Not that anyone is looking.

I haven’t seen my parents since Thanksgiving, and my phone hasn’t rang in a week. I’m pretty sure I don’t exist anymore, which is fine by me. The whole point of me coming here is to escape for a while—to reset and recenter myself in a way that I couldn’t in New York. I don’t need anyone questioning where I am or why I’m there. It’s none of their business.

“You think I’m mental, don’t you?” Freya asks.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “But I’ve also never liked someone enough to travel to another borough to see them, let alone another continent, so I can’t really put myself in your shoes or begin to understand why you’d go to frozen hell for some guy. Unless he’s, like, rich and famous, but still… probably not worth it.”

Status and money only get you so far in life. I learned that the hard way.

“He’s just… funny, y’know? A right laugh. And he’s cute! And smart! And he always has gum!”

“Well, when you bring gum into the equation…”

“Ugh!” She throws her hands up again, and the car almost veers into a field of sheep. “You sound just like my mum! Who, by the way, wasn’t all that concerned when Holly got arrested for flashing a bunch of tourists while on the London Eye.”

“Does your mom even know about that?”

“I don’t think so, but still! Holly can do all these crazy things? Emma can move to the States? Ollie can travel around the world? Eva can skip school? Aggie can… well, Aggie can’t do much because she’s nine, but you get the point! Why can’t I do this?”

How am I supposed to keep track of all the Dunbars? There’s a tribe of them.

“No one’s saying you can’t,” I tell her. “But other than Archie, is there anything in Antarctica that interests you? Isn’t it all labs and environmental research down there? You’re a drama major.”

“I like penguins.”

“So go to the zoo?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Her knuckles turn white. She’s squeezing the life out of the steering wheel. I’m pretty sure she’s going to drive us into the ravine.

I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive, admiring the dark, gloomy Scottish night. Rain drizzles down from the sky, dampening the landscape. It’s the middle of winter, but somehow everything is still green.

Freya turns down a narrow road that’s weathered down to gravel. We pass a few farmhouses before we come to the VILLAGE OF MAIREAD sign.

It’s quintessential. Exactly what I imagine every sleepy European village looks like. A century-old church. Cobbled roads. Buildings made of stone. A high street of charming little shops with colorful doors and awnings.