Outside, we huddle together beneath an umbrella, laughing as we make a mad dash down the sprawling driveway to her car. She cranks up the music as we glide through the wet streets, though I notice her fingers tremble on the steering wheel, similar to when we went shopping. An uneasy feeling tugs at my chest. The bad weather and uncomfortable tension in the car make me feel as though more flashbacks are imminent.

I turn the music down, trying to latch onto a distraction, and Zoe looks at me quizzically.

“Do you want to talk about what just happened?” I ask gently.

“Are you referring to my mother?” She scoffs. “Please, that’s a typical day in the Harris household.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop that.”

“No, really,” I persist. “I am. No one deserves to be talked to like that.”

“Damn,” she says. “The old Allie would’ve just called my mom a bitch and moved on.”

“Zoe.”

She shifts in her seat as we reach a stoplight, the windshield wipers furiously doing their best to manage the flow of water outside. “I’ve learned that the universe doesn’t actually care what people deserve,” she murmurs. “If it did, things would be a lot different.”

I might’ve agreed with her at one point, but the more I learn about myself, the more I wonder if the universe actually does dole out punishment to those who deserve it.

“Has it always been like that for you at home?”

“Pretty much.” Her voice is flat but it’s clear she’s trying not to let me hear the hurt behind her words. “It’s definitely gotten worse as I’ve grown up. They’re so focused on building this perfect, artificial, robot daughter that I don’t think they’ve taken the time to actually learn anything about me. Or they just don’t give a shit.”

“Would you ever talk to them about it?”

She laughs shortly. “Don’t be stupid. They don’t listen to a word I say. There’s no hope of fixing that.”

I frown as the light turns green and we glide forward again. “Things will get better someday.”

“A word of advice,” she remarks. “You can’t spend time waiting for things to get better on their own, because they won’t. Sometimes you have no choice but to take matters into your own hands and make them better yourself.”

We drive in silence for the remainder of the ride until we pull up to a large building, and I squint through the rain at the neon sign. Rockwell’s, it reads, accompanied by two sets of roller skates that light up alternately to look as though they’re moving.

Zoe puts the car into Park.

“We’re roller skating?”