“I had them,” she whispered. “From back then.”
“You kept these. For twenty years.”
“Everyone kept stuff from high school.”
“Not stuff like this.”
“Why would you make a joke of me now?”
Alison’s composure cracked another inch.
“You have to understand,” she said, leaning closer. “I did not think you would come, especially if I said I wasn’t coming.”
“So I wouldn’t find out that you’d made a mockery board for me?”
She glanced around, realizing how many people had drifted closer.
Her hand let go of my arm completely.
“I did not think you would come.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Just leave. We can talk tomorrow. I’ll explain everything. We’ve been friends for twenty years.”
I looked at her then, the way I had not looked at her since we were teenagers crying together on her bedroom floor.
And for the first time, I saw her clearly.
