I thought marrying Claire would prove that people can change. Instead, our wedding day dragged an old secret into the light and made me realize I was the only person in the room who didn’t know the full story. I had braces all through sophomore and junior year.
Not the cute, discreet kind. Full metal. I was awkward, skinny, always talking too fast when I got nervous.
Claire noticed all of it. “Do that smile again,” she’d say in class, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Pretty sure the lights bounced off your face.”
People laughed.
At lunch, in the hallway, before school. She knew exactly how to get a crowd going. And once people started laughing, she would lean back like she’d done everyone a favor.
I got good at pretending it didn’t matter. It mattered. I learned to look down.
I learned to joke before anyone else could. I learned that if I laughed too, maybe it would hurt less. My mom hated her.
She never met Claire properly in high school, but she knew enough. She’d see me come home quiet. She’d ask what happened.
I’d say, “Nothing.” She stopped believing that answer pretty fast. Then life moved on like it does. Then one night, at a mutual friend’s engagement party, Claire walked in.
I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked the same, obviously, just older. Softer around the edges.
Less sharp in the face. Less sharp everywhere, honestly. She saw me, froze, and I swear the color drained out of her face.
Later that night, she came over while I was standing by the drinks table pretending to text. “Hey,” she said. I looked at her.
“Hey.”
There was this awful pause. Then she said, “I owe you a real apology.”
I laughed once. Not because it was funny.
Because I didn’t know what else to do. She nodded like she deserved that. “No, really.
I was cruel to you.”
“I know.”
I should’ve walked away. I know that. But she didn’t sound smug.
She sounded ashamed. She said, “I was nasty for sport. You didn’t deserve any of it.
I’ve carried that a long time.”
I asked, “Why now?”
“Because you’re standing right in front of me.”
We kept running into each other. Then we started talking on purpose. Coffee turned into dinner.
Dinner turned into long walks. She told me she’d been cruel to a lot of people in high school because she liked the power of making the room turn her way. She said growing up had forced her to sit with who she’d been.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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