“What’s got you so moody, Cupcake?”

I threw a mock scowl in Isabelle’s direction. “I’m not moody.”

She picked up a piece of driftwood, studying it for a moment. I could never tell what it was she looked for in these pieces, something invisible to most that told her it could be transformed into some work of art. “You’re worse than a PMSing girl watching The Notebook.”

I let out a bark of laughter. “Way to hit me where it hurts.”

Isabelle peered up from the wood. “Something’s wrong. You’ve been quieter than usual. And you didn’t even laugh when Hunter tripped over his shoelaces for the eightieth time yesterday.”

I studied her for a moment, the girl who was so wise beyond her years and seemed to see things no one else could. I eased down on a log, staring out at the water. “I got into a fight with my dad.”

“About?” Isabelle took the open spot next to me.

“I don’t want to come back and take over the business right away. I mean, I love Anchor, The Catch, that’s my future. But I want to do and see other things first.”

Isabelle turned the piece of driftwood over and over in her hands. “You’re allowed to want more from your life than what others think you should have.” I glanced over to see her studying the nicks and grooves in the stick. “You don’t have to fit into their mold.”

“Neither do you.”

I gave my head a swift shake, trying to clear the memory that still had a hold of me. The images that reminded me just how much I had lost when I crashed that SUV. My hands fisted around the steering wheel, the leather creaking. I released my hold, letting my arms fall to my sides.

Sitting here was only making things worse. Before long, my mind would come up with every worst-case scenario possible. Every brutal accusation Isabelle could possibly sling at me. I moved before I could think of all the reasons not to, pushing open my door and sliding out. I beeped the locks as I strode towards the worn back entrance.

Fishing the keys my brother had given me out of my pocket, I unlocked the door and stepped through. The bar was silent, but the lights were on. Knowing the Isabelle from a decade ago, I’d been expecting loud, thumping music as she danced around the space, getting it ready for the day’s customers, not the pristine quiet that greeted me.

“Isabelle?” I couldn’t bring myself to call her “Bell,” it felt weird, like a foreign name on my tongue, for someone I’d once known almost better than myself. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to call her “Trouble” and see that stark pain in her eyes again.