Page 39 of Most Likely to Match
“What do you need from me, Dean?” she asks. “How can I prove that to you?”
“Oh. My. God.”
Chloe and I turn toward the high, excited voice. The woman who owns it is standing at our table. She’s white, blond, lean in her athletic wear, her hand resting on her small, pregnant belly. “Chloe?”
Holy. Shit.
“Lau-Lauren?” Chloe blanches.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Lauren G. says, her voice somehow overly loud in this already noisy restaurant. “How are you? God, how long has it been?” She turns to the man standing a few feet behind her, a filled-out version of her high school boyfriend, Jeff. Because of course they got married.
Jeff has the decency to look uncomfortable, meeting my eyes for a moment before looking to the floor. “Ten years?” he mumbles.
“At least.” Lauren G. sounds aghast. “It’s like you disappeared after graduation,” she says, admonishing Chloe as if she is still the queen bee of our high school. Lauren doesn’t wait for Chloe’s answer, not that Chloe seems prepared to give one. Her mouth hangs open, her fists clenched on her lap. The only sign that she’s not completely frozen is her quick blinks, like she’s trying to clear the image of Lauren from her mind.
“What are you doing back here?” Lauren asks. She glances at me for the most passing of moments, like she barely registers my presence at all, confirming what I already suspected.
Lauren doesn’t recognize me.
The knowledge sinks like a stone to the bottom of my stomach. This woman who directly contributed to years’ worth of my adolescent trauma can’t even bring herself to remember my face.
Not only was I not worthy of her compassion as a child, but as an adult, I am not even worthy of her memory.
I wait for the hurt to follow that sinking stone’s path, to let it pullme into myself, folding over and over again until I’m small again, as small as she once made me feel.
But it never comes. Instead of hurt, even shame, I feel…nothing.
No, not quite. I feelbadfor her. For Lauren and Jeff, for that baby they’re going to have. We are not our past selves or defined by our actions. Humans are capable of change, worthy of forgiveness.
But this human? As she stands here, ignorant of my identity, if not my existence, I don’t feel a need to forgive Lauren, or Jeff, for the things they did when we were kids.
I do want to forgive myself, though. For ever yearning for the approval of people like them.
Again, since conversations move at Lauren’s pace, she doesn’t wait for Chloe’s response; she launches into her next thought. “We haven’t received your RSVP for the reunion,” she chides. “You’re coming, right? We want to make sure our Girl Voted Most Likely to Succeed is actually successful.”
Lauren leans in when she says this, her voice teasing. Like she hopes Chloeisthe success they all assumed she’d be years ago, but in case she’s not, there’s still time for her to right that listing ship.
“I…uh…” Chloe looks at me, panic clear on her face. We haven’t discussed the reunion, though I received the invite and decided to ignore it. I hadn’t considered whether she’d be going. All I knew was that I was not.
“Yeah,” I say for her. “She’s going.” Normally, I’m not a fan of men speaking for women, but Chloe’s prolonged silence was beginning to border on concerning. “Right?” I squeeze one of her clenched fists, hoping to getsomethingout of her.
Chloe turns to me, a look of relief on her face, but so does Lauren. “Oh.” She smiles thinly. “That’s great. Are you going to be her plus-one?” she asks. She narrows her eyes, like she’s trying her best to place me. Jeff shifts his weight from foot to foot behind her. He clears his throat once, twice.
I turn to Chloe. I say nothing, but my eyes—I hope— implore her to answer for me.Please don’t make me say it. But Chloe, beautiful, warm, sweet, and funny Chloe, in this moment, is none of thosethings. In this moment, Chloe is nothing more than what she was when we were teens, or what I am now: a coward.
“Uh…” she says again.
Suddenly, I know what I need Chloe to do to prove to me that she is not a slave to our old patterns.
She could claim me. Right here, right now, she could say my name, hold my hand in her lap. But after another confused blink, she still says nothing.
I let go of her hand, fish my wallet out of my back pocket, and leave some cash on the table next to my plate of uneaten food. “Just email me the list,” I say. Then I start the long, awkward process of scooting out of this booth. “I’d say it was nice to see you again, Lauren.”
Lauren’s brown eyes have grown wide. Jeff still avoids all eye contact.
“But I think we both know that would be a lie.”
My therapist,Melinda, smiles placidly at me through my computer screen. I started seeing her a few years ago, after my previous therapist retired. We met in person when I lived in London, but now we meet online. Melinda is good at waiting, a required skill for most therapists. I used it a few hours ago, on a coaching call with a Core Cupid client, but I don’t appreciate it being used on me now.
