The community center would be a place some would consider ‘try hard’. Cheap uplights, a banner that had been corrected with a Sharpie, and a rented DJ.
Faces blurred in: linemen who’d become loan officers, class clowns now selling insurance with the zeal of born-again saints, a handful of people he liked then and suspected he’d still like now.
The name tags were the worst part—HELLO MY NAME IS—and under that, a second line: WE REMEMBER YOU FOR. His said SILVERTONGUE, because someone had a sense of humor and/or Google.
“Chase,” Vincenzo said, sweeping past with confidence. “Let the record show: Orangeside High’s ‘top creamers’ has returned.”
“Please stop narrating, and don’t refer to us as ‘creamers’,” Chase said.
“Practice. I’m going live later. Nostalgia pulls views.”
“Don’t publicize my adolescence.”
“Too late,” Vincenzo said, already shaking hands, dispensing smiles like business cards. He was good at it—choreography that moved the room around him, GoldenBoy in action.
Vincenzo moved through the room with an ease Chase remembered from high school. Part charm, part momentum. But something was different now.
He wasn’t just greeting people. He was positioning them. Turning shoulders, angling himself, stepping back half a pace like he was checking sightlines no one else could see.
Chase watched him pause near the banner, lift his phone—not to post anything, just long enough to frame—and then slip it away again, satisfied.
Weird, Chase thought. Who comes to a reunion to block scenes?
After a weak coffee he snatched as he left Vincenzo’s side, Chase decided to hit the bar. Whiskey first; Seltzer later if the night demanded it. He ordered, turned, and almost walked into Noah Winters at exactly the wrong angle to pretend he hadn’t seen him.
“Wright,” Noah said, pleasantly surprised. He’d aged into a solidness that suggested both lapsed gym membership and blue collar job. “Heard you’re back. Michael & Cole, right?”
“Right,” Chase said. “You here with Pheobe…
“Actually, no. I came with a proxy.” Noah’s smile twitched. “My sister. She volunteered when my wife got sick. She’s around here somewhere.”
Chase opened his mouth to say, ‘tell her I said hi,’ but his chest had already tightened in recognition. The room thinned; the music dulled. A figure by the photo board, black dress under soft light, hair pinned like she hadn’t planned the night to matter but accidentally looked like it did.
Amelia.
She was laughing at a picture of someone horrible perm, the sound caught him mid-step. He didn’t know if it was surprise or relief or guilt for both. All he knew was the distance between them felt complicated and short.
Noah followed his stare, smiled an older-brother smile that knew too much about his sister and didn’t care. “Right. You two… know each other.”
“College,” Chase said, as if the word could unspool years of late-night study sessions, near-kisses, and classes that smelled like stale coffee.
“Be nice,” Noah said, and vanished into a huddle of people discussing crypto gains like sports scores.
Chase crossed the room with the caution of a man approaching a live wire.
“Amelia Bethany Winters,” he said when he was close enough for the words to echo towards her.
She turned, and he watched recognition move across her face. Followed by a smile, small and real.
“Chase Wright,” she said. “Look at that.”
“Wasn’t sure I’d see you here,” he said, then immediately regretted the sentence for how scripted and obvious it sounded.
She chuckled, “Noah guilted me. Prepaid ticket. I’m here to protect sunk costs.”
He laughed. “Economics. Classic Amelia.”
“Better than Theory of Conspiracies. Classic Chase.”
They stood there, two people pretending to be casual while the floor rearranged itself to make room for what they weren’t saying.
“You look…” he began, and she raised a finger like a referee calling a foul.
“Cliche,” she said.
He chuckled. “How are you?”
“Work’s good. Clinic keeps me busy. I have a bowl of fish now. They judge me for sport.” She tilted her head. “You?”
“Well, after getting a degree from OrangeSide a law firm actually took me in,” he said, then lowered his voice a notch. “At Michael & Cole.”
She caught the shift. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I sound employed.”
“Those aren’t always the same thing.”
He wanted to tell her about the feeling he sometimes got in Sydney Hall back in Orangeside Community College. Open up, tell her how Vincenzo stormed back into his life, offering shade and asking only that Chase not ask what he was being shaded from.
Instead, he said, “The coffee’s terrible.”
Her smile sharpened. “Let’s fix that.”
She led him to the side table where a percolator burbled. Someone had set out sugar sticks and powdered creamer packets with reckless abandon.
