The invitation arrived in crisp, embossed stationery: Venice High School, Class of ’85, Forty‑Year Reunion. Forty. Mallory found herself staring at the number, as though it blinked on the page just for her. How had four decades slipped by? She’d once been the girl everyone predicted would “do great things”—most likely to succeed, to grace television screens, to own a beach house in La Jolla. None of that had happened, and truthfully, none of it had suited her. Yet the thought of milling at Penmar Golf Course—one hundred dollars for lukewarm hors d’oeuvres and an open bar—left her stomach fluttering with nerves.
Still, curiosity won. She dug out her Venice High yearbook, thumbed to the final page, and found the familiar scrawl from Nathan Rivera: “My one regret: not asking you out…” Back then he’d been the skinny kid with the improbable nose and unruly curls—the aspiring writer who was never hers. She’d probably have declined; she’d been too busy chasing that glittering future. But now, divorced, settled into a comfortable, affection‑filled marriage that felt more pragmatic than passionate, she relished a harmless fantasy: what if Nathan still harbored a spark of regret?
That evening, Mallory chose a simple teal linen dress and tan flats—tactful nods to graceful aging. She gave herself a modest lift with a push‑up bra and brushed her still‑blonde hair into loose waves. Into her mother’s old leather tote went the yearbook and a slim wallet. She paused before leaving, staring at her reflection: matured lines around her blue eyes, fuller curves, a quiet confidence. No Ozempic; no Botox—yet.
At the golf club, mask‑style nametags dangled from necks. Soon enough, there he was: Nathan, unmistakable despite his shaved head and peppered goatee. Gathering her courage (and a tequila‑lime margarita), she wove through clusters of former classmates until she stood before him.
“Nathan!” she said, fishing for recognition.
He squinted down at her name and photo, then up again. “Mallory,” he murmured. “We all went to high school together.”
His polite laugh set her pulse racing. “You wrote in my yearbook… why didn’t you ever ask me out?” She flipped the book open, thumb marking that nostalgic confession.
He scanned the page, expression softening. “I was an idiot,” he admitted, voice low. “Too shy. Too… something‑else.”
Relief, tinged with triumph, warmed her chest. Before she could elaborate, a woman approached—no makeup, hair in a loose ponytail, warm smile. Mallory mistook her for a server, about to ask for another drink, when Nathan introduced her.
“This is Lucia,” he said, slipping an arm around the woman’s waist. “My girlfriend. We live in Brooklyn.”
Mallory felt her triumphant glow fade under Lucia’s steady, appreciative gaze. She forced a polite smile, shook Lucia’s hand, and backed off, yearbook now seeming impossibly heavy. The two lovers linked arms as Nathan scrolled through music on his phone. Lucia’s teeth bore coffee stains; Mallory pictured lazy weekend mornings and glasses of red wine. They seemed perfect for each other—or at least perfectly matched.
She wandered toward the bar, hoping tequila would buoy her spirits. Mid‑stride, exhaustion crashed over her: a dizzy fatigue so acute she could have slept for a year. Her mother’s leather bag seemed to weigh a ton. She reached inside for her car keys, her vision narrowing to the gleam of a Toyota Prius tag.
Outside, the cool night air felt bracing. She slid behind the wheel of the red Prius—inheritance from her mother, like a talisman—and pressed the start button. Stepping on the gas, she eased into reverse, then shift to drive, until the golf course lights blurred past her window.
As the car climbed the block, Mallory exhaled a ragged laugh. Four decades of might‑have‑beens had led to this: a quiet exit from a reunion that felt more like a mirror than a celebration. She wasn’t “most likely to succeed”—but perhaps the real milestone was knowing exactly who she’d become.
Ahead lay the unlit road home, empty except for her own headlights. The past had shown up in the form of a wistful yearbook message, a familiar face, and a girlfriend named Lucia. But forward—forward was hers alone to navigate, one steady mile at a time.
