Chapter Text
The night Grace died, the world didn’t end.
The city kept moving, indifferent and unshaken. Street lights flickered, cars crawled along congested roads, people went home to their families, to their dinners, to their warm beds. Nothing shattered. The sky didn’t crack open and swallow everything whole.
The universe did not grieve with her.
The hospital had smelled the same way all hospitals did. The doctor had spoken in a soft, practiced voice, not even acknowledging the fact that he had just detonated Janis' entire life in a single breath.
Janis had stood there, gripping Malia so tightly the baby had squirmed in protest. Malia, barely a year old, was warm and real and blissfully unaware that everything had changed. Janis’ world had collapsed, imploded from the inside out, and nothing looked different. The walls were still white. The fluorescent lights still buzzed faintly overhead. The nurse still handed her a clipboard with the words next of kin written at the top, waiting for Janis to sign away the future she had planned.
She hadn't cried. Not then. Not when Damian found her sitting on the floor of Malia’s room later that night, staring at the crib. Not when he pried the baby from her arms and told her to sleep. Not even at the funeral, when Grace’s parents wept openly and friends whispered condolences like they were performing some awful, scripted play. Not when the apartment had become too quiet, too empty.
Six months had passed, and the world had the audacity to keep moving forward.
Janis didn’t.
She could feel the weight of it in everything she did. It clung to her, too heavy to shrug off, too familiar to notice until she tried to move. She existed in fragments, going through the motions. Waking up, feeding Malia, changing diapers, rocking her to sleep, all with the quiet efficiency of someone who had no choice.
God, Malia. Malia with her wide brown eyes, Grace’s eyes, looking up at Janis with a smile so pure it hurt. Malia with that bright, bubbling laugh that sounded so much like Grace it stole Janis’ breath away.
"Mama," Malia giggled.
Mama. The word always hit Janis like a truck. Grace would never know Malia’s voice calling her that. Malia would never feel Grace’s arms picking her up when she cried. Every time Malia laughed, Janis heard the echo of someone who wasn’t there.
"You deserve both of us," Janis whispered, her vision blurring. "But all you’ve got is me."
Every morning Janis’ fingers wrapped around Grace’s favorite mug. The rim was chipped—a crack from the day Grace had laughed too hard at one of Janis’ terrible jokes and dropped it. Janis pressed it to her lips, but the coffee was cold. Like everything else now. Every night her gaze drifted to Grace’s toothbrush. Blue. Untouched. Every night she told herself she’d throw it out. Every night it stayed.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear Grace humming in the next room, almost smell the faint vanilla scent of her shampoo. When she opened them, there was only the empty space. The stillness that screamed louder than any noise ever could.
She had stopped eating regularly. Stopped looking in mirrors. She hadn’t painted. Not since that day.
The last thing she had done before the phone call was dip her brush into a deep, electric blue. She had been working on something new, something that had finally started to take shape after weeks of struggling with the composition. When Grace had texted, I can grab Malia, you keep going, Janis had barely looked at her phone before responding.
You sure?
Of course. Finish your masterpiece, Van Gogh.
She had smiled at the message. Sent back a quick love you. Turned back to her canvas.
Twenty minutes later, her phone had rung. A car accident on the way to daycare.
She never finished that painting.
It sat untouched in the corner of her studio, a time capsule of the last normal moment she had. Half-formed and accusing, the paint dried in rough strokes exactly where she had left it. She hadn’t even been able to look at it since.
If she had just gone. If she had just stepped away from the easel, gotten in the car, picked up Malia like she was supposed to, Grace would still be here.
The thought lived in her bones, heavy and inescapable.
She played the what-ifs on a loop, like a song she couldn’t turn off. What if—what if—what if—
No amount of replaying it would bring Grace back. All it did was pull Janis deeper into something suffocating, something she couldn’t escape.
Her parents had called constantly in the weeks after, her mother’s voice thick with worry, her father’s silence saying just as much. They wanted to come, to help. They begged her to fly back home to Hawai’i, to let them take care of her, to let them take care of Malia.
Before Janis could even consider it, Damian had stepped in.
“I got it,” he had told them firmly, daring Janis to argue.
A week after the funeral, he had moved into the second bedroom. No discussion, no hesitation, no asking permission. Just showed up with a duffel bag over his shoulder and a determined set to his jaw. The next morning, there was coffee waiting when she stumbled into the kitchen, the scent of it rich and grounding, though she barely tasted it.
He never left. Damian was there. Loud, persistent, relentless. He traded his own place and a promising job opportunity for an apartment filled with grief and a toddler who didn’t understand where her mom went. He’d been Malia’s second parent and Janis’ only lifeline.
He held Malia when Janis couldn’t bring herself to move, rocked her to sleep when her cries felt too overwhelming. He forced Janis to eat, even if it was just a few bites. He scrubbed the bottles in the sink when they piled up, threw her laundry in with his own, made sure she had a break even when she insisted she didn’t need one.