“Do you remember the library?” she asked, tearing two sugar packets at once. The paper split unevenly; she shook the crystals into her cup.
“Which time?” Chase said. He didn’t trust his voice with anything more specific. The cracked leather chairs came back anyway. ‘Pirate Guy’ singing sea shanties in the hallway. The way he used to lean back like his body wanted to relax while his brain absorbed.
“You used to weasel out of doing actual work on projects like it was a habit.”
“It WAS a habit.”
She snorted, quick and surprised, then caught herself. “And I would pretend not to find it charming.”
Chase felt that land somewhere behind his ribs. He wanted to tell her he’d noticed. That pretending had never fooled him. Instead, he said, “Because I was a disaster in class and outta class.”
Her eyes flicked to his suit. Just a glance, but deliberate. “You’re upgraded now,” she said. “More like a disaster with a movie made about it.”
He laughed before he could stop himself. He felt suddenly too present in his own body, aware of how close they were standing, how the room pressed in and out around them.
“Do you live far?” he asked, and hated that the question carried more weight than geography.
“Two blocks from PawsCity Vibes,” she said. “Small place. Good light.”
“Plants?”
She held up three fingers, then folded one down. “Two are alive.”
Chase smiled. He watched the way she stirred her cup, too long, it gave her something to do with her hands. Around them, the reunion swelled, someone chanting Class of— before giving up halfway through.
“Do you ever think about–” He stopped himself, shook his head. Coward.
She tilted her head. “No. Say it.”
He swallowed. “Timing,” he said. “Like sneezing right before someone takes a picture.”
Her mouth twitched. She looked down at her cup, then back up, eyes warmer than a second ago. “You got poetic in your thirties.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “Some clients do that to you.”
She nodded once, slow. Then, quieter: “You disappeared fast after graduation.”
“I had to,” Chase said. He shrugged, the gesture old and insufficient.
He couldn’t explain that he’d spent the last year at the Harrison Home playing substitute teacher, realizing his law degree was the least interesting thing about him. He couldn’t tell her that Calder now lived in a marble house with the man who had a leash on his firm. Leaving that place hadn’t felt like a career change; it felt like abandonment.
“It was… a lot,” he finished lamely.
The air hung between them until she said steadily, “I figured.”
She tore another sugar packet even though her cup was already too sweet.
“I didn’t…” she started, then stopped. Shaking her head she tried again. “No. I did mind. But I knew I didn’t get to mind.”
Chase felt that like a verdict. “That sounds unfair.”
“It was.” She met his eyes this time. “You could have called.”
His jaw tightened, muscle memory from courtrooms and confessions. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect.
“You’re right,” he said. “I could have.”
They stood with it. The space between them didn’t close, but it stopped pressing.
Chase realized he was holding his breath and let it go.
Only then did he notice her fingers — tapping once against the side of her cup. Then again. Not nervous. Measured. A quiet, off-kilter rhythm— a habit she’d had before him, and he was only now learning the tempo.
She nodded once, small, like the point had been made and accepted. He’d always admired that about her. The way she could name a truth without sharpening it into a weapon.
For the first time since he’d walked in, Chase felt something settle instead of itch.
“Hey,” a voice cut in, bright and intrusive. “Look who’s finding their spark.”
Vincenzo must’ve clocked her from halfway across the room. The way she carried silence, the way Chase’s posture altered in her orbit. Vincenzo’s smile didn’t falter, but inside something seemed to have woken up with a slow, pleased stretch.
He arrived with two drinks and the confidence of a man who never asked if he was welcome.
“Chase,” he said slyly, “introduce me to the woman the room keeps looking at.”
“Vincenzo,” Chase said, warning in the tone. “This is Amelia Winters.”
“Pleasure,” Vincenzo said, extending a hand.
She weighed it, decided, and shook once, professional. “Hi.”
Vincenzo’s smile didn’t change, but his attention sharpened.
Chase felt it the way you feel a room go quiet without knowing why.
Vincenzo took half a step back and Chase realized he was looking at them the way he looked at everything else tonight: like it was a setup, not a conversation.
Amelia shifted slightly, closer to Chase, as if sensing something she couldn’t name.
Chase frowned. He wanted Vincenzo anywhere else.
“I’m what you’d call a local success story,” he said, cheerful. “Corporate executive. Thought leader. Occasional menace. El Viento Securities, subsidy of El Viento Heavy Industries.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “That last part is a strange brag.”
