Page 14 of Unbroken Rules (Rules 3)

“Where’s everyone?” I glance around the silent house.

“Your dad went to drive your brother to a friend’s house. Maika’s with him,” Kendrick explains.

“And my mom?”

“She’s downstairs, looking for something to get that out.” Will points up. I follow his motion and gasp at the sight of what I assume to be pancake mix on the ceiling.

“How did you even… No, you know what? I don’t want to know.” I walk to the fridge to pour myself a glass of juice.

“Hey, Canada, where’s your boyfriend?” Will asks.

Kendrick glances around, looking for Haze. “Yeah, I was kind of looking forward to Aunt Lauren freaking out.”

“We’ve decided to pretend he just arrived today. He’s going to come knocking on the door in a little while. If I hear a word from either of you, you’re dead, got it?”

“Why all the trouble?” Will questions. “Would it really be so bad if your mom found out he stayed the night?”

Kendrick and I make eye contact and both say the exact same thing at the same time. “You don’t know her.”

He has no idea who he’s dealing with. My mother never, not once, let my friends spend the night here. She crushed Allie’s and my sleepover dreams all throughout my high school years.

I can already hear her speech: This is my house! I decide who comes into it. As long as you are living under my roof, you will follow my rules.

I watch the boys struggle until the basement door slams in the distance. My mom’s on her way back from the laundry room. For some reason, my heart beats faster at the thought of seeing her again—and not in a good way. I suck in a breath when her tall frame turns the corner. She looks great, per usual. Her brown hair is pulled into a neat bun, and she’s wearing a white blouse with black pants. She holds a mop and bucket full of cleaning products in her hand. Her inability to smile may knock some points off her score, but nevertheless, my mother’s always been beautiful.

“Winter,” she says when she notices me.

“Hi.” I muster a weak smile.

I wait for her to say something else, to display some sort of emotion, but she doesn’t. If we had a regular mother-daughter relationship, I’d be in her arms by now—after all, we haven’t seen each other in months—but she’s never been the hugging type.

“You’re here.” She states the obvious, her eyes raking over my body as she analyzes my outfit. I can hear her mentally judging me. I’m wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless black shirt. It’s nothing to write home about, but I like it. I thought it was cute. Clearly, she disagrees. My mother’s one of those people who have the ability to make you question every single decision you ever made with one look. “When did you come back?”

“Last night. Caleb and Allie took me out to celebrate.” I nervously tug at my shirt.

“Oh.” She nods. “Well, welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

She walks around me, letting me know that our reunion is over, and tells the boys to get out of her way so she can clean up their mess. My mother and I have never been what one would call close. Our relationship has been on the rocks since… well, since I was born? If a lifetime of trying to impress and satisfy her has taught me one thing, it’s that I will most likely never get it right with her. I killed myself trying to be the perfect daughter for years: I studied hard, got good grades, did laundry, said please, but nothing I ever did seemed good enough.

Over the years, people started to notice how distant she was. Some said, “I’m sure it’s not personal. It’s probably just who she is as a person.” I found some comfort in that story. Until Maika came along. That’s when I found out that she could, in fact, be loving and warm to her children. That she isn’t cold to everyone. Just me.

Must be why she called me Winter.

First bad pun of the day? Check.

But I have Harry, and he’s enough. He married my mom when I was so young, I can’t seem to recall my life before him. He taught me to ride a bike, covered my scraped knees with Hello Kitty Band-Aids, tried to give me the talk. He’s my dad, biological or not.

I’m ripped away from my mommy issues when the front door swings open and a familiar voice erupts behind me.

“Pumpkin!”

My heart swells with happiness.

“Dad!” I jolt toward him and practically throw myself into his arms.

“Where’s my little girl? What have you done to her?”