1. Wren
WREN
“This better be the last box,” Carson, my brother, complains as he drops the large cardboard box on top of the pile of other boxes.
“For a professional hockey player, you’re sounding awfully winded,” I tell him with a smirk lifting one side of my lips. “Might need to work on your stamina some more.”
He makes a noise of outrage and offense. “I have plenty of stamina; just ask any of our puck bunnies.” He wags his eyebrows suggestively.
“Eww.” Grabbing a cushion from the couch, I chuck it at him. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life!”
He shrugs, clutching the cushion to his chest as he grins at me, showing off perfect white teeth.
My brother has that charming boy-next-door look going for him.
Messy blond hair, rich blue eyes, and dimples when he smiles that make me want to stab him.
It’s no surprise that the girls are all over him.
Still doesn’t mean I want to hear about it, though. “Your loss.”
Shaking my head, I return to taking in my new apartment.
My supposed home for the next year. The smell is still there.
The one I immediately noticed as soon as I opened the door because it was so offensive to my nostrils.
The overpowering stench of bleach and synthetic lavender—like something a realtor would spray before an open house.
It looks like one too: an open house. Everything is brand new and staged.
Cold and lacking in any life. It’s as far from the warmth and coziness of my old apartment as one can get.
My brother whistles, coming to stand beside me as he takes in the room too. “Mother really let her creativity shine.”
I snort. “Like she ever set foot in the actual apartment.”
He makes a noise of agreement before wandering further into the space.
His eyes roam over the white walls, white sofa, and white carpet.
White is everywhere you look. Only the clinically insane are allergic to color.
Even watching reels online of people’s “neutral aesthetic” in their homes makes me shiver with revulsion.
Why are people so offended by color? Seriously, color is life.
Warmth. Comfort at the end of a grueling day.
I’m going to go crazy if I have to live in this white box for an entire year.
It’s all beautiful, of course. Top-end appliances. Luxury furniture. Expensive artwork.
Only the best for the Winslows—even the spare one.
“I mean, it’s not bad,” Carson says absently, taking it all in. “Some of this stuff is probably nicer than what I have at my apartment.”
Yeah, the difference being that he picked everything in his apartment, and anything he didn’t pick was because he didn’t care enough to do it himself.
Me? I wasn’t consulted on a single thing in this apartment.
Not that I would expect to be. It is my mother, after all.
When has she ever asked for my opinion or cared about what I had to say?
“I guess,” is the best response I can give. The longer I’m here, the more I can feel the despair settling over me.
This isn’t what I want.
This is so far from what I want that my lungs burn with the need to scream about how unfair life is.
Which makes me sound like the entitled Winslow most people think I am.
Why else would I turn up my nose at being handed the top-floor unit of a ‘prestigious’ brownstone?
I’m a college student. Most students have no other choice but to suck it up in the dorms or crappy student accommodation.
Yet, I’m fortunate enough to be handed this beautiful, spacious apartment where I get to live all by myself. No rent. No bills.
The problem is that it’s not me.
This is not where I belong.
This apartment. This town. This college.
I want my old life back. The one where I have hot chocolate movie nights with my best friend, Dylan.
One where I spend my free hours in the library because it’s quiet and I don’t have to worry about people recognizing me—or worse, wanting something from me.
One where I go to sleep and wake up in an apartment that is mine.
That has my rickety second-hand furniture that I picked up at various yard sales, and my mismatched lamps.
Windows that let in a frigid breeze in the dead of winter, and a kaleidoscope of color everywhere you looked—pictures, blankets, cushions, plants.
It was far from perfect, but it was mine.
I picked it. I decorated it. I paid the rent with money I earned working at the college sports bar.
My mother didn’t have a say in a single thing to do with it.
Unlike this Scandinavian museum of an apartment.
Pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I move to stand at the wall of tall windows. The view out of them is as depressing as inside the apartment.
“I know it’s not BSU, but Valehurst isn’t that bad,” my brother says in a poor attempt to make me feel better. Nothing he says would help, anyway.
