The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,527

life’s a game. One achievement after the next.

College? Check.

Fiancé? Check.

Marriage? Next.

Babies? Soon.

“All right, let’s see it,” Cara says, joining the herd.

Cara and Laurel have only met a handful of times over the past couple of years, but I’ve yet to determine if the two of them like each other or if they’re just doing that thing where you’re trying to keep the peace and impress your in-laws and saving your true opinions for later, when you can vent to your friends about how you really feel.

The two of them couldn’t be more different.

Laurel grew up in privilege, the daughter of Apple and Microsoft executives. She attended Brown and summered in Europe all throughout her childhood. Cara is from Pennsylvania, the daughter of a factory worker and a schoolteacher. She put herself through college and met my brother when she was working as a drug rep, pitching a prescription nasal spray that had recently hit the pharmaceutical market. Cara’s a hustler. Laurel is not. But so far, they're cordial and that’s all anyone could ask for, really.

In a way, I’m kind of jealous of her.

At least she knows what she wants.

And she has options.

For me, dating was never allowed and not going to med school was never an option. It was an implied requirement, and given my chemistry and biology GPA, it’s like I was bred to do this. Minus the passion and actually wanting to do it.

My mother returns to my other side, her gaze immediately falling to the near-empty champagne flute in my hands.

“Sweetheart, you might want to pace yourself,” she says. “We don’t want you making yourself sick.”

I hide my smirk in another sip. She must truly believe this is my first time.

“You worry too much,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

She hesitates, lingering as she watches me take another drink.

Eben meets my gaze from across the table and gives me a wink when he sees the concern baking into our mother’s expression.

He knows.

In fact, while I’m close with my brothers, I’m closest with him. I’ve always told him everything. And he’s always kept my secrets like the good, loyal brother he is.

Laurel links her arm in his and steals his attention as his future father-in-law speaks to them. Beside me, Graeme and Cara are still holding hands, but now her forehead rests against his shoulder. They’re as inseparable as they’ve always been. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them go longer than a minute without touching in some capacity.

My mother returns to my father’s side and he slips his hand around the small of her Versace-clad waist.

Everyone has someone but me.

Everyone has a life—or at least a future—but me.

I’m not going to sit here and feel sorry for myself. I don’t believe in pity parties. But seeing everyone so happy while I’m stuck treading water rustles something deep inside of me, unsettling the muck and mire I’ve been ignoring my whole life.

In an instant, I find it difficult to breathe. It doesn’t matter how deep of a breath I take, it’s not enough. The room grows hotter by the second and warmth intensifies beneath the surface of my skin.

Placing my flute in front of my plate, I gather my clutch and excuse myself to find a restroom. I need a breather. I need a second to myself.

As I pass between tables and patrons, I conclude that everyone here is stuffy and conservative and boring. Everything is blush and beige and silver and everyone is humble bragging and one-upping each other under the guise of having an actual conversation.

On my way to the ladies’ room, I pass an open door by the kitchen and catch a glimpse of a few of the tuxedo-clad staff members horsing around.

They laugh, leaning against a counter casually. While I only see them for a handful of seconds, I pick up on an easiness about them, a kind I’ve never experienced.

I want that.

I want to know what it’s like to be unburdened by my last name, by societal and familial expectations, even if only for a moment.

Skipping the ladies’ room, I make a beeline for the front door and stand outside the entrance until my lungs fill with the tepid summer evening air.

Taking a seat on a nearby marble bench surrounded by red peony bushes, I watch as Bentleys and Aston-Martins and Rolls-Royces pull up to the valet stand, and couples dressed to the nines step out and head inside to make their dinner reservations.

I'm sure there are some who only dream of a