For six months, he watched her drown in her grief, slipping further and further away. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
It had been late, the baby finally asleep. Janis sat curled up on the couch, legs folded under her, wearing one of Grace’s old hoodies. One she hadn’t washed in months because she was terrified of losing the last trace of her. The television was on, playing some sitcom. She wasn’t even watching it. Just existing.
“You look like a depressed Victorian widow,” he had announced, standing in her living room with his arms crossed. “Which, honestly, if you were gonna commit to the aesthetic, I’d support. But this?” He gestured vaguely at her messy hair, oversized hoodie, the hollow look in her eyes. “This is not it. Tell me you at least showered.”
Janis had shot him a glare. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I am a depressed widow. And I’m fine.”
“Oh, sure. Totally fine. That’s why you haven’t done laundry in three weeks and you keep eating Malia’s leftover pureed carrots like it’s an actual meal.”
She scowled, but didn’t argue, because, well. He wasn’t wrong.
“Alright,” he said, voice sharp. “I’ve let you mope. I’ve let you wallow. I’ve let you—" He gestured broadly at her, at the apartment, at the mess of laundry and unopened mail and half-empty bottles of baby formula littering the coffee table. "—do this. You need to get out of this apartment.”
“I’m fine,” Janis repeated.
He scoffed. “Bullshit. You’re not fine, you’re wasting away, and I am not about to sit here and watch you turn into a ghost, Janis. You think I haven’t noticed? You don’t eat unless I put food in front of you. You don’t sleep unless you pass out from exhaustion. You haven't stepped foot in your art studio since—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.
“I’m taking care of Malia. That’s what matters.”
“Barely,” Damian shot back. His voice softened, but there was no less weight behind it. “Janis, you are drowning. She needs more than this. She needs a mom. A real one. Not just someone who feeds her and changes her and makes sure she doesn’t die, but someone who’s living.”
Janis swallowed hard.
“She’s going to start noticing,” he continued, quieter now. “The way you don’t smile, the way you don’t laugh anymore. You think babies don’t pick up on that shit? Trust me, they do. She’s going to grow up in a house that feels like a fucking tomb, and you think that’s what Grace would have wanted?”
That was a low blow, and they both knew it.
Janis curled her fingers into the sleeves of her hoodie, heart pounding dully against her ribs.
“I know it’s hard,” he continued. “I know it hurts. I know you feel like you don’t deserve to move forward, but you do. If you won’t pull yourself out of this for you, then do it for her. She needs you.”
Janis just closed her eyes.
“Grace was my family too. You’re my family, and you’re scaring me, Jay. I can handle diapers and bottles, but I can’t lose you too.”
“I’m still here.”
“Are you?” Damian whispered. The silence that followed was heavier than anything either of them could carry.
It was time to pack up Grace’s things, it had been put off long enough. Janis still hadn’t cried. Not even when she forced herself to whisper Grace is gone over and over in the mirror, hoping that if she said it enough times, she would start to believe it.
Malia was with Grace’s parents for the weekend, her in-laws eager for time with their granddaughter. Damian had waited until the apartment was quiet before he suggested it, a careful, casual maybe we should start going through Grace’s stuff.
Janis had agreed. She thought it would be fine.
It was fine, at first.
She had approached it methodically, the way she approached everything these days, pushing aside feeling in favor of function. Three piles: one for Malia, one for donation, one for things to throw away.
They worked in silence. Damian held the boxes open while she sorted, offering no commentary, no sympathy. Just his presence.
Clothes went quickly. Books, too. It was mechanical, logical. Grace wouldn’t need them. Someone else could. Janis had made it through the closet, the dresser, even Grace’s desk, and still, nothing. No tears. No wavering hands.
At the bottom of a drawer, she found it. A cheap, plastic keychain. It was stupid. Insignificant. The kind of thing you grabbed at a gas station without thinking. Bright red, worn smooth from years of being tossed around in purses and pockets.
Lucky penny inside! the faded gold letters read.
It wasn’t even lucky.
Grace had bought it on their first road trip together, after a disastrous attempt at hiking where they had gotten lost for hours and nearly ran out of water. She had held it up triumphantly at the register, grinning like she had just found a treasure. If we die out here, at least we’ll have luck on our side.
Janis had laughed, rolling her eyes. You realize luck would’ve been not getting lost in the first place, right?
Semantics, Grace had said, pocketing it anyway.
It had stayed on her keyring ever since.
Janis curled her fingers around it, feeling the tiny, useless weight of it pressing into her palm. Her breath hitched.
Then it broke.
A sharp, gasping sound tore out of her before she could stop it, as if something had cracked open inside her all at once. The keychain fell from her hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor, and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.
The sobs hit her like a wave, relentless and crushing. She folded forward, pressing her hands into the floor, trying to steady herself, like she could stop this awful, choking grief that had been festering inside her for months, waiting for this exact moment to explode.
Damian was there in an instant.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to tell her it was okay, didn’t try to do anything but hold her. He sank down beside her, arms wrapping around her shaking shoulders, and pulled her in.
Janis sobbed into his chest, the sound raw, guttural, unrelenting. Her fingers twisted into the fabric of his shirt, clinging like she might drown if she let go.
