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Four days without seeing or hearing from Hawthorn.
Four days without feeling whole.
Four days is how long it takes me to stop moping and become irrationally angry. Angry at him for making me think and angry at myself for being so weak that I hadn’t figured this out for myself. But mainly I’m angry at my parents. I’m angry that they were as complicit in everything I did as I was, but that they got to run away and leave me to deal with the consequences alone. I’m angry that they didn’t take me with them, and I’m angry that I would have wanted to go.
Four days is how long this anger and fury fester inside of me before I decide to do something.
Snatching up the hotel telephone, I dial down to reception.
“Haywood Hotel, how may I assist you?” the cheerful voice asks.
“Can I have the biggest ice cream sundae you have and a martini, extra dry, please?” I ask, smiling maniacally as I order the things that I would never have been allowed if my mom was here.
“Of course, I’ll have room service bring that up to your room. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, thank you, ma’am.”
Placing the receiver down, I jump up from the bed, suddenly too agitated to sit still for a moment longer. Glancing down at the robe I’m wearing, I frown. How long was I really planning on hiding in this room, basking in my misery? Ripping the robe off, I throw it to the floor and head for the bathroom, letting the hot shower wash all of my pathetic mopiness down the drain. When I emerge, pink-skinned, I pull on the outfit I wore home from Hawthorn’s the other night, turning to assess myself in the mirror.
I have an entire closet worth of new clothes, but I left them all on Hawthorn’s boat. I even turned down Fitzy’s offer to bring them all to the hotel for me because I was too busy marinating in my own wretchedness.
Staring at my reflection, I smile. The cardigan is pale blue and made of the softest wool that glides over my skin and feels more like silk. The jeans are white and fitted, and my mom would absolutely hate them, which only makes me love them even more. Twisting to the side, I take in my image in the mirror assessingly. I look like me, only different. My eyes are bright, but full of sadness and regret. I don’t want to be this person, I don’t want to be a pathetic, weak creature that hides from life.
The time for feeling sorry for myself has passed. My sister dragged her way out of the shadows we forced her into and bloomed in the sunlight, and now she’s happy and in love and free, and I want that too. I broke the will, I chose to walk away from a fortune, but right now it feels like I’m still shackled to it by regret, guilt, and loss.
I need to move on. Hawthorn told me I could choose who to be, but that he couldn’t make this decision for me. He said I needed to find my way here on my own, and he was right.
A knock at the door signals the arrival of my food, and I throw it open and invite the server in, adding a large tip to the bill before closing the door behind him. The sundae is ridiculously big, topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and even a cherry on the top. Now that it’s here, some of my righteous indignation evaporates, and panic fills my lungs, making my chest feel tight.
Mom would lose her shit if she knew I was even breathing in as many calories as are in this glass of ice cream, and it takes every ounce of strength to push back her voice in my head and lift up the spoon. All I’ve eaten for the last four days is green smoothies and microgreen salads, and my stomach growls loudly when I plunge the spoon into the ice cream and lift out a heaping scoop of the rapidly-melting treat.
It takes me three attempts to actually bring the spoon to my lips, but the moment the cold touches my tongue, I moan so loud I’d bet everyone on this floor of the hotel can hear me.
I barely manage a quarter of the sundae, but each mouthful tastes like rebellion and happiness and life. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, and by the time I’m clutching at my stomach and questioning how much ice cream I’d have to eat before I puke, I know what I need to do.
It’s time to reclaim my life, forge a new future for myself, and stop living in the past. My parents were wrong, I have value and worth beyond my great-grandfather’s inheritance. If Izzy can find happiness, maybe I can find a way to atone for my sins and perhaps seek a little revenge at the same time.
* * *
As my car pulls into the Green Acres Academy drive, I suck in a shaky, reaffirming breath. Today, for the first time in weeks, I actually want to be here, but that doesn’t make walking the halls of the school any less nerve-racking.
Squeezing my fingers into fists, I try to stop the trembling in my hands. For years, GAA has been my playground. When I walked down the halls, people stopped and stared. It used to be because I was on the verge of inheriting a fortune, but today I plan to make them stop and turn for an entirely different reason.
Instead of trying to sneak in without anyone noticing, I’ve timed my entrance so everyone will see me. Today I won’t hide from their penetrating stares because it’s time to reclaim my identity, and this is the first step. When the car pulls to a stop a few feet from the entrance steps, I drag in a deep breath, lift my chin, and remind myself who I am.
I’m Penelope Emerson Rhodes, and I gave up billions of dollars to save myself and my twin sister. I’m not perfect, and I’ve done truly awful things, but I won’t cower away from my actions anymore.
When the driver opens my door, I only pause for a second before I twist in my seat, dropping my feet to the floor before rising gracefully to my full height. Lifting my eyes, I smirk at the onlookers whose mouths fall open.
Gone is my poker-straight, honey-blonde hair, replaced with a peachy, rose-gold-colored chop that frames my face in a sexily disheveled way. Gone is the natural, flawless makeup my mom painstakingly taught me how to perfect, replaced with a nude lip and dark eyeliner that makes my blue eyes seem twice as big. Gone is the conservative knee-length skirt chosen to remind everyone that my virtue is intact, replaced with the mid-thigh version that Hawthorn flipped up while he fucked me over a couch just a few days ago.
As I stride away from the car and up the steps toward the main entrance, each of my steps is purposeful and full of renewed confidence. I’m still me, only this version I like, this version I chose. This isn’t my parents’ image of me, this isn’t the perfect virgin puppet for sale to the highest bidder and bound by a dead man’s rules. This version of me is who I’m deciding to be, and it feels like with each step I take, I shed more of the weight of shame and expectation that’s been holding me hostage.
As I stride confidently through the familiar hallways, I’m telling every single person that’s watching me that I won’t cower, that I’m no longer ashamed. For the first time since I gave up a fortune, I feel like me again, and my classmates and all the eyes on me can see it too. The other students and their opinions aren’t important anymore, I don’t care what they think of me. There’s only a handful of people at this school that I care about and want to see, and it’s time to find them.
“Penelope,” my sister gasps when she spots me walking toward her. Her mouth falls open in shock before it curves into a wide smile. “I love the new look.”
