In a world where one girl regrets...

[ 10:48 a.m.]

They didn't merely announce Westlake High's Cheer Captain; they thundered my name through the gymnasium, each syllable of "Kaycee Lorelei" a drumbeat that set rival hearts racing before we even took the floor. The words echoed off the bleachers, a challenge to all who dared oppose me.

The air clung to my skin, heavy with the tang of sweat-dampened pom-poms and the sweet, waxy scent of freshly polished wood. Every step I took, every flicker of my gaze, was a declaration of dominance. My focus sharpened, a laser beam cutting through distraction, aligning every muscle and thought behind a singular pursuit: perfection. The echo of the crowd's hushed breath was my soundtrack, their anticipation a palpable thing that crackled in the air like static electricity.

This gymnasium was my stage, my domain. With every breath the crowd exhaled, the impossible blossomed into reality. My sweat-drenched navy and gold uniform clung to my lithe frame, heavy with the weight of expectation. The metallic tang of fear hung heavy in the air – not from me, but for me. The opening notes of our music thundered to life, a primal roar that unleashed a storm.

Gasps and awestruck silence from the judges, coupled with the venomous glares of rival cheerleaders, were my reward as I shredded the boundaries of physics with each gravity-defying tumbling pass. That collective gasp when I soared through the air, a whirlwind of twists and flips, was my oxygen. I lived to push those heart-stopping moments further, to make the crowd wonder if this time Kaycee Lorelei would finally defy gravity once too often.

But I never did. Every flawless landing was a declaration of war, every move a testament to my unyielding perfection. The thunder of my feet hitting the mat reverberated through me, a satisfying crash that underscored my dominance. Westlake High didn't win – we decimated the competition, left records in our dust, and our rivals nursing bruised egos.

All my hardwork had been a defiant scream at the faceless Korean businessman who'd chosen his perfect family over me. Every accolade, a desperate roar to prove I was more than a means to an end, more than the product of my mother's misguided gamble. Her mistakes hung over us like a specter, poisoning even her attempts at love. I couldn't respect a woman who'd sacrificed her integrity, who'd wielded a pregnancy as a weapon only to raise two girls alone. So I funneled that rage, that need to outrun her shadow, into ambition.

I was the force of nature that left devastation in her wake, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Obsessive? Intense? Just labels the jealous and weak used to handle the glare of my spotlight. The flash of camera bulbs reflected off the gloss of my signature high ponytail, a staccato beat that punctuated my triumph.

Cheer was just the beginning. AP exams crumbled before me like rotted wood, my mind fueled by enough caffeine to kill a horse. The bitter tang of coffee lingered on my tongue as I penciled in answer after answer with confident strokes. I ruled student government with an unbreakable resolve, transforming our apathetic school into a fortress of spirit and community service that bordered on obsession.

But through it all, Mick Tamada stood beside me, my anchor, my north star, my partner in this breathtaking, terrifying climb - the basketball prodigy with a jump shot that defied physics and a smile that outshone the Atlanta skyline. Winning him over had been my personal Everest. Mick was the golden boy, coveted by every girl with a pulse. But I wasn't every girl. I was Kaycee fucking Lorelei, and I pursued him with the same single-minded focus I applied to everything else in my life.

I engineered countless "chance" encounters, ensuring he saw me at my zenith - soaring through impossible stunts, commanding crowds with the charisma of a cult leader. I dissected his game, learned the intricacies of basketball until I could talk strategy like a seasoned ESPN analyst. And when I finally asked him out, it wasn't with coy glances or stuttering words. No, I marched up to him in the crowded cafeteria, looked him dead in those eyes, and declared, "You. Me. Date. Friday night. Yes or no? Choose wisely, Tamada, because this offer expires in ten seconds."

He said yes, of course. How could he not? I was Kaycee Lorelei, and I always got what I wanted, come hell or high water. But even legends falter. One misstep, one moment of weakness, and the invincible crumble. It started with a hesitation in my flawless routine, a hitch in my speech. Burnout, I told myself. A blip. A hiccup. I pushed through the gnawing fatigue and doubt, fueled by the familiar determination that had carried me this far.

But the mistakes piled up, each one chipping away at the armor of perfection I'd so painstakingly constructed. And I couldn't shake the feeling that this time, when I soared through the air, I might finally plummet back down to earth…. But that was then. Before the incident that shattered more than just bones, leaving me a broken mess of unfulfilled potential and what-ifs. Before Covid swept through our lives like a tsunami, leaving devastation in its wake and turning the world into a dystopian hellscape of masks and hand sanitizer.