He moves to stand beside me, both of us looking out over the Valehurst campus—home to legacy and elitism. It’s everything I despise about our world. Everything I ran away from…only to get dragged right back as soon as it suited my parents.
I shouldn’t have been so naive as to believe my parents would be content to let me live my own life.
I should have realized when my brother chose to play for the Serpents hockey team instead of owning it that my parents would be deliberating on his replacement.
Deciding who else could run the family business.
Sighing wearily, I don’t bother responding to my brother’s words. What is there to say? Perhaps he enjoyed his time at Valehurst, but I already know I won’t. And not only because I’m essentially here against my will.
Three distinct faces flash behind my eyes, sending a shiver sliding down my spine. Nerves make my hands tremble, and I have to clench my fists to hide the tell-tale sign from my brother. Although he’d likely just misconstrue it for nerves about tomorrow, anyway.
He doesn’t know the true reason.
No one does.
Except them.
“Anyway,” my brother begins, clearing his throat as he turns to face me. “I should get going. Do you need a hand with anything before I do?”
I shake my head, giving him a small smile. It’s all I can muster right now. I’m drained, exhausted, and I just want to crawl into bed and cry at the fucked-up reality that is my life.
“I’m good.”
“Alright.” He pulls me in for an infamous big brother hug, squeezing me until I swear I feel some ribs crack. “Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
He makes his way toward the door, but before he disappears through it, he pauses, turning to face me one final time. “I’m sorry,” he says, genuine regret scored into the lines of his face. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
“It isn’t your fault either,” I tell him, meaning it. It would be easy to blame it all on Carson. If he’d just followed the path my parents laid out for him, then I wouldn’t be here. The expectation wouldn’t have fallen on me instead.
But how can I resent him for following his dream?
“You know Mom and Dad. They always get their way.”
“Yeah.” He nods, but there’s something buried in his eyes as he holds my gaze. “And you’ve always let them.”
The apartment feels colder and more isolating once he’s gone. The walls seem even more stark white than they did a moment ago, and even the air has a newfound chill to it.
“Ugh, I hate this place.”
With my stomach grumbling, I stalk toward the kitchen. More offensive white assaults my eyes, broken only by the injection of the occasional stainless-steel appliance.
I run my fingers along the cold marble countertop and open random kitchen cupboards just to give my hands something to do.
I ignore the large envelope propped against the backsplash, stamped with the Valehurst College crest and my name scrawled across the front in my mother’s neat, legible handwriting.
Presumably, it contains a welcome pack and class schedule—all things I’m not yet ready to face.
Numb inside, I pull on the handle for the fridge. It opens with a hiss, and my bad mood gets instantly worse when I see what’s inside. It’s been fully stocked…with low-calorie organic meals, green juices, and enough kale, spinach, and beetroot that I could set up my own stall at the Sunday market.
And absolutely none of it is stuff that I eat.
But of course, why would that matter?
Swallowing the anger that bubbles up in my throat, I close the fridge and walk away without touching anything.
With nothing else to do, I decide to tackle the stack of boxes since I’m eventually going to need to find my toothbrush and pajamas.
As I move toward them, I scrape the strands of auburn hair that have fallen out of my messy bun off my face and rework my hair tie so it securely holds everything in place.
Starting with the smallest box, I pop open the lid and carefully pull out the first item.
A photo frame. It contains a photo of me and Dylan the night of the Championship game last season.
We’re standing in the middle of the rink, heads close together as I take a selfie of us.
Dylan is wearing the bermuda blue and silver jersey of the Steelhawks, her hair damp with sweat, and smiling wider than I’ve ever seen her.
I’m smiling too. It was the last time I didn’t have to force it.
The last time the twinkle in my eye was real.
The last night of ignorant bliss I had.
The following day, my parents obliterated the small amount of peace I’d managed to obtain for myself at BSU.
Staring down at myself, it’s hard to swallow. Hard to even remember that girl I was—happy and carefree. The girl who didn’t let her demons beat her down.
Every day since, I feel like I’ve been chipped away at. Carved out. Hollowed.