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...
"Can I have you, your touch at night, and your voice in the morning?
Can we travel to Paris, Munich, London, and fall in love over and over again in every city?
Can we have a future together one where we're happy, And never tired of each other?
Can I love you, with everything I've got, And for everyday we've left?
Can we have a love that no others will compare to, and everyone else lusts after?
Can I have all of this, With you and only you?"
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I don't know what love smells like, but if it were a fragrance, I think it'd be this bouquet of flowers sitting on my lap. A quiet explosion of soft pink tulips, creamy white ranunculus, blush garden roses, and those dainty baby's breath dots that feel like someone plucked bits of cloud and tucked them in just for me. There's even a sprig of eucalyptus, because of course he'd remember I once told him I liked that scent.
I haven't stopped glancing at them every thirty seconds like they've been handpicked from the Garden of Eden itself. They smell like softness, like something pastel and sacred, like him.
How dare he show up with flowers? Like actual, full-on, fancy first-date flowers? What does he think this is, a movie?
I flick the visor down and tilt it just enough so I can see the faint shimmer across my cheekbones. It's officially the "try-not-to-have-a-meltdown" mirror now.
The light's a bit harsh, and the sun's dipping lower, but I can still make out the sheen of my gloss. Dewy. Peachy. Kissable. Very much "Oh this? I just look like this always" energy.
Liar.
I've reapplied my lip gloss four times. Four! And no, it's not because the pigment's faded.
It's because every time I think about how he looked when he walked up to my front porch in a navy-blue shirt tucked into cream trousers like some kind of 'out of a dream boy next door' magazine model, with sleeves rolled just enough to show the veins on his forearms and that watch I know he only wears when he's trying-yeah, that's when the gloss melts off.
I think my body temperature skyrocketed to dangerous levels. Mama literally fanned herself at the door. She actually flirted. I'm not even joking!
I mean, who flirts with the boy your daughter is dating? If she had any less shame, she'd have offered him coffee and her hand in marriage. In that order.
