The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,518

of times I've snuck in through the service entrance, I can count on one hand.

My parents made dinner reservations at my favorite restaurant tonight, and I should've been ready by now. If I could make it to my room unseen, I could throw on a quick dress, pull my hair up, and they'll be none the wiser.

With a sweaty palm wrapped around my purse strap and my heart inching into my throat, I round the corner past the kitchen, trek through the carpeted dining room, and poke my head through the double doors leading into the foyer to ensure the coast is clear. I make it to the foot of the stairs when my mother clears her throat.

Glancing up, I see her standing at the top, her lithe arms folded and worry lines etched across her forehead, deep and furrowed as ever.

"Where have you been, Brighton?" she asks.

"Library," I answer, just like I practiced in the car on the drive home. "I lost track of time."

I climb the stairs, slow and easy, hoping she doesn't notice the slight, square-shaped protrusion along the left side of my ribcage. Holding her eyes like my life depends on it, I offer a smile. Casual. The confidence of a skilled liar, not that I speak from experience. This is all very new to me.

"Where are your books?" Her cool gaze moves to my small purse.

I glance down, pausing mid-step. "Oh. Must have left them in the car. That's what I get for being in a hurry."

My mother's gaze warms and she reaches for my cheek when I approach the top landing. A smile tinted with relief spreads across her thin lips.

"Well, you're home now. That's all that matters. Get cleaned up and meet us downstairs," she says. "Happy twenty-second birthday, my sweet girl."

"Thanks, Mom." I slip away from her and duck into my room at the end of the hall. As soon as I close the door and listen for the sound of her footsteps trailing down the stairs, I tear off my blouse and pad into the bathroom to examine my new "piece."

That's what they call it in the industry.

Peeling back the taped gauze, I study the small drawing sketched in black and blue ink, permanently drawn into my skin, the simple yet beautifully drawn butterfly.

I don't even know what it means—if it’s symbolic or it’s nothing more than a butterfly. Madden, the artist, made me promise not to ask what it meant, which I thought was strange. But stranger yet is the fact that I agreed.

Had I said no, I would’ve been left to my own devices, and I probably would’ve walked out of there with some cliché quote or word or worse … nothing at all.

Peeling out of today's clothes, I slip into a dimpled seersucker dress, white with pale blue stripes, and I twist my pale hair into a summery bun at my crown. I finish with earrings - platinum and diamond studs my parents got me on my tenth birthday - after "the incident." The family tragedy that marred our family history and sent my parents into a frenzied state of overprotection that’s yet to show any signs of letting up.

It’s truly a miracle they let me attend a college forty-five minutes away. I’m convinced that had to have been divine intervention.

I check my earrings, ensuring they’re secure. I'm typically selective about when I wear these, and I'm careful never to wear them around my mother, but tiptoeing around the past has done nothing but enslaved us to it. We can't free ourselves from that heinous night if we keep pretending we're over it. And we’ll never get over it when we haven't even processed it a decade later despite years of therapy.

I don't want to hurt my mother. I don't. I love her.

And I know she does everything with love in her heart ... but she has to let me go.

She can't keep treating me like a china doll, keeping me out of reach from anything and anyone who might possibly break me.

I'd love a good break.

Something to snap me in two.

Something that floods my veins with so much emotion, I become physically ill.

I'd love to step out of this protective bubble where I never have to worry about a thing, never have to want. Never have to need or worry or fear or miss out on any of life's grand opportunities.

That's not real life.

I want heartbreak.

I want a good cry.

I want to know what it feels like