Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
"I waited where you left me. Not in place, but in love."
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The door slammed behind us, rattling the piss-poor hinges. Whole room smelled like damp socks, sweat, and whatever abomination Cameron tried to microwave last week—garlic bread fused with lager, probably still growing spores in the bin.
He didn't even bother with finesse. Bag hit the floor with a thud, shoes kicked across the linoleum. Then he collapsed face-first into his mattress, groaning like a dying animal.
"I need a priest," he mumbled into the pillow. Then he flipped over, eyes wide, sweaty fringe stuck to his forehead. "Nah, fuck a priest. I need a padded room. Actual padded cell. What the fuck just happened tonight?"
I shrugged my coat off, tossed it over the chair already drowning in dirty hoodies, textbooks, and crisp packets. My head was spinning, not drunk, not sober—just noise. Static. Eight years of silence colliding with one dinner. My body was exhausted, but my brain was sprinting laps like it had swallowed cocaine.
Cameron suddenly flipped over, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes manic. He looked like he'd seen God and lost the fight.
"That was her?" He jabbed a finger at me, spitting the words like an accusation. "Tell me right now. That was Renna bloody Lancaster. The girl went all Shakespeare about in Senior two? The one you said smelled like strawberries and had a voice like..." He waved his hands, struggling. "...like Xanax wrapped in silk or some shite?"
I snorted, lying back on my bed. "I never said silk. Or Xanax."
"Aye, whatever," he shot back, rolling his eyes. "Point is, you undersold her. Grossly undersold. White dress, glowing skin—Jesus Christ, I thought the ceiling would open and angels would pipe her in with trumpets. Who the fuck dresses like that for shepherd's pie? Tell me."
I smirked at the ceiling, but didn't give him the satisfaction of words.
That just wound him up further. He shot off the bed, pacing the room, pulling drawers open like he'd lost his sanity in one of them. His desk was chaos—papers, empty cans, laptop half-open with porn tabs still hiding in the background, half a Mars bar fossilizing next to the mouse.
He spun, hair sticking everywhere, and jabbed me again. "Swear to God, I thought she was a fever dream when I first clocked her in the library. Sitting all curled up, hiding her face like some elf dodging predators. And now? Turns out she's your Renna? Your fucking childhood sweetheart?"
I dragged my shirt over my head, tossed it into the corner with the laundry mountain. "Yep."
He froze mid-rant, laptop cord dangling from his hand. "Fuck me. I called her the Girl from Taured."
That did it. I burst out laughing, clutching my stomach. "You actually did, idiot. You said she looked like she slipped through a wormhole."
"'Cause she does!" he shouted, hurling the cord onto the desk. "She's not human, mate. She's some Olympian goddess pretending to eat potatoes. And you sat there across from her like it was Tuesday. Like it was fuck all. Meanwhile, I'm over here having a religious awakening over your ma's custard tart."
