Page 1 of With September

Prologue

September

I am standingin the middle of campus on my first day of college, looking around me at the skyscrapers, the architecture, and the people bustling about, and I cannot believe I am here. Making it into the art program at the most sought-after art school in New York was unreal. My parents tried to take the joy away from me, but I couldn’t let them. I did this on my own.

I grew up in West Palm Beach, Florida, surrounded by snobs, elites, and old money. I mixed and mingled with politicians, judges, and some of Hollywood's most elite, but I never felt like I fit in. My parents are the old-money ones, family history draped in genealogy trees of hard work and perseverance. Lineages are stamped and put into books to trace the line as far back as it will go, and I still never saw myself as one of them.

My mom is beautiful, simply put. She is tall, elegant, well-spoken and as ladylike as a senator's wife, only she has a knife in her back pocket for backstabbing. Her family made their money in gold and then diamonds. I won’t bore you with the details of how they got started, but it is something my maternal grandparents are extremely proud of, and they should be. They carved out a niche for themselves, which has served them well.

My stoic, pensive, and ever-serious father, is blatant and curt. I don’t think I have ever seen him smile, even when he likes a joke. His family made their money in oil. They bought some during the gold rush, built their houses on it and one day, while trying to build a well, they hit a pipe and spilled oil. Well, the rest is history. Their match was arranged and that is the life they sought for me. Heck, even their names drip money. Persephonie Hilt and Louis Bettancourt. Yeah. Tell me about it.

Which is why I always needed help figuring out how my name became September. Nothing about it screams wealthy, right? Not to mention, I look nothing like either of them. My mom's hair is brown with streaks of blonde, sleek and never out of place. Her skin is alabaster and flawless. My father's hair is more tanned, but his features are keen and strong. And then there is me—red hair, freckles, and plain with hazel eyes.

Then, one day, when I was ten, one of the kids at school, in an attempt to make me cry, laughed as she told me my dad was not my dad. I screamed, told her she was a liar, and cried the entire way home. When I arrived, my mom was waiting for me, hand on her always disapproving hip and a look of censure on her face because I made her look bad once again. My father walked in right as I was telling her what happened, and this is the one time I have ever seen her look horrified and afraid.

Instead of addressing me, my father looked at her and asked her how anyone knew. I watched and listened in amazement at how she blamed it on wine at a lady's function, and he yelled about how it made him look like less of a man. Neither of them talked to me, asked me how I was feeling, explained it to me, or anything. It was like what I just learned didn’t rock my world on its axis either. That was the day I realized I was alone in this world, and I needed to take care of myself.

Six months ago, I was deciding what I wanted to do with my life and fighting between doing what my parents wanted andpossibly gaining their acceptance or going for my dream and being happy. The first step in making that choice was submitting my DNA to this database and crossing my fingers that something showed up.

I spent a few months not sure what I was hoping for, but then on the day of my senior prom, when my mom didn’t bother to show up since I didn't go with the boy she chose, and I was left at home to dress and drive myself, my choice was made.

Six weeks before it was time to start college, I received a letter with the results. Not only did information about my bio dad show up, but it also showed me I had sisters. Eight to be exact. Talk about mind-blowing. So, I reached out to them. Turns out two of them live in Boston and offered me to stay with them for the summer before going off to school. How could I resist that?

I lied and told my parents they were allowing all art students to come to campus early to start preparing for the art exhibit. I knew they wouldn’t check to ensure I was telling the truth, although secretly, I had hoped for some level of interest. You know, prove they loved me, but nothing.

So, I packed everything I knew I couldn't live without because I was never returning. I had most of it sent to the school and the rest I took to May’s house. I alternated between her and June since they didn't live far apart, and off and on, the rest of them came down to meet me. It was amazing to feel a part of something.

Pops came down with his Hailey (that’s what I call my bio dad), and to have him hug me and be genuinely happy to see me and a bit emotional, to be honest, it was…well let’s just say we shared a tissue box.

Standing outside, taking in my new life, I can’t help but think how sad I am that I can’t share it with my parents.

Chapter One

September

I have always beenhard on myself, self-critical, and unable to give myself grace. That is a symptom of being raised with people who see only what is lacking in you.

I have been staring at the painting I am planning to submit to the school art council for approval for hours. Even though I know it is done and there is nothing I could add to it to improve it, I can't bring myself to wrap it up and prepare it for submission.

When unsure about something, I seethe, ruminate, and check out everything around me. I admit this is not smart, but that is my process.

“Are you just going to look at it?” My first reaction is to shiver due to the proximity of the voice, but then, literally milliseconds after, I remember to jump because I am startled. My body falls off the stool, bumping into the easel. I watch in horror when my paint cans teeter at the same time as my painting begins to fall. Shocked and panicked, I gasped, putting my hands to my mouth when an angel on paint-saving wings, Trevor, the TA in my history of art class, catches my painting right before it becomes color soup.

“Oh my gosh. Thank you so much.” I say to him, my heart hammering in my chest because all of this was just too much for a couple of seconds it took to happen.

“It was my pleasure, September.” Holy heck, he knows my name. I mean, he is the TA in my class, but he has to have how many students between my class and the other history class? But he remembers my name. I should be looking at him, right? I should be talking to him or… heck, I don’t know. I have zero experience with this. Did I mention I have been crushing on him since the first day of class? I have always been shy, and age seems to have done nothing to change that. Hence, I am standing before the most gorgeous guy I have ever seen and looking down. “Are you going to look at me, Red?” his finger lifts my chin.

Realizing what he called me, I put my hand on my hip and scowled at him because I hated that nickname, and he was one to talk. “Really? You wanna call me Red? Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

There is something to be said for a smile making a man sexier than he already is. On the first day of class, I walked in, head down, checking my satchel and ensuring I had everything in it. I tripped at least five times before the deepest, hottest voice I have ever heard washed over me. I looked up, and I swear I thought I had jumped back like thirty years because the man in front of me looked just like a younger, well, much younger Kenneth Branagh. Did I mention I love Kenneth Branagh?

He stood before the projector, his red hair and light skin mimicking mine. My eyes tracked his every move; he has been my spank bank man ever since.

Trevor throws his head back and laughs; this throaty, Adam's apple-bobbing laugh sends goosebumps up my arms. “There she goes, " he says, looking me square in the eyes. Now, do youwant to tell me what you're thinking?” I turn to look back at my painting and frown.

“I’m just not sure if this is good enough. It seems too…radical for the exhibit, don’t you think?” I can see him assessing it, and I want him to like it more than I thought I would. I see his critical dissection much like how he does in class when he leads the lesson, which makes me nervous.

“Why do you think that?” he asks. Shrugging my shoulders, I try to articulate what I am thinking.

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