I straighten my shoulders and lift my head. It feels unnatural, like my muscles are tied with a rubber band and they’ll just snap back again. Standing up straight never seems to stick.
Mom always said it’s smart tokeep a low profile,that it’s dangerous tobe a tall poppy.Maybe my body took those thingsliterally? Without thinking about it, I shrink myself, curling in protectively.
But this dress isn’t meant for that—it’s strappy, floral purple, clinging in all the right places. I measured myself from every angle before I ordered it online, and unlike all my work clothes, it fits like a glove.
Greg and I arrived together, but I’ve lost him already. Some wingman he is.
He’s on the other side of the gym, deep in conversation with a group of people from different TKCORP departments. And is he handing outbusiness cards? God, who even is he?
“Ruby!” someone exclaims, and I turn around.
It’s Anna Del Amo. She moved to New York to work in journalism after college, and I’d see her around occasionally, one of those “catching up over lunch every two years” kinds of relationships.
“Anna!” It’s a relief to see a friendly face. “Let’s take a photo?”
I need something to show Mom, after all. Anna leans in, and I stretch my arm as far as it will go for a selfie. I never know what to do with my mouth when it’s time for a picture—posing makes me tense, and by the time it gets taken I look scared and constipated. But I give it my best.
“How have you been, girl?” Anna nudges me playfully.
“Oh, the same.” Hearing myself say that makes me feel slightly hysterical. “How’s New York?”
She lets out a big puff of air. “It’s a grind, trying to freelance. If things get bad, I can always sell my eggs.”
Steve the Project Manager drifts over to us and strikes up a conversation with Anna, just as a man in a tan suit stops in front of me.
Mark Winterson?I think for a split second, before my eyes focus and I recognize the guy who made me laugh during every chem lab in junior year.
“Ruby Ocampo!” he exclaims, grinning. “Oh my God.”
“Eddie Ortega! As I live and breathe.” I’m astonished anyone remembers me, given how invisible I felt in school.
I point to my phone and he plucks it from my hand, holding it out with his longer arms to take the photo. His face is so close to mine, I can feel his stubble on my cheek.
“It’s been a million years!” Eddie says. I feel buzzed, and I haven’t even had a drink yet. “What are you doing these days?”
I make a raspberry with my lips. “I don’t know half the time, honestly. How about you?”
Eddie bobs his head up and down and takes another sip of his beer. “Working construction. Good union job. Not fancy or anything, but—” He leans over and whispers how much he makes, and my eyes widen. TheDATE SOMEONE IN A HIGHER TAX BRACKETto-do list item flashes before me.
No, I need to prioritize here, rule out one thing at a time. Think of the scientific method! This isBE SOCIAL AND NORMAL(SUB-ITEM: MAKE MORE OF AN EFFORT WITH YOUR APPEARANCE)night. And the fact that he just told me his salary after years of not seeing him does make Eddie instantly less charming somehow.
“Oh, um—” I squint and make a vague gesture. “I think I see…someone. Nice talking to you, Eddie.”
I push my way through the crowd, plop down in the bottom row of the bleachers, and upload the photos I’ve taken tonight into the haunted Slack DM—the ones with Anna and Eddie, plus a group photo I crowded into with Greg when we first arrived.
ruby.ocampo:
Went to my high school reunion tonight! Nice to see everyone.
There’s no reply, and my chest feels tight—half hoping it worked, half scared that it did, because there’s still so much I never figured out how to say.
But then, at the bottom of the window, I see thatsampaguita72 is typing.
sampaguita72:
Such a short dress!
Is that Greg with you?
