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...
"Very soon you will smile and say, 'God,this is more than what I prayed for'"
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Renna’s definition of peace and quiet lasted roughly twenty five minutes.
And yes, I counted.
Twenty five, because the first five were spent narrating my life. She went through every single photo Cameron and I took in London, snorting like a dying seal each time Cameron’s face came up.
“Why’s he dressed like a traffic cone?” she’d said, squinting at the red blazer. “He looks like a human hazard sign.”
She wasn’t wrong. Cameron had looked like the physical embodiment of heartburn.
Then, she turned on me for not visiting her uncle. Apparently, the great Maximillian Valor Hawthorne had been in London too, and I “betrayed him by ignoring family bonds.”
For seven straight minutes, she lectured me on how much Max would’ve loved to see me, how he’d probably even let me drive his race car or whatever the hell rich people do to express affection.
I didn’t argue. Mostly because she had brownie crumbs on her chin and I couldn’t take her seriously.
Then came the wardrobe massacre.
I don’t know what ancient crime I committed in a past life, but it must’ve been serious, because I was definitely paying for it tonight. She tore through my shirts like a raccoon on espresso, pulled out my grey hoodie, my flannel, my black quarter-zip—the good ones—and stuffed them into the now emptied brownie bag.
Every time I opened my mouth to object, she’d throw me that look—chin up, lashes batting, voice dripping with fake sincerity. “I’m borrowing, Aadam. Not stealing. You can have them back when I’m dead.”
Then came the five minutes of chaos in the kitchen. Cameron had decided to cook a good midnight meal. She’d gone in there to “help.” She came out crying because of the onions and accused him of “emotional abuse by vegetable.”
When she finally gave up her Gordon Ramsay fantasy, she grabbed my guitar, strummed two chords like she was summoning demons, and announced, “Your guitar’s out of tune.”
Now she was sprawled across my lap like a bored cat, her legs slung over one armrest, her back pressed against the other. She had one arm draped over my shoulder, hair tickling my neck, while I tried to keep my eyes on the screen.
The glow of my monitor spilled over both of us, graphs and numbers blurring in front of my burning eyes. A hundred open tabs, rows and rows of data and the promise of hell if I didn’t get this stuff submitted by morning.
Renna, naturally, didn’t care.
Her fingertip hovered dangerously close to my left eye. I could see it in my peripheral vision, wiggling like it had its own sense of purpose.
