“I try to tell her that all the time.” Trent’s voice washes comfort over me. I’m fine with Ver, we’re old friends, but it’s nice to know he’s still paying attention to me and not leaving me on my own.
“Trent. Nice to see you again.” The greeting is a little cold. While it’s been over a decade, Ver never really forgave him for breaking my heart in the first place. Especially since he clearly wanted to be with me. She felt like he just wanted his cake and to eat it too. I’m kind of surprised that she still has these feelings toward him, but she’s always been a loyal friend, even if distant in recent years.
“Veronica, you also. You look well.” That’s Trent’s polite and non-flirtatious way of saying she looks pretty tonight. And she does.
Her blonde hair falls in elegant elephant curls, her blue eyes shine, accentuated by blue mascara. And she’s thin as a twig.
It makes me self-conscious, and my hands fold in front of my midsection. Trent straightens, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice his jaw twitch. He knows my tell, he knows why my hands are where they are.
“How are the babies? Though I guess they’re not really babies anymore, are they?” Her bottom lip pouts out as though she’s the only one upset about them growing up when it breaks my mommy heart on the daily.
“They’re doing great. They’re with my neighbor for the weekend so we can be here. They adore her.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Ugh, I can’t wait to be a mom. You’re so lucky, Les. Your life is just so perfect.”
My spine straightens at the word, and my shoulders tip back. It’s almost like a Pavlovian response to the word.
“You’d be surprised.” I try to say it with a smile, but it’s hard.
Trent’s hand lands on my shoulder, and he gives a squeeze.
“They have pictures all over the room. Let’s go look!”
Veronica loops her arm through mine and starts off. I reach back for Trent, who’s already falling into step behind me. I don’t miss the fact that he takes a moment to check out my ass before taking a sip of his beer and sliding a hand into his pocket.
It sends a little rush through me, knowing that my husband still likes to check me out.
When we get to the first table of pictures, I immediately start laughing. Not only are the pictures of my classmates so incredibly old that we practically look like babies, but the first one is a bunch of tongues stuck out at the camera.
We walk through the pictures, occasionally finding one of somebody we know, getting to the second table before we find one of Veronica and I hugging in the hallway. We’re both smiling at the camera and squeezing each other tightly.
I remember when the picture was taken. The class photographer had come up to us and told us that since we were best friends, we needed it commemorated. So, we squeezed together, and he snapped the picture. I’m pretty sure it’s in the yearbook too.
We keep going as we work through what seems like a few years’ worth of photos until we start getting to what seems like prom.
That’s when my heart starts racing, and a bead of sweat drips down my back. I went to prom with David.
And when Trent stops short, I know he’s come across the picture. I keep my eyes locked on him as he tips his bottle back and takes a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t so much as glance in my direction before moving on.
I take it as a good sign and move on too, not wanting to draw attention to it. The very simple fact is that it’s part of my past and it can’t be changed.
At the end of the table are all the class awards that were given out in the yearbook. And under most likely to succeed, I see my smiling face.
“Little Miss Perfect, with her straight-A record, hot boyfriends, and sweet temperament.” Veronica knows that I hate being called perfect, yet she’s never shied away from using it to describe me.
“I need some air.” I shrug off Veronica’s hand and hightail it out of the gym, right out into the fresh night air.
It’s cooled some, enough to send a shiver through me.
“What’s your issue with that word, Les? I’ve never understood your reaction to it.” Trent’s voice wraps around me, and my muscles loosen slightly.
“I hate being called perfect because I’mnotperfect. Not even close.”
“You definitely don’t see yourself clearly.”
I spin to face him. “That’s the problem, Trent. I do see myself clearly. It seems to be everybody else who doesn’t.”
“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that we’reallgetting it wrong? Everybody in high school who thought it, all the people who think it now? We’re all wrong? Me, the kids.” He drops off there, but I know where he’s going.
