The first notification came at six forty-three in the morning. Then another. Then twelve more before I could fumble my phone off the nightstand.
Someone had filmed it. Of course someone had filmed it. Because this is the timeline we live in now, where your public humiliation gets documented in high definition and shared before you've even processed what happened.
The video was everywhere. Local Facebook groups. Twitter threads with cry-laughing emojis. Someone had even made it into a reaction GIF with the caption: "When your man airs out your business at the function."
I watched it twice before I wanted to throw my phone through the window. Daniel's voice was crystal clear. The laughter was worse. And there I was, frozen in frame, face burning while my fiancé explained to my former classmates why I wasn't enough.
My phone rang. Mom's contact photo filled the screen—her in her garden, smiling like life was simple. I declined it.
She called again. And again. By the third time, I answered just to make it stop.
"Zoey Marie Hale." Her voice was tight. Clipped. The tone she used when I'd disappointed her in a way that required damage control. "What on earth were you thinking?"
"Good morning to you too."
"Don't." She wasn't having it. "I've had four people send me that video. Four. Do you know how humiliating this is?"
For her. She meant for her.
"I didn't do anything, Mom."
"You're in the video! You're sitting there while your fiancé tells everyone you're frigid."
I flinched. "He didn't say that."
"He might as well have." She exhaled like I was a problem she couldn't solve. "What did you do to embarrass yourself this time?"
This time. Like I had a track record of getting publicly destroyed by men I loved.
Oh wait.
"I have to go," I said.
"Zoey, don't make this worse by hiding. Face it head on. Show people you're fine."
I hung up before she could say anything else about optics or reputation or how I needed to smile through carnage.
My childhood bedroom looked exactly the same as it had ten years ago. Same posters. Same desk. Same window I used to sneak out of when Chase would text me at midnight. The curtains were drawn, trapping me in this time capsule of bad decisions and worse outcomes.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a text from Daniel.
People are saying I was harsh. Sorry if you took it the wrong way.
Sorry if I took it the wrong way. Not sorry for what he said. Sorry that I had feelings about it.
I stared at the message until the words blurred. Thought about responding. Thought about throwing my phone into the street and watching a truck flatten it.
Instead, I just turned it face down and pulled the blanket over my head like I was twelve and hiding from math homework.
That's where I was when the email came through. The notification sound pulled me back to consciousness around ten. I squinted at the screen.
Subject: MANDATORY REUNION COMMITTEE MEETING – School Demolition Crisis
The body of the email was formal. Professional. Basically: the school was getting torn down unless someone figured out how to save it, and apparently all alumni were expected to show up and pretend to care.
I considered ignoring it. Considered moving to a different state. Considered faking my own death.
But Mom's voice echoed in my skull. Don't make this worse by hiding.
So I dragged myself out of bed, found the least wrinkled dress in my suitcase, and put on enough concealer to hide evidence of crying into a pillow for three hours.
The coffee shop was one of those aggressively trendy places that hadn't existed when we were in school. Exposed brick, Edison bulbs, chalkboard menus with drinks named after feelings. I walked in at exactly eleven and immediately wanted to walk back out.
The entire reunion committee was already seated around a long farmhouse table. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Heads turned in slow motion. Eyes tracked my movement like I was a deer wandering into a crime scene.
Amber Crawford sat near the middle, leaning into Miles like they'd never stopped being in each other's orbit. She whispered something behind her hand. He smirked.
Cool. Love that for me.
I scanned for an empty seat and found exactly one. Far corner. Maximum distance from everyone.
That's when I saw him.
Chase sat at the head of the table, architectural plans spread out in front of him, a pen tucked behind his ear, looking like he'd built this entire town with his bare hands and was about to rebuild it better.
He glanced up. Our eyes met.
Five years collapsed into five seconds. History, hurt, unfinished business—all of it sitting in the space between us like a third person neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
I waited for him to smile. To smirk. To do that thing he used to do where his mouth would curve and I'd forget how to breathe properly.
He didn't.
Just nodded once. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was confirming I was real and not some ghost he'd imagined into existence.
I broke eye contact first. Walked to the furthest seat and sat down without looking at anyone.
Someone cleared their throat. Chase started talking about load-bearing walls and historical preservation grants, his voice steady and professional and completely unbothered by the fact that I was currently dying inside.
Amber leaned forward, all fake enthusiasm. "Chase, this is amazing. I had no idea you were so involved in urban development."
"It's my job," he said, not looking up from his plans.
"Still." She tilted her head. "It's incredible what you've built for yourself. Really inspiring."
I wanted to dissolve into the floor. Wanted to time travel back to last night and tell myself to stay home. Wanted to scream that none of this was fair—not the video, not Daniel's text, not sitting across from the only person who'd ever actually seen me while everyone else got to watch me burn.
Chase's eyes flicked to mine again. Brief. Loaded.
Then he looked away and kept talking about square footage like my entire world wasn't actively imploding.