Before my mom caught the virus, leaving me to become both caretaker and surrogate parent to my little sister, juggling responsibilities I was in no way prepared for. It wasn't just the accident that changed everything – it was the cruel domino effect that followed, toppling each piece of my carefully constructed life like a cosmic game of fuck-you Jenga. Dreams? Crushed. Relationships? Shattered. Future? A big fat question mark looming on the horizon like a storm cloud ready to unleash fresh hell at any moment.

Now, here I stand in the harsh fluorescent glare of a Publix supermarket, casting a sickly glow over the linoleum tiles. I stand frozen near check out, clutching my shopping cart’s handle like a life raft in a sea of regret. The smell of industrial cleaner and stale desperation hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the saccharine scent of discount birthday cakes. My reflection stares back at me from the security monitor, a pale ghost of the girl I used to be.

The spark in my eyes has dulled, the sharp angles of my face softened by exhaustion. The glossy ponytail is now a dull, lackluster bun. I'm no longer the captain of the cheer squad, no longer the queen bee of Westlake High. I'm just another lost teenager, adrift in a world that seems determined to hold me back. And there he is. Mick-fucking-Tamada. Here, in the flesh and looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ. Even with half his face hidden behind a mask, he's devastating. His eyes, those deep pools of midnight, widen in shock. Even with the mask, I can't miss the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfectly tousled fall of his jet-black hair that used to make my heart skip beats and my hands itch with the urge to run through it.

Mick is a study in contrasts - hard angles and soft edges, strength and grace intertwined. His fitted henley hugs his athletic frame, hinting at the sculpted muscles beneath. He's always been beautiful, but now there's a maturity to his features, a quiet confidence that makes him even more breathtaking. It's like looking at a masterpiece that's been refined over time, each brush stroke more deliberate, more perfect. My pulse races, a staccato drumbeat that echoes in my ears like a tribal warning. Sweat beads at the nape of my neck, threatening to trickle down my spine like a cold finger of dread. The thin latex of my gloves suddenly feels suffocating, like a second skin I desperately want to shed, to claw off until I'm raw and exposed.

"Kaycee," he says, and holy shit, his voice. Deeper than I remember, with a slight rasp that sends shivers down my spine and ignites a warmth in my core that I thought had long since burned out. The cocoa powder in his hand trembles, mirroring the tremor I'm fighting to control in my own limbs.

I swallow hard, tasting the bitter remnants of my morning coffee and what might be regret. "Mick," I manage, his name feeling foreign on my tongue after so long, like a half-forgotten language I used to be fluent in. It comes out as barely more than a whisper, but in the eerie quiet of the baking aisle, it might as well be a shout.

We stand there, frozen in time, as the world continues to spin around us. The soft music playing over the store's speakers seems to fade away, leaving nothing but the sound of our breathing and the deafening silence of words left unsaid. It's like the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next. The fluorescent lights above us flicker, casting an unflattering glow that highlights every imperfection. I'm acutely aware of my ratty sweatpants and faded t-shirt, hair thrown up in a messy bun. Meanwhile, Mick looks like he just stepped out of a photoshoot, his fitted henley hugging his athletic frame in all the right places.

"I thought you were in California," I blurt out, grasping for anything to break this unbearable tension. My gloved fingers curl into fists at my sides, the latex creaking softly. "For school and… basketball."

Mick's eyes crinkle at the corners – he's smiling beneath that mask, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I was," he says, running a hand through his hair. It's a gesture so achingly familiar that I have to resist the urge to reach out and smooth it back myself. "Came home for spring break and then… well, you know. Pandemic and here we are." He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

"Here we are," I echo, the words hollow. Mick Tamada, destined for NBA greatness, trapped back in our hometown by a global crisis. It's like something out of a bad Lifetime movie, except there's nothing remotely romantic about this situation. An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, punctuated by the distant beeping of cash registers and the squeak of shopping cart wheels. I shift my weight from foot to foot, hyper-aware of every movement. Mick clears his throat, about to speak, when a cheerful voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

"Babe, I found the gluten-free pasta! Oh, hello there!" A woman appears at Mick's side, and the sight of her is like a punch to the gut. She's a vision, a living, breathing work of art that puts even Mick's beauty to shame. Fiery red hair cascades over her shoulders in perfect waves, a waterfall of autumn leaves caught in eternal freefall. Her eyes, visible above her mask, are so blue they make the Georgia sky look dull in comparison - not the flat blue of a cloudless day, but the deep, multifaceted blue of precious sapphires.

