Chapter 4: The Reunion

"Hey, are you here for the class reunion too? Why are you just standing outside?"

A stranger’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I blinked, realizing I’d been hovering by the front door for almost five minutes. The stranger was a woman about my age, cheerful, with a purse slung over her shoulder and a well-worn Michigan Wolverines sweatshirt.

I nodded.

She pushed open the door, chatting as she walked in. "You look unfamiliar—what’s your name?"

"Jenna Scott," I replied.

"Jenna… what?" She froze, then stared at me in shock. "Did you say you’re Jenna Scott?"

Her voice was so loud that everyone in the banquet room turned to look.

It was like a spotlight had hit me, and suddenly I was on stage, the center of a play I didn’t audition for.

Some were amazed.

Their mouths dropped open, eyes wide, barely disguised awe.

Some were puzzled.

They squinted, trying to match the person in front of them to the chubby girl they remembered from high school.

Some looked skeptical.

Their lips curled, eyebrows raised—some people never change.

Under their gaze, I greeted them calmly.

I forced a smile and lifted my chin, channeling every ounce of poise I’d practiced in the mirror.

Finally, someone reacted and enthusiastically pulled me to a seat.

"Jenna! I’m your old deskmate, Tessa Long. Remember me?"

When I nodded, she looked me up and down, marveling:

She reached out and pinched my arm, almost in disbelief. I was used to being invisible, not inspected—every compliment felt like a test I hadn’t studied for. "Wow, how did you get so gorgeous?"

"Look at your face—like a movie star! And your waist, it’s half the size of mine. Quick, tell me your slimming secrets…"

Her voice was a mix of admiration and good-natured envy.

Before she could finish, another girl cut in.

"Tessa, are you dumb? She never looked like this before. She must’ve had work done."

"Jenna, did you get plastic surgery?"

"Jeez, it must’ve cost a fortune to look like that."

I replied with a light smile, "Sounds like you just called me hot and loaded. Thanks, I’ll take it."

The room fell silent for a moment.

You could almost hear the ice in the glasses shifting, the air thick with surprise.

After a short pause, a guy tried to break the tension.

He made a joke about the food or the DJ—something to break the weird energy—but no one was really listening.

But just as he started, the door was pushed open.

Chase and Madison entered, one after the other.

After eight years, Chase no longer looked like a boy. He was steady, reserved.

His suit was perfectly tailored, his hair trimmed neat—he looked every inch the successful man, but there was a weariness in his eyes.

Madison was still as lively as ever, quickly blending in with the crowd.

She made her way around the room, hugging old friends, the life of the party as always.

Suddenly, someone mentioned me.

"Madison, your sister’s here today."

Madison didn’t react at first. "Which sister?"

"Jenna."

Realization dawned on her. She glanced around, then said indifferently, "She said she’d come, but I doubt she will."

"She did." That classmate pointed at me. "Look, over there."

At that, both Madison and Chase looked over at the same time.

The lighting was dim—I couldn’t see their expressions clearly.

The chandeliers above cast weird shadows, faces blurring in the half-light.

I just saw them both freeze.

Their posture shifted—Madison’s hand stopped mid-gesture, Chase’s shoulders tensed up.

One second… five seconds… ten seconds…

A full thirty seconds passed before Madison reacted. She quickly got up and walked over to me.

She cut through the crowd with that old homecoming queen stride, her smile fixed and eyes calculating.

"Jenna?"

I answered softly, "Mm."

Madison smiled, her tone dripping with sarcasm:

Her lips twisted into a sweet, poisonous grin. "No wonder you never came back all these years—turns out you were off getting plastic surgery."

"But I have to say, now you really do look more like my sister."

Someone nearby snickered, "She probably had it done to look like you."

When I was heavy, I did resemble Madison a bit.

Now that I’d slimmed down, I looked even more like her.

So after that comment, everyone eyed me with odd expressions.

I felt the weight of a dozen stares, the kind you can feel between your shoulder blades.

Tessa suddenly said, "Are you all blind? Jenna’s clearly prettier. People shouldn’t be jealous of others."

Tessa’s words cut through the tension, her tone bold and loyal. She folded her arms, daring anyone to disagree.

Madison, stung, snapped, "What’s your problem? Why would I be jealous of her?"

"Because she’s prettier than you after losing weight, nya-nya~"

Tessa’s voice was sing-song, teasing, but there was a bite to it. Madison’s face went red, then pale.

"You…" Madison seemed to think of something, then quickly composed herself.

Her jaw tightened, but she forced a bright smile.

"Perfect timing—I haven’t picked a bridesmaid yet. Jen, be my bridesmaid."

I could practically see the Instagram post forming in her mind—Madison and her perfect sister, matching smiles for the world. I replied regretfully, "I’m married."

My words were quiet, but they landed like a grenade. The room went still.

Madison frowned. "How come I never heard you got married?"

Her voice was sharp, almost accusing, as if I’d hidden the news on purpose just to spite her.

"Got the marriage license just today. Haven’t had time to announce it."

Tessa’s eyes lit up. "Really? Why didn’t your husband come tonight?"

There was genuine curiosity in her question, a little glimmer of excitement for something new.

Just as I was about to answer, the girl who’d mocked me earlier sneered again:

Her voice was loud enough for the whole table to hear. "You all believe her? After all that surgery, isn’t it obvious?"

Someone asked, "Obvious what?"

"She knows Chase likes Madison, so she got surgery to look like Madison. Isn’t she just trying to get back with Chase?"

The accusation hung in the air, petty and mean, but familiar. High school never really ended for some people.

I looked her in the eye. "I really am married. The marriage license is in my bag."

I reached for my purse, fingers brushing the smooth edge of the envelope, but she scoffed again.

"See? She even has a fake license ready. Isn’t her motive clear?"

Everyone’s faces showed something different.

Some were skeptical, some curious, a few embarrassed on my behalf. It was a parade of micro-expressions—judgment, surprise, gossip.

I didn’t want to explain, so I stood up. "You all go ahead, I’ll step out for a moment."

The cool air in the hallway was a relief, like taking off a heavy coat.

After tidying up in the bathroom, I checked my phone and saw an unread message:

[Wife, I’m here. Where are you?]

The text made me smile for real—warmth blooming in my chest.

I smiled: [I’ll be right there.]

I took a deep breath, checked my lipstick in the mirror, and straightened my dress. It was time to step back out, on my own terms.