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 to miss somebody so hard my chest tightens and I can’t breathe.
I want the head rush of falling deeply and irrevocably in love with someone and the titillating fear of knowing you could lose them if you’re not careful.
There is beauty in those things. There’s beauty in joy and hope and fear and sadness. I learned that from one of my philosophy professors my freshman year at college. He said that none of them work properly without their opposite counterparts and you can’t fully experience one without the other.
Can we ever truly know joy if we’ve never experienced sadness? I think not, but I have no way of knowing for sure since my parents treat me like I'm sixteen and not twenty-two.
They don't see a young woman when they look at me. They see their only daughter, their youngest child who was almost taken from them in an unimaginably tragic crime years ago.
I grab a pair of white linen flats from my closet and change out purses. A moment later, I'm gliding down the stairs, my palm slicking against the polished, antique walnut banister, as my mother is waiting by the door. Her eyes light when she sees me, which means she hasn't yet noticed the earrings.
"You look beautiful, Brighton," she says, placing her hand on the small of my back and guiding me outside. “Radiant as ever.”
My father’s driver, Edward, stands outside the rear passenger door of our Petra gold Rolls-Royce. He tips his hat to us, lifting his white-gloved hand to the brim and nodding, and then gets the door.
"Happy birthday, Birdie-girl." My father looks up from his phone and offers a giant grin. He hasn't called me Birdie-girl in forever and it makes me laugh, makes me forget about this moment for a while. "How does it feel to be twenty-two?" He asks me the way a parent would ask their small child how it feels to turn six. "You measure yourself today? You grow at all?" he teases me.
Same jokes.
Different year.
I laugh to appease him.
Mom climbs in next, the two of them sandwiching me, which almost feels like a metaphor for my life these last twelve years.
The sting from my fresh tattoo zings me when my father shifts in his seat and his suited arm brushes against my side.
A moment later, the Rolls-Royce shifts gears and Edward leads us away from the Iron Palace - my secret nickname for the Karrington Estate, and off to L'Azule we go.
"I wish your brothers were here," Mom says as we ride in the quiet backseat. The scent of new leather fills my lungs, and I realize Dad must have traded this in recently. He only ever keeps a vehicle for six months. Maybe seven. He loves everything to be new and still scented like it was driven off the showroom floor that day.
It’s a frivolous habit if you ask me.
“Me too,” I say.
"Did they call you today to wish you a happy birthday?" she asks.
"Of course." I don't tell her they texted me instead of calling because that's what people do these days. She still insists a phone call is proper protocol and all in good taste.
Edward slows us to a stop at a red light, and when I glance out the window, I spot bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic.
Mom pushes a breath through her nose as she makes the same discovery, but my father's attention has been redirected back to his phone, making him none the wiser. Always working, that one. He doesn’t care for the concept of after hours.
Digging through my purse for something to do, I finger through the cards in my wallet in search of my license.
I'm going to order a drink tonight. It won't be my first, but it'll be my first time drinking in front of my parents. I don't imagine it'll thrill either of them, but it isn't either of their styles to cause a scene.
And besides, I intend on ordering a glass of champagne, and champagne is for celebrating. It's not like I'll be knocking back Jack and Cokes like I did with the guys at college. Turns out pre-med students at Rothschild University party just as hard as they study.
This is weird ...
I go through my cards two more times. My navy-blue debit card is there. My campus health club card. The access card to the pool at my parents’ country club.
But no license.
Panic in the form of a cold sweat blankets me like a sheet of ice, but a moment later, the prickle of sweat dots the top of my forehead and I'm finding it absolutely stifling in here.
"Dad, can you get your window, please?" I ask, fanning myself.
"Brighton, what is it?" Mom's words are rushed, as if she expects the worst, and she reaches for the back of the seat in front of her, bracing herself as if she's going to ask Edward to pull over.
"Nothing," I lie. "Just got hot all of a sudden. But I'm fine."
"You sure?" Dad asks.
I give them both smiles and enthusiastic nods. My entire life I’ve been responsible, prepared. I never lose things. I always have what I need—especially important things like proper identification. But I can’t help feeling like a part of me is missing.
Because it is.
And I remember now that it must be on the other side of town—at Madd Inkk.
I must have left it there earlier today when I was filling out paperwork. The girl at the desk needed to compare it to the information on the forms, and she must have forgotten to give it back after Madden called for me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I decide to stop mentally chastising myself for being so forgetful, and I remind myself I can head over there first thing in the morning and get it back. I'm not sure when they open, but I remember the owner saying he lived in the apartment above the studio. I'll stop by on my way to barre and grab it.
No big deal.
I'm panicking for nothing.
But the unsettled swirls in my stomach linger, and when I picture the striking features of the brooding Adonis who tattooed me today, they only intensify.
My heart skips - literally skips - when I sense the ghost of his fingertips against my ribcage, as if they've imprinted there. The way he touched me as he worked, so gentle, so careful and tender, was unexpected.
I'm not normally a fan of being treated with proverbial kid gloves, but for some crazy reason, when Madden was so delicate with me, I didn't mind at all. And it's funny. My father has always preached to me about staying away from "boys with fast cars and wicked glints in their eyes" and all of that. He always said those were the heartbreakers. And maybe he's right. A man like Madden could smash my heart into a million tiny shards until it's impossible to piece back together again.