She's taller than I am, willowy yet curved in all the right places, like a classical statue come to life. Even in casual clothes, she exudes an effortless elegance that makes me feel like a clumsy child in comparison. Her presence is both vibrant and soothing, like the first warm day of spring after a long, harsh winter. "Hazel, this is Kaycee," Mick says, his voice carefully neutral. "Kaycee, this is Hazel."

Hazel's eyes light up with recognition. "Oh my god, the Kaycee? The cheerleader? It's so nice to finally meet you!" Hazel exclaimed, her enthusiasm genuine. Her voice was musical, with just a hint of a Southern drawl that made her sound warm and approachable. "Mick's told me so much about you."

I highly doubted that, but I plastered on a smile anyway. "All good things, I hope."

Hazel laughed, a sound that made me irrationally annoyed. "Oh, course! He mentioned you were the captain of the cheerleading squad. I've seen your routines online – they were incredible! Didn't you guys almost make it to nationals?" The mention of cheerleading sent a pang through my chest. "We did," I said softly, memories flooding back. The countless hours of practice, the adrenaline of competition, the thrill of performing. And then… "It's such a shame what happened," Hazel continued, her voice full of sympathy. "Mick told me about the accident during your routine. It must have been devastating." I saw Mick stiffen beside her, his hand tightening on her waist. The look in his eyes was one of panic, a silent plea for her to stop talking. But Hazel, oblivious to the tension, barreled on.

"I can't even imagine how difficult that must have been," she said, reaching out as if to touch my arm before thinking better of it. "But you know, I've always believed that everything happens for a reason. Maybe it was the universe's way of guiding you towards a different path." Her words, though well-intentioned, felt like sandpaper on an open wound. I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to tell her exactly where she can shove her new-age bullshit. Instead, I nod, tight-lipped. "Yeah, maybe," I managed, my voice strained. "Ancient history, really."

Hazel's eyes widened with realization. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories. I just… I admired your talent so much, and—" "It's fine," I cut her off, unable to bear her sympathy. "Really. It all worked out for the best, right? I mean, if it hadn't happened, who knows where we'd all be now."

An awkward silence fell over us. Mick looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Hazel bit her lip, clearly mortified. And I… I just wanted to disappear into the fucking check out lane and never resurface. The scent of sweaty bodies seemed to close in around me, suffocating. As the silence stretched on, I found my gaze drawn to Hazel's left hand. That's when I noticed it - the ring. My stomach dropped as I realized what it was – an engagement ring. And not just any ring. I recognized the intricate vintage setting, the way the diamond caught the light. It was the ring that belonged to Mick's grandmother, the one he always said he'd use to propose one day.

The ring seemed to mock me, its sparkle too bright under the harsh store lights. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it, memories flooding back of late-night conversations about our future, dreams we'd shared that now lay shattered at my feet. "So," I said, desperate to change the subject, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "That ring… it's beautiful. It looks antique."

Hazel's face lit up, clearly grateful for the change in topic. "Oh, thank you! It is, actually. It is been in Mick's family for generations. His grandmother wore it, can you believe it? I feel so honored to be trusted with such a precious heirloom." Each word was like a dagger to my heart. I remembered Mick telling me about that ring, about the history behind it. How his grandfather had saved for months to buy it, how it had survived wars and moves across continents. It was supposed to be mine one day. Now, it graced the finger of this stranger who seemed to have effortlessly stepped into the life I thought would be my own.

Mick shifted uncomfortably beside Hazel, his eyes darting between us. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken words and shared history. A child's wail from a nearby aisle broke the moment, startling us all. "Well," I said, desperate to escape this excruciating encounter, "I should really finish my shopping. It was… nice to see you, Mick. And to meet you, Hazel."

As I turned to leave, my cart squeaking protestingly, Mick's voice stopped me. "Kaycee?" "Yeah?" I looked back, against my better judgment. "Don't forget this. You always did make the best hot chocolate." The memory hit me like a physical blow – late nights studying, Mick's arm around me as we sipped from steaming mugs. The taste of chocolate on his lips when we kissed. It was a bittersweet reminder of everything we'd lost, everything we could have been.

