Chapter 5: Facing the Past, Embracing the Future

4

Five years later.

College reunion.

The gym was decorated with blue and gold streamers, cheap rental tables scattered with name tags and half-hearted centerpieces. A banner read “Welcome Back, Class of 20XX.”

About half the class showed up.

Some looked older, a few younger, and everyone seemed to have an invisible scoreboard above their heads.

Classmates who hadn’t seen me in years quietly eyed my bicycle.

My helmet sat on the table, my windbreaker dripping a little on the linoleum. I caught a few whispers—polite, but pointed.

“Isn’t that Aubrey?” someone said.

I turned, smiling, trying to hide how nervous I felt. “Long time no see…”

Before I could finish, a Mercedes pulled up. A glamorous woman stepped out of the passenger seat, dressed in a Chanel-style suit, looking younger than the rest of us.

She looked like she’d stepped off the set of Real Housewives, not out of a college yearbook. Her heels clicked as she crossed the floor.

It took me a moment to recognize her—Rachel’s wife, Tiffany Evans. She was four or five years younger than us, her skin flawless, even her toenails perfectly manicured, a Chanel bag on her arm.

Her perfume drifted through the air before she even spoke, every detail of her outfit curated to perfection.

“Rachel insisted I come, but I don’t know anyone here. So awkward,” she pouted.

She gave a little shrug, her tone playful and just a bit performative, drawing everyone’s attention.

Someone quickly tried to smooth things over. “Just come a few more times, you’ll get to know everyone.”

A chorus of polite laughter followed, people eager to be close to her orbit.

Everyone gathered around her as they walked inside. The male classmate who’d greeted me didn’t look at me again.

I watched as the group shifted, making space for Tiffany at the center. It was high school all over again—the social order rearranging itself in real time.

After we sat down, the best seats were left for Tiffany and Rachel, who was still parking the car. I found a spot in the corner.

I set my bag down next to a faded trophy case, quietly observing the new hierarchy.

Before long, the conversation shifted to me.

Tiffany looked at me. “You’re Aubrey, right?”

Her voice was syrupy-sweet, but her eyes were sharp, sizing me up.

Aubrey?

I was stunned. Almost no one calls me that—usually it’s Ms. Taylor.

It threw me for a second, hearing my old first name roll off her tongue like we were childhood friends.

“Rachel’s told me about you,” she said. “I’m here to apologize for him.”

She paused, making sure everyone was listening, her tone performative, as if rehearsed.

She said “sorry,” but her face showed no regret.

Her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You were all too young back then, and he really didn’t know that girls like you can’t afford to waste time. You had nothing but youth to offer.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass. No one interrupted; some looked away, others leaned in, hungry for drama.

Her words were sharp, but no one stopped her. Everyone watched, some with pity, some with glee.

It was a silent, collective ritual—no one wanted to be the first to flinch.

Tiffany glanced at my bare ring finger and laughed. “Could it be you’re still not married?”

She flicked her gaze to my hand, her laughter soft but pointed.

“Rachel’s company just hired a new guy, also in his thirties and single. He’s a bit short and balding, but a good person. I can introduce you if you’d like.”

The suggestion was almost cruel in its casualness—a backhanded offer dressed up as kindness.

Just then, Rachel walked in. Maybe work wasn’t too stressful—at thirty-three, he still had a youthful vibe. He wore a Patagonia jacket, carried a black Coach bag, as sharp as those influencers you see on Instagram.

He looked every bit the successful urban professional, the kind who drinks cold brew and reads business books for fun.

He spotted me right away. His gaze paused for a second, then quickly shifted away.

Our eyes met—just long enough for old memories to flicker—before he turned to Tiffany, smiling like none of it ever happened.

He sat beside Tiffany, affectionately pinched her cheek, and said, “Nonsense. That colleague already has a girlfriend.”

He leaned in close, voice playful, making a show for everyone watching.

Tiffany pouted, “Oh, what a shame.”

Her words were meant for the crowd, and a few people chuckled along with her.

Watching Rachel dote on Tiffany, I felt a little dazed. Memories I’d buried for years flashed before my eyes. In the early years, Rachel liked to hold me like that—never wanting to let go.

It was strange, seeing my past repackaged for someone else, as if I was watching a rerun of a show I once loved.

Listening to their chatter, it seemed they’d had a good life these years—traveling together, raising a corgi.

They swapped stories about Paris, Napa, and their dog’s latest antics. The life I once imagined was now theirs, picture-perfect and just out of reach.

Back in college, my roommate once said, after hearing how I met Rachel, “He’s so chivalrous—he’ll definitely make a good husband.” I’d looked forward to the future, never realizing he never wanted to be my husband at all.

I remembered lying on my dorm bed, feet kicked up, daydreaming about our wedding, kids, the whole white-picket-fence fantasy.

Everyone praised Rachel for being young and successful—an HR manager at a big company, a real winner in life.

The compliments came thick and fast, people eager to be associated with his success.

A female classmate interjected, “Speaking of winners, did you see the finance magazine cover last week? Weichi Technology’s partner, only twenty-seven, already financially free. He’s going to ring the Nasdaq bell for the company.”

Her voice rose with excitement, and everyone craned their necks to see what she was talking about.

She showed us a photo on her phone—a young man in a suit, sharp features, looking like a mixed-race model. He was so handsome, everyone gasped.

He looked like the kind of guy who could sell you a startup or steal your heart, maybe both before breakfast.

If Rachel was the kind of classmate you’d envy for being born lucky, this guy was on another level—so far ahead, you couldn’t even feel jealous.

It was a different league entirely—private jets, Manhattan lofts, ringside seats at the US Open.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Caleb Jensen messaging me:

[Reporting in, Boss—arrived in New York.]

The notification felt oddly well-timed, as if the universe was throwing me a lifeline.

He sent a photo from the airport, but most of the frame was taken up by his own figure. Despite the chilly weather, he’d already taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. He looked even better than in the stern magazine photo.

His grin was boyish, infectious. For a moment, I forgot I was surrounded by people who doubted me.

Suddenly, someone piped up, “Tiffany’s so eager to introduce people, but hasn’t asked if Aubrey has a boyfriend?”

It was a class clown from sophomore year—always the first to stir the pot, now looking at me with genuine curiosity.

Without thinking, I replied, “I’m married.”

The words surprised me as much as anyone. For a split second, I almost believed them myself.

The words came out clear, strong, a little louder than I intended. The table went quiet.

The room fell silent. Rachel paused, midway through peeling shrimp for Tiffany.

His hands stilled, a single piece of shrimp hanging between his fingers.

“Aubrey, don’t joke around. We’ve never heard you got married. So why isn’t your husband here today?”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable—equal parts disbelief and something else I couldn’t quite name.

I smiled. “He’s off ringing the Nasdaq bell.”

I let the words hang in the air, savoring the sudden hush, the way old stories sometimes twist in unexpected ways. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel out of place at all.