyone goes through so much shit that the words I’m so sorry don’t seem to carry any weight. So many of us are fucked up here.
Parry holds a stitch at his side, trying to gather himself. “Thank you for that. I needed it.”
“No one’s told you you’re still hot?” I wonder into a deeper frown.
He cocks his head in thought. “Let’s just say my ego has been chipped away these past few years.”
“Let me guess, Brian is doing the chipping?”
“He calls me Frankenstein about fifteen times a day, and I’ve told that asshole Frankenstein is the doctor, not the monster. Jackass still doesn’t care.”
“Sounds like he’s still pissed you taught Colt how to sail.” Parry even introduced Colt to the sailing team. If Mitch Montague—the guy who died from the ‘84 regatta accident—is any indication, sailing is dangerous here.
But some people were born to be on the water.