It hurt. God, it hurt.
She could barely see, barely think, barely do anything except feel. For months, she had been carrying it all. Letting it settle in her bones, weighing her down, suffocating her. And now, finally, it came pouring out in waves she couldn’t control.
Damian held on. He stroked her hair, whispered soft things she couldn’t hear, kept her steady when her whole body shook with the force of it.
She didn’t know how long it lasted. Minutes. Hours. An entire lifetime. By the time it faded into quiet, her body felt wrung out, exhausted in a way that was different from the numb, endless exhaustion of grief.
Damian didn’t let go right away. He just rested his chin on top of her head, his voice low when he finally spoke.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Janis swallowed, her throat raw. “I—” She had no words. Nothing that could explain what had just happened, nothing that could make sense of why a stupid keychain had finally shattered her.
Damian pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, too, though she hadn’t even noticed when he started crying.
“You’re allowed to break,” he said softly. “You know that, right?”
Janis exhaled shakily, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she could.
"I found a support group. For people like you."
"People like me?" Janis scoffed. "Damaged goods?"
"Widowed single parents," he corrected, unbothered. "You need people who get it."
Janis shook her head. "No way. I’m not sitting in a circle with strangers and spilling my guts."
"Janis, you are barely hanging on. You barely speak to me unless I force my way in here. You need this. Just try it. Please. For Malia."
The mention of her daughter cracked something in Janis. She bit her lip, glancing toward the bedroom.
"Fine," she muttered. "But I’m not talking, I’ll just sit there."
"Deal," Damian grinned. "Sitting’s good. I’ll handle the munchkin. You just breathe."
That’s how she found herself here, standing in the doorway of a dimly lit community center room. The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee, the bitter tang of it curling in her nostrils, mixing with the musty staleness of old carpet that had absorbed years of grief. Janis lingered in the doorway, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her worn hoodie, her breath shallow in her chest.
The support group. The last place in the world she wanted to be.
She could still hear Damian’s voice in her head, equal parts relentless and exasperated as he had shoved the pamphlet into her hands two days ago. Go once. Just once. If it sucks, I’ll back off. But you need to do something, Janis.
She had promised.
It was going to suck. She could already tell.
Janis scanned the room, taking in the cheap plastic folding chairs arranged in a loose circle. The tired faces of people making quiet, cautious small talk. Hushed, careful, almost like everyone was afraid to speak too loudly, afraid they might wake something sleeping just beneath the surface.
People clutched paper cups of weak coffee, nodded politely as they exchanged pleasantries. They were all strangers, but Janis recognized the weight in their expressions far too well, the way they carried their grief like a second skin. Something visible and invisible all at once.
Everyone here had lost a spouse. That was the one thing they all had in common.
She could do this. One hour. Sixty minutes. Then she could tell Damian she tried and that it hadn’t worked. They could both move on and forget this ever happened.
Her eyes landed on the woman standing at the front of the room with a warmth that didn’t look rehearsed, welcoming each person who walked in with a soft smile, a gentle touch on the shoulder, a few kind words. She looked at peace. That, more than anything, made Janis feel like the floor had vanished beneath her feet.
Everything stopped. The buzz of the lights, the murmur of voices, even the ticking of the damn clock seemed to vanish in an instant.
Regina George.
It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. But it was definitely her. The golden hair, pulled into a sleek ponytail that somehow managed to look professional and casual at the same time. The soft gray sweater, fitted just enough to show off her figure without seeming like she’d tried too hard. The delicate chain around her neck, glinting in the light.
She exuded confidence and control, but not in the way Janis remembered. This version of Regina radiated something steady and unwavering, a presence that immediately calmed the room.
For a split second, there was no grief. No exhaustion. No endless ache in her chest. Just a sudden rush of disbelief.
Regina fucking George.
Janis' mind blanked as something sharp and electric zipped down her spine, leaving behind nothing but static and a hot rush of adrenaline.
It had been ten years. A full decade. A whole lifetime ago. She hadn’t thought about Regina George in years. Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe Regina still lived somewhere in the deep corners of her mind, the way certain people do, like old bruises that don't hurt anymore, but ache when it rains.
Still. She had never, not in her wildest nightmares, expected to see her here.
What the hell is she doing here?
Her first instinct was to turn around and walk right back out the door before Regina even noticed she was there, before the memories could catch up with her, before the room could close in around her completely.
She didn’t get the chance because Regina turned. Their eyes met. Janis saw Regina’s expression falter, the way her easy, practiced smile twitched for the briefest of moments. Then something else passed over her face. Recognition. Surprise. Something Janis wasn’t prepared for.
Empathy.
Warm. Genuine. Not pity. Not smugness. Just a soft, aching understanding that cut Janis open faster than anything else could have.
Janis felt her stomach drop. Her heart beat once, hard, and then took off, trying to claw its way out of her chest. A sudden, overwhelming need to flee gripped her so hard she swayed slightly where she stood.
Regina knew exactly why she was here.