With trembling fingers, I took the container, careful not to let our hands touch. "Thanks," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the ambient noise of the store. Mick cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable but determined. "And, uh... tell Ruth happy birthday for me, will you? I remember it's around this time of year."

The fact that he remembered my little sister's birthday shouldn't have affected me as much as it did. But it was just so... Mick. Always thoughtful, always remembering the little details. I nodded, not trusting my voice. "Oh, it's your sister's birthday?" Hazel chimed in, her enthusiasm seemingly undiminished by the awkwardness of our encounter. "That's so sweet! I hope she has a wonderful day."

"Thanks," I managed, the word coming out more clipped than I intended. "I'll pass along the wishes." As I walked away, the cocoa powder clutched to my chest like a shield, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just lived through a pivotal moment. That somewhere, in some parallel universe, another Kaycee had made different choices. Hadn't let the accident define her. Hadn't pushed Mick away when she needed him most.

But in this universe, on this warm September day in 2021, I kept walking. Down the aisle, past the frozen foods, towards the checkout lines. Each step took me further from Mick and his picture-perfect fiancée, but the weight of our encounter lingered like a lead blanket on my shoulders. The ring, that damned ring, seemed to have burned its image into my retinas, a constant reminder of what I'd lost and could never regain. And now, the added weight of Mick's birthday wishes for Ruth only served to twist the knife deeper.

It was time to go home. Time to face the reality I'd been running from. Because if seeing Mick had taught me anything, it was that you can't outrun your past forever. Sometimes, it finds you in the most unexpected places. Like check out lane 3 of a Publix on a Monday afternoon.

⌁₊˚⊹  ⊹˚₊⌁

The rearview mirror didn't just reflect my image – it mocked me, a merciless spotlight on the shell of a woman who'd slumped into the driver's seat of her beat-up old Honda. Dark circles lurked like uninvited guests under my eyes, my skin bearing the sallow tinge of months without sunlight. When had I morphed into this hollow-eyed ghost?

My keys jangled in my trembling hand, the cool metal a stark contrast to my clammy palm. Before I could even insert the key into the ignition, my phone buzzed to life. Amelia's ridiculous selfie flashed on the screen – both of us sporting fake mustaches and shit-eating grins. A lifetime ago.

"What's up, bitch?" Her voice, tinny through the car speakers, carried a warmth that made my gut twist with a mix of longing and resentment.

Despite the simmering anger, the corners of my mouth twitched upward, betraying me with a ghost of a smile. "Hey, asshole. Just basking in the glamorous ambiance of the Publix parking lot."

"Ooh, living the dream," Amelia cackled, the sound like a rusty gate. "Well, prepare yourself for some earth-shattering news about Ruth's birthday gift!"

I settled back, the cracked leather seat letting out a pathetic squeak, like a dying animal in protest. The car reeked of stale french fries and desperation. "Hit me."

"Remember my uncle's thrift shop? The one you worked at before life went to absolute shit?"

"How could I forget? I still have nightmares about that musty-ass place."

"Well, fuck you very much," Amelia snorted, though there was a laugh beneath the words. "Anyway, he just got in this insane vintage necklace. It's got this gem that looks exactly like one of those Infinity Stones from Marvel."

I groaned, rolling my eyes so hard they threatened to get stuck that way. "You mean one of those sparkly rocks from those overrated clusterfucks with the spandex brigade?"

"First of all, how fucking dare you?" Amelia's mock outrage crackled through the line. "It's an Infinity Stone, you uncultured swine. My brothers would disown me if they heard me use your blasphemous term."

I rolled my eyes so hard they threatened to get stuck that way. "Whatever. Ruth'll probably cream herself over it."

"Not just any shiny rock," Amelia insisted, her voice taking on a note of excitement. "It's this deep blue gem that looks just like the Space Stone. And it's set in this crazy silver thing that makes it look like it's floating. Even your Marvel-hating ass would think it's cool."

Before I could retort, my phone buzzed. I opened the email, half-listening to Amelia's continued chatter about the necklace, her uncle's shop, and how fucking long it had been since we'd seen each other.

