I found myself staring at a white ceiling. Grimy walls. A jail cell reeking of piss and misery.

The night's memories replayed in my head. Round two. White car, windows down. Wind whipping past my face, destroying my neatly-braided updo. Her: I missed you, bitch. Me, screaming over the noise: You have a really twisted way of showing it. Her: I wish Anika was here. She'd love this so much.

Cars zooming past us. Frat boys laughing as they sped.

And then crash. Car flipped over on the field of grass. Pizza tattoo guy with a busted-open head. Douchebag coughing blood. Mophead spared, lucky to not have been in the car with them.

I sat on the cold, metal bed. On the other side of the cell, Penelope stood with her eyes shut, hands pressed together, and one of her long legs balancing in the air.

"Getting a head start on your morning yoga?" I asked, my voice flat.

Her eyes flew open. "I can't believe our luck."

"Luck? We're in jail right now, if you haven't noticed."

The small cell gave us no view of the outside. What the officers were doing. Whether our parents were with them, filling out the paper work to pick us up.

Penelope stretched her arms over her head. "I'm just mad we didn't get to race each other."

And here I was glad we hadn't crashed. But the fine I'd have to pay for being Penelope's passenger in an illegal street race wouldn't be cute, either.

"Racing me is your priority when someone could've died?" I asked.

"I'm sad no one did," she said, sitting cross-legged on her metal bed, a gesture so reminiscent of our juvie days I swore I was sixteen again. "Last week I called upon the forces of darkness to help me win my beauty pageant. This is them telling me they've listened. It's like... a sacrifice. Someone has to pay."

Douchebag and Pizza tattoo guy, currently in the hospital. Should I have felt bad? They crashed their car all on their own, making Penelope seem like the good driver. Had the universe really manifested their stupidity so she could win her beauty pageant? 

Someone could've died tonight. And still, I couldn't help but think about Jack. He'd had some sort of melt down. Had Eli taken him home? What if Jack had been in the car that crashed instead? What if he'd been Penelope's "sacrifice"? Nausea filled me as I thought about it. The jail cell closed me in, the sense of being caged amplified by an immense urge to break out and talk to Jack.

I shook those thoughts away. Pressed my fingers into my eyes until I saw stars, forcing myself to focus on the present. White ceiling. Grimy walls. 

"Your beauty pageant won't matter if you're going to juvie," I said. "Maybe that's the sacrifice. Or how about my ruined shop?"

Penelope chewed on the end of her nail. She still hadn't lost that habit. Her fingertips were always pink, peeling, and raw. A compulsive biter.

"If you were so mad you wouldn't have come with me," she said. "Which means you missed me! Or... no. You were upset. You were upset because that boy you brought with you left." She laid back, observing me. "He really is your Anika."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's your partner in crime. Your dual opposite. Like me and Anika."

"Well, you'll sure be keeping her company once you're in juvie again."

"Do you think she misses me?"

"For her sake, I would hope not."

Penelope slumped against the wall, chewing on her nails.

I felt myself smile a little. "Do you care about her?"

"Care," Penelope repeated. "What does that mean?"

I snorted. "You're asking me."

"Can sociopaths care?"

"I don't know, do you think we're sociopaths?"

"Probably."

Did I even want to be a sociopath? What would I want instead? Beyond filling my boredom. Beyond making money. What did I live for?

My eyes drooped, sleeplessness blurring my senses, making me drift into memory. "What do you live for, Penelope?"

"Ascension," she immediately said.

"Ascension into what?"

"What color do you think my dress should be for the pageant? Red or green? Red is nice for the blood imagery. Green goes with my eyes."

"Tell me you don't feel empty."

"Empty is the state of manifestation. That's why all my rituals work so well."

"Why do the rituals matter if you're empty anyway?"

"You're such an over thinker."

"No, I want to know. What made you like this?"

"What made you like you?" she asked. We stared at each other from opposite sides of the cell. It felt like standing between two mirrors, our reflections clashing infinitely.

"Most therapists say mommy issues," I said. "But it's almost like that's not enough. Sometimes I think something's always been wrong with me."

"Wrong? Like what?"

"Not caring about others. Not loving anyone."

"And that's bad?"

"I don't know."

She tapped her chin, curious. "I don't know what's wrong with me either. Anika makes sense. But you and me? We're just bored to death."

❀     ❀     ❀

When Dad and Greta arrived, I truly felt sixteen again. The height of petty teen rebellion, arrested for shoplifting, the world at my feet. Their lecture was the same. How I'd put myself in danger and spent too much time with the wrong crowd. But unlike sixteen-year-old Romy, almost-eighteen-year-old Romy had been a decent daughter. Someone they trusted to be responsible. Balancing the flower shop with my grades, on track to a finance degree and a six-figure salary. 

This time, their lecture came with a deeper disappointment: We thought you were doing so much better.

"Talia's car was towed," Greta said. "She had to pay a big fine. She went to get it now. She told me to tell you she's not letting you drive again."

"Okay," I said. I completely forgot I'd ditched her car in the middle of that road. Yikes.

