Mr. Americana and The Heartbreak Princess

1

The morning sunlight poured through the sheer curtains of Juliette's room, casting pale streaks across the cluttered floor. Vinyl records, discarded clothing, and a half-finished painting leaned haphazardly against the walls. It smelled faintly of sea salt and paint thinner—an odd but comforting mix. Juliette was sprawled across her unmade bed, her arm draped over her face, pretending the day hadn't started yet.

Her phone buzzed against her stomach, the screen lighting up with a picture of a perfectly styled outfit: a sleek black dress with dramatic gold earrings and matching heels. "Look what I'm wearing to the gallery opening tonight. Iconic, non?" the message read. Juliette groaned and grabbed the phone.

"Marie, you'd wear that to pick up a baguette," she typed back before letting her head fall back onto the pillow.

The response came almost instantly. "It's called style, ma chérie. Maybe try it sometime? Burn that shirt you're probably wearing right now."

Juliette snorted and glanced down at herself. She was wearing the same oversized, stretched-out T-shirt she always slept in—the one she'd stolen from a boyfriend she didn't even remember liking. She hadn't returned it because it was soft and baggy and perfectly shapeless, which suited her just fine.

"Leave my shirt alone," she typed back. "I hate you." She added a heart emoji at the end to soften the blow.

Her screen lit up again. "I miss you too, idiot. Call me later!"

"Juliette!" her mother's voice snapped through the moment, sharp and insistent. "You're not going to stay in that room all day. Get up!"

Juliette groaned and pulled the pillow over her face. "Maman, cinq minutes!" (Mom, five minutes!)

"Non, tout de suite!" (No, right now!)

Kicking off her blanket, Juliette sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Her dark hair was a mess, tangled from sleep, and the offending boyfriend-shirt hung off one shoulder. She shuffled to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyeliner from yesterday was smudged, giving her an unintentional raccoon look. And, of course, her bra strap was dangling halfway down her arm like it had given up on life.

She grabbed the strap and snapped it back into place, muttering, "I should just burn you with the shirt."

By the time she stumbled into the kitchen, her mom was already at the counter, drinking coffee and scrolling through emails on her laptop. Caroline, as usual, looked like she'd stepped out of a catalog—blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail, a crisp white blouse tucked into dark jeans. Even on casual days, she managed to look effortlessly polished.

"You're up," Caroline said without looking up from the screen. "It's a miracle."

Juliette stole a piece of toast from the counter and leaned against the fridge. "Barely."

Caroline glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "You could do something with yourself today, you know. Maybe meet someone new. Make a friend?"

Juliette laughed, the sound dry and sharp. "What's the point? I already have Marie."

Her mom sighed, switching to French. "Tu es impossible, Juliette." (You're impossible, Juliette.)

Juliette smirked, replying in kind. "Et toi, tu es fatigante." (And you're exhausting.)

Her mom rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. It was one of the few constants in their fractured little household—these sparring matches that felt more honest than their polite silences.

"Finish your toast," Caroline said suddenly, snapping Juliette out of her thoughts. "We're leaving in twenty minutes."

Juliette frowned, still chewing. "Leaving for what?"