"Can you believe Ruth's turning ten? Feels like yesterday she was this tiny thing with pigtails and a lisp. Now she's probably taller than both of us and rolling her eyes at everything we say. God, this pandemic is wild. I haven't seen you guys in what feels like decades. I'm pretty sure I've forgotten what you look like. Do you still have a face? Because in my mind, you're just a disembodied voice and—"

"I'm going to fucking murder her," I snarled, cutting off Amelia's rambling. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat echoing with a growing dread.

The line went dead silent for a beat. "Um, what? Kill who? Ruth? Because she's growing up? I mean, I know it's tough, but homicide seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"

"No, Ames," I growled, gripping the phone so tight my knuckles went white. "I'm going to kill her because she's been skipping her goddamn online classes. I just got an email from her teacher. And I bet I know exactly why."

"Oh," Amelia said, her voice small. "Well, that's… not great. Why do you think she's skipping?"

"It's those fucking Marvel movies!" I exploded. The words ricocheted off the confines of the car, each one a tiny bomb detonating in the enclosed space. "I should have known. This morning, her bed looked untouched, and that stupid Iron Man night light by the fort she and Mom made was on. It's always on when she's having one of her Marvel marathons."

"Okay, but maybe—"

"No, Ames, I'm sure of it. She's been staying up all night watching those bullshit superhero movies instead of sleeping or doing her schoolwork. I swear to God, I'm going to march into her room and smash that ridiculous light into a million fucking pieces!"

"Now, now," Amelia soothed, though I could hear the hint of amusement in her voice. "Let's not jump to property destruction just yet. Maybe we could start with something less violent? Like… a stern talking-to?"

"Oh, I'll give her a talking-to, alright," I seethed. My mind spun with visions of Wi-Fi-enabled shock collars and superglued keyboards. "Right after I duct tape her ass to that chair and superglue her hands to the keyboard. Then I'll set up a Wi-Fi-enabled shock collar that zaps her every time she tries to log out of class!"

"Jesus Christ, Kaycee!" Amelia gasped, though she was clearly trying not to laugh. "That's… creative. But maybe illegal? And definitely not covered by your home insurance."

"Fine," I grumbled. "Then I'll just ground her until she's fucking thirty. No, forty! She'll be begging for the sweet release of death by the time I'm done with her."

"Okay, Cruella de Vil, let's dial it back a notch," Amelia said, finally letting out a giggle. "Remember, we want Ruth to graduate, not end up on an episode of 'Scared Straight'."

I took a deep breath, some of my anger dissipating at Amelia's ridiculous comments. "You're right, you're right. I just… I can't believe she'd do this. After everything…"

"I know, honey," Amelia said softly. "But hey, look at it this way - at least you found out now and not when she's trying to graduate with a 0.5 GPA."

Despite myself, I snorted. "Great. Something to look forward to."

"That's the spirit!" Amelia chirped. "Now, how about instead of murder, we brainstorm some non-felonious ways to get Ruth back on track? I'm thinking… bribes. Lots and lots of bribes."

As I pulled out of the parking lot, leaving Publix and the ghosts of my past behind, I found myself smiling despite the situation. "Alright, wifey. Hit me with your best bribery tactics. But I'm keeping the shock collar idea as a backup plan."

"That's my girl!" Amelia laughed. "Now, how about instead of destroying her Marvel collection, we use her obsession to get her back on track? I'm thinking… homework rewards system based on Infinity Stones?"

"Based on what now?" I asked, feigning ignorance just to piss her off.

"Oh my god, you're fucking hopeless," Amelia groaned. "The eternal glowing rocks, as you so eloquently put it. Keep up, woman!"

As Amelia launched into her ridiculous scheme, I felt some of the tension leave my body. My to-do list loomed like a mountain: birthday cake to bake, a sister to celebrate, and a serious conversation – maybe even confrontation – to have. But with Amelia in my corner, it all seemed a little less insurmountable.

One thing was clear: something had to change. And it was going to start with Ruth. But maybe, just maybe, it didn't have to involve actual murder.

I cranked up the radio, letting the angry guitars drown out my thoughts. As I merged onto the highway, I couldn't help but wonder: when did my life spin so far out of control, and how the hell would I reel it back in?

⌁₊˚⊹  ⊹˚₊⌁

Note:  So here it is peeps!! Chapter two. I wanted to bounce back between her and Ruth a little bit to get something going. I'll try and move this story along a bit before I have to start classes next month. Hold on loves!!
- bbdqqce1