Neither Greta or Dad talked to me the rest of the way home. Almost like they'd simply given up. Or never tried in the first place. The only thing Dad opened his mouth to say was, "You have class today."

"I'm not going to school," I said. "I'm going to the shop."

The only place I'd feel okay. How sad. Somehow, Dad and Greta didn't argue. They exchanged looks, nodding. And a few hours later, after I showered and received another lecture from Talia, when I arrived at the shop, I saw that it was totally repaired. Flower displays the brightest I'd ever seen them. The sign with our new logo freshly painted. Not a shard of broken grass in sight.

And Grace stood behind the counter. Customers—more than ever before—surrounded her. She talked to them easily, smiling, her face so bright no one could tell it was fake.

Was this why Dad and Greta hadn't stopped me from coming? Was this my punishment?

The moment I stepped inside, my bad mood sucked the color out of all the flowers in the room.

I did my usual routine. Dropped off my bag in the storage closet. Clocked in on the register. Ignored Grace entirely, the air heavier the longer we shared the same space. There wasn't as much work to do in this new, not-totally-falling-apart place, so I greeted customers. My fake cheerful attitude reminded me all too much of hers.

My face fell once I saw a smudge of pink on the floor. The memories hit me all at once. Jack and I's paint fight. Him hovering over me, covered head-to-toe in pink paint. The ridiculousness of it all.

When the customers left, Grace didn't wait a second before saying, "I heard about what you did."

I turned to look at her. "I really don't need another lecture from you, of all people."

"I think your father is going too easy on you," she continued. "You should be grounded. At the very least. You're very lucky the police let you off with nothing but a fine."

"You're very lucky they let you off on parole, mommy."

Her jaw tensed. She took a deep breath, as if holding herself back from saying the negative words she truly wanted to say. Words I hadn't heard from her in years.

"We cannot get anywhere if you're constantly defying me," she said calmly.

"Defying you?" Heat rose to my face, pulsing, more than anything I'd felt in hours. "You have no authority over me. You don't even have custody of me. And now you think you can come in here and act like you have authority over this shop? It's Greta's, if you haven't noticed. Not for you to sabotage."

"I'm doing what I can to help," Grace said.

"It doesn't matter what you do, to be quite honest."

My words put a crack in her cold expression.

I was older now. No longer little Romy who hadn't learned how to stand up for herself. It was about time Grace accepted I'd become her equal.

"You paid for the repairs, didn't you?" I asked. "Thinking it'll put you in "good graces" with Dad and Greta? You're living off grandpa Tetsuo's money, and now you think it gives you the right to work here?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Does it not?"

"No. But if Greta's fine with you running her business, fine. Not my problem. She'll regret it soon enough. Just know that you might be getting your life back together, and congratulations, but it doesn't mean you get to act like my mother."

"I am your mother," Grace said.

"You don't get to pick and choose when you're feeling up to it," I argued.

"That was a long time ago. I've made my choice now."

"So what? People don't change."

"Of course they do."

"No, they don't."

"If that's the case," she said, putting her palms against the counter. "You also haven't changed. You are the same foolish little girl who was caught trying to smuggle hundreds of dollars of clothes out of a mall. The therapists didn't even help."

"All the therapists were clueless pieces of—"

She raised one hand in the air, the only way to shut me up for sure. I really didn't need to get smacked. Didn't need to remember her hand against my cheek every time I came in for work.

Slowly, she lowered her hand. "If people don't change," she continued calmly, "does it mean you'll become like me? Because I don't want that for you. I can't have that for you. I will spend another nine years locked up if it means you won't have to go through what I did."

Her words were more of a stab than a smack. My voice came out small, hesitant, too young for my liking. "Am I supposed to believe anything you say?" 

"You're grounded," Grace said.

I froze. My hands clenched into fists. "I'm not. A child."

"You're grounded," she repeated. "No hanging out with friends for two weeks. No flower shop."

"What do you mean no flower shop? Everything will fall apart if I'm not here!"

"Good," Grace said. "Maybe then you'll learn a lesson."

"You have no right," I snapped. "Are you firing me from my own job?"

Almost like she realized how stupid it was, she stopped. Rare tears emerged in her eyes. Like when she'd cry in the prison visiting room, begging for my forgiveness until I threw it back in her face.

"I am doing my best," she whispered.

"Your best isn't enough," I said, staring her down. Everything about me, cold. Ice queen like Eli wrote in his poems. I could never give in to Grace's bullshit promises. This was just another game.

Especially when she broke down, tears streaming down her round cheeks.

Then the bell on the front door rang. I almost felt bad for the new customers having to witness our drama.

But when I turned around, I saw none other than Jack. 

❀     ❀     ❀

A/N: Are you ready for a Jomy chapter next? I've been missing Jack and Romy's interactions. I hope you enjoyed this long, introspective chapter, and that it sheds some light on Romy's background. Thank you for reading ❤️ and don't forget to vote!  

This chapter is dedicated to 0pHeL1A56! Thank you for the comments and support ^-^