At first, no one noticed me as I wove toward the bar. But then, the first head turned, caught by the plunge of my neckline, the delicate snow-white straps over my shoulders that gave way to nothing but the smooth plane of my back. I’d spent two months’ mortgage on this dress, and it was worth it. More heads followed the first, and then they were turning everywhere I walked, the girl in white cutting through a sea of black. They whispered, scanning me head to foot. But it didn’t matter what they said, only that they were talking. The adrenaline had me buzzing, making my hands tremble as I finally touched the bar.
It was working.
Just as I lifted a glass of wine to my mouth, Caro materialized at my side. “Jessica!”
I almost spilled wine down my dress. “Christ!”
She wrapped herself around me, hugging tight. How had she found me so fast? I supposed my dress had turned me into something of a beacon.
She pulled back, examining me at arm’s length. “Look at you. I love this so much. You’re like a sexpot angel or something.” Out of habit, she reached for the cross around her neck, though she hadn’t worn it in ten years.
Caro. My truest friend. The one who’d never left my side, who loved me as much today as the day we graduated. The guilt threatened to overwhelm me.
“I’m so happy to see you,” I said, swallowing my feelings. “You look great, as always.” She hadn’t aged a day since we’d met. Like everyone else, she wore a tasteful black dress, but since she was Caro, small and dark and beautiful, she pulled it off better. The sameness of her made it hard to avoid the only thing that had changed—the sparkling diamond on her hand. I cut my eyes to the crowd.
“Who’s here?”
“Oh, everyone,” she said dreamily.
Not Heather, whispered a voice, but I cut it off. Searching for Heather’s face in a crowd was a habit I’d put to rest years ago. I couldn’t start again now.
“I’m so happy with the turnout,” Caro said. “This whole weekend was Eric’s vision, you know.”
I froze. “Eric?”
“Eric Shelby. Remember? He works at Duquette now. We were on the Homecoming planning committee together.” Vaguely, I recalled something about Caro volunteering to send reminder emails to the Class of ’09. It must have been from one of her many text messages, half of which I’d deleted without opening, out of sheer fear she’d tell me she and Coop were pregnant, or they’d gone ahead and eloped. “Eric grew into such a sweetheart.” Before I could say anything else, Caro grabbed my arm and started to pull. “Come on, we should find the rest of the gang.”
No, no, no.
I dug my heels in. “Is that Elizabeth Barley and Vanessa Reed?” I waved with feigned excitement at the girls, standing a few yards away. It seemed to work, because they rushed over.
“Oh my god,” Elizabeth gushed, hugging me. “You’re blond now? You never dressed like this in college. You’re so pretty.”
“Thanks.” I hugged her back, collecting and savoring each of her words. Elizabeth and Vanessa belonged to one of the lower-tier sororities, rungs below Caro and me on Duquette’s social ladder. You were supposed to act like you weren’t aware of those sorts of things. But even now, ten years later, I could feel us slipping into our old places, obeying the order.
“Aren’t you a consultant in New York? I swear my cousin sent me some society paper a year ago with you in it. You were dating some big shot.” Vanessa spoke casually, but I could hear the edge of longing in her voice, a recognition that I had something she didn’t. “You’re, like, absolutely killing it.”
I preened. “You’re too nice. Yes, I’m a partner at Coldwell.”
“Youngest female partner ever in the New York branch,” Caro said helpfully, and Elizabeth and Vanessa oohed.
This was my apotheosis. Everything was going exactly to plan.
“And Caro,” Elizabeth said, turning from me. “Let’s see the ring!”
My stomach dropped. Caro laughed and held up her hand, wiggling her fingers.
“It’s so pretty,” Vanessa said, examining the gem. “I still can’t believe you’re marrying Brandon Cooper. I would have put money on him never marrying.”
“Totally,” Elizabeth agreed. “Every girl in school was in love with him. It’s that bad boy thing, you know? He was, like, such a James Dean. With his motorcycle and his leather jacket.”
“James Dean?” Vanessa squealed. “What are you, ninety?”