Page 7 of Penalty Kiss
That last one isn't part of the game. That's the memory that's been nagging at me all evening, the detail that felt wrong but that I couldn't quite place until now.
The business suit guy. He asked the wrong questions. Locals ask about the weather, the high school football team, or where to get the best pie. Tourists ask about attractions, hotels, or directions. But this guy... he asked about the town like he was conducting reconnaissance.
My heart does a little skip, the familiar flutter of anxiety I've spent three years trying to ignore.
You're being paranoid,I tell myself firmly.He was probably a traveling salesman or a developer or someone perfectly innocent.
But I learned a long time ago that paranoia is just pattern recognition in overdrive. And my pattern recognition is... comprehensive.
I take a sip of wine and force myself back to the ritual. The memory exercise isn't just about keeping my eidetic skills sharp—it's about proving to myself that I belong here, that I know these people, that I'm woven into the fabric of this place.
Table eight: Young couple, probably college students from the community college one town over. She ordered a veggie burger, he got the bacon cheeseburger with extra fries. They shared a chocolate milkshake with two straws like they were starring in a 1950s movie. He paid with quarters and crumpled dollar bills, counting carefully. She kept touching his hand while he ate. First date, definitely, and he was trying to impress her without breaking his budget.
Sweet. Normal. The kind of innocent romance I've watched from the sidelines for years, wondering what it would feel like to be the girl reaching for someone's hand without calculating the risk.
I finish the wine and head to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water feels like a small luxury against my shoulders, washing away the scent of fryer oil and other people's conversations. I use the expensive shampoo I splurged on last month—jasmine and vanilla, because I decided that if I'm going to live a small life, I might as well make it smell good.
The bathroom mirror fogs with steam, and I wipe it clean with my palm. My reflection stares back: damp brown hair, blue eyes that my father always said were too knowing for my own good, and the kind of curves that draw attention I've spent years learning to deflect.
Twenty-four years old. Sometimes I feel ancient, like I've lived three lifetimes already. Sometimes I feel impossibly young, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
I wrap myself in a towel and pad toward the bedroom, then stop short at the doorway.
Right. The mirrors.
The previous owner of this cottage had an obsession with mirrors. Either a dancer or a pervert. Every wall in the bedroom is covered with mirrors—full-length, antique, modern, some obviously expensive. And the pièce de résistance: a mirror on the ceiling, positioned directly over the bed like some sort of 1970s seduction lair.
When Amy, Karla, June, Scott, and Levi and Lily came to my house-warming party, this room was the source of twenty minutes of hysterical laughter and increasingly ridiculous poses.
Amy Bello took one look and declared it a “sex palace built for a contortionist” and then proceeded to take seventeen selfies. Scott pretended to be a vampire and insisted he couldn't see his reflection. Karla announced that she'd never be able to have sex in here because she'd be too distracted critiquing her technique.
I could have renovated it—I have more money sitting in off-shore accounts than most people see in a lifetime. But home improvement projects invite questions, and questions invite attention, and attention is the one thing I absolutely cannot afford in this small town.
So I live with the mirrors, and I've learned to navigate the room without looking directly at my reflection unless I absolutely have to.
I drop the towel and let myself really look.
The drastic chop I gave myself when I first landed in Cedar Falls has already grown past my shoulders. Easier to manage, honestly—I tie it up most of the time. Thick, heavy, low on my priority.
My skin is pale from too many hours indoors, but still healthy in that quiet way that comes from eating real food, on regular schedules, without anyone hovering.
My eyes are blue, like my mom’s. At least that’s what the photos say. She died giving birth to me, but every picture I’ve seen makes it clear—I inherited her gaze.
My father could never look at me without flinching. Too much like her. A mirror he didn’t ask for, a constant reminder of what he lost.
My nose is straight and sharp, my mouth full enough to look like an invitation even when I’m not offering one.
And then there are the curves—curves that would have made my mother’s model friends sniff with disdain and my father’s business associates stare with naked hunger.
If there’s a genetic flaw I can pick on, it’s my height. I’m short—no idea which great-great-grandparent to thank for that one, since both my parents were tall.
And the soft around my hips and waist? That’s entirely on me. My own doing, my own comfort. Not that it’s ever stopped anyone from staring.
Long time ago, I’ve been told I’m beautiful. I’ve also been told I’m a disappointment. An asset. A problem to be solved. A weapon to be wielded.
In the world I come from, beauty is just another currency. And I’ve never been entirely sure how to spend mine.
And then, there’s my memory—that’s the one inheritance the mirrors are not reflecting, and one that I ‘m keeping under covers. Perfect recall. Eidetic, they call it. A gift if you want to win trivia night, a curse if you’d rather forget the look on your father’s face when he called you an asset instead of a daughter. That’s genetics at its most ruthless.
