Page 42 of Porcelain Lies

I know she’s right, but the comfort feels hollow as memories assault me — Gianni’s bare chest on the balcony, waving to that woman like it was routine. Like I never even existed. Like I never mattered.

My fist connects with the dashboard. Pain shoots through my knuckles, grounding me for a moment before fresh tears come.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Then there’s the mysterious stranger. His touch still ghosts across my skin, making everything more confusing. One night of reckless abandon with a nameless man — what does that make me? The same as Gianni?

“No,” I press my forehead against the steering wheel. “Different. He betrayed trust. I was…” Free? Broken? Taking control?

I pull in a deep breath, trying to use logic to settle my frayed feelings. “It’s just an emotional response triggering my amygdala,” I tell myself. “Stress hormones flooding neural pathways. It’s not actual pain, Stella.”

Understanding the science doesn’t make it hurt less. Another sob escapes as memories flood back. Talking about kids, sharing dreams.

“None of it was real anyway, Stella.”It’s Boyana again.

“I know, dammit!” I choke out. “He was lying about all of it!” I dash away angry tears and straighten my shoulders, turning the key in the ignition and reverse out of my apartment’s parking bay. Focusing on driving settles me a bit, until the neon sign of a McDonald’s beckons like a lighthouse through my tears. I pull into the drive-through, ordering enough for three people.

“Really? Emotional eating again?”Boyana’s voice carries that familiar mix of judgment and concern.

“Don’t start,” I mutter, grabbing the warm paper bag. The smell of fries and grilled onions fills the car.

“You’ll regret it tomorrow at yoga.”

I stuff a handful of fries into my mouth, salt and grease coating my tongue. “Sounds like tomorrow’s problem.”

The burger wrapper crinkles as I unwrap it one-handed, steering with my knee. Each bite fills the hollow space in my chest, if only temporarily.

“This isn’t healthy coping, Stella.”

“Neither is talking to my imaginary sister, yet here we are.” Sauce drips onto my blouse. Perfect.

“At least I don’t add calories.”

I snort, nearly choking on a bite of burger. Trust Boyana to make me laugh even now.

The streets become more familiar as I drive, houses I’ve known since my teens appearing through the windshield. Mrs. Peterson’s rose garden still blooms on the corner. The Meyer kids’ basketball hoop still hangs crooked over their driveway.

The animal shelter where I volunteered every summer comes into view. I remember walking dogs down these sidewalks, feeling so proud when the difficult ones finally trusted me.

“You were always good at healing broken things,”Boyana says softly.

“Except myself, apparently.” But the old memories soften something in my chest. The food settles warm in my stomach as I turn into my parents’ gated estate.

The familiar streets bring back memories of those first awkward months after we fled Russia. Dad trying so hard to perfect his American accent, practicing “hello” and “how are you” in front of the bathroom mirror each morning. Mom stubbornly refusing to give up her traditional cooking despite the strange looks from neighbors when our house smelled of pickled herring and borscht.

“Remember when Dad bought that ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron?” I whisper to myself, smiling at the memory. He’d worn it proudly while attempting to grill hamburgers, determined to master this quintessentially American skill. The burgers always came out charred on the outside, raw in the middle.

Mom’s attempts at PTA meetings still make me cringe — showing up with platters of pelmeni instead of chocolate chipcookies, her thick accent drawing stares as she tried to discuss bake sale logistics.

“They tried so hard to fit in,”Boyana’s voice whispers.

“Yeah.” I wipe away a fresh tear, but this one feels different. Softer. “I can still see Mom’s face when she finally mastered ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers’.”

She’d practiced for weeks, determined to help me lose my accent faster than she could lose hers. Every night before bed, tongue-twisters and pronunciation exercises-

Red and blue lights are flashing up ahead, cutting through my memories like a knife. Sirens wail behind me, growing louder. My brow furrows as I pull over to let emergency vehicles pass.

What the hell is going on?

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