“Honesty is the purest marketing,” he said. “I also stream. Politics, games. Fortnite when the updates aren’t crashing the game. You’d love my chat. I’m their Golden god.”
“Does your chat vote?” she asked.
“Early and often.”
Chase coughed into his cup to hide a laugh.
Vincenzo’s focus drifted, a practiced slide of the eyes that made his sudden lack of interest feel more calculated than the interest itself. “We’re doing a small after-thing,” he told Chase. “Celebration, reunion afterparty. A few worthy people from the old crew are invited. You should both come.”
“Tempting,” Amelia said neutrally.
“We’ll see,” Chase said.
“Time-sensitive,” Vincenzo said, smile widening a notch. “I’ve got something moving. A real upgrade. I’m grabbing the royal and loyal.”
“I didn’t realize ‘securities’ had loyalty tiers,” Amelia said.
“Well, ‘Securities’ has a bit wider reach than you’d think,” Vincenzo said mildly, and that was the first sentence he’d said that wasn’t aimed at an audience.
Chase’s posture stiffened, “We’ll talk later,” he said.
Vincenzo lifted his glass in a private toast, then drifted on, hugging strangers like donors. He didn’t look back. He never had to.
They watched him go, the jacket moving through the crowd like a dangerous fish in a shallow tank.
“He’s a lot,” Amelia said.
“He’s… like camping,” Chase said.
Amelia gave Chase a confused look.
“Intense”
Amelia thought for a moment then put together the gag, chuckled, “That’s one word.”
“Does he always move people like furniture?” she murmured.
“He calls it social networking,” Chase said.
“I call it social containment,” Amelia retorted.
They stood beside the sad percolator and the less-sad photo board and let the room reclaim its noise. Someone started a chant that dissolved into laughter. A slideshow froze on a face neither of them recognized.
“Do you want air?” he asked. “This place smells like cheap perfume and old memories.”
She glanced at the door, then at him. Decision crossed her face. “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s.”
They wove through congratulations that weren’t theirs, sorrys neither needed, and the last gasp of a chorus everyone pretended to remember. The doors breathed them into night.
Outside, the air was wet and honest. The lights gave everything a warm gold tint, casting halos that made everything look like a stage.
Amelia kicked off her shoes, held them by the straps, and stepped into the cool of the concrete with something like relief.
“Don’t judge,” she said.
“Wouldn’t dare,” he answered playfully.
They moved toward the edge of the lot where the light wasn’t struggling. The rain had tapered to a mist; the street smelled faintly of cut grass and cheap beer. Her shoulders dropped, relief visible as a breath.
“So,” she said, half-smile, “tell me the worst thing about being in your thirties.”
He matched it. “I finally understand why socks are a good present.”
“That’s… so sad,” She chuckled.
“It is,” he said. “What’s the best thing about being in your mid twenties?”
“I can still make mistakes and live with them,” she said, then bit her lip like she hadn’t meant to be that honest. “And I’m not saying that I have…or will.”
They both laughed, not concerned about the future, just their connection reestablishing.
A shadow shifted near the doors.
A cigarette is lit. The ember appears, disappears.
She didn’t care. Neither of them did.
They both pretended that was normal.
“Walk me home, I’m not too far?” she asked.
He nodded, and they stepped off the curb into the kind of night that makes new decisions feel right.
They walked the first block in unified peace, humming with old rhythm. The rain left the air soft, streetlights flickering in puddles. Every few steps she brushed his arm without meaning to, and every time he pretended not to notice.
The street narrowed to rows of apartments that used to be houses. Porches turned into foyers, ghosts of swing sets in fenced yards. Chase knew this stretch. He used to cut through here on his way to classes, back when ambition still felt like a skill he hadn’t unlocked yet.
“Feels smaller,” he said.
“That’s because you got bigger,” Amelia said. “Or maybe we don’t look at it long enough to appreciate it.”
He laughed quietly. “You always say things that sound like poetry until they start to hurt.”
“Comes from living I guess.” She balanced on a curb line, shoes dangling from her fingers. “So tell me, SilverTongue, what’s it like being the evolved version of the guy who used to sign up for case studies to flirt?”
He smiled, half-embarrassed. “Less charming, more billable.”
“That’s tragic.”
“It’s a career.”
They passed a Panera Bread with its lights off but its smell still clinging to the sidewalk. She slowed a little, voice dropping. “You really never called?”
“I thought about it,” he said, truth landing like gravel. “Then I thought about how much of that was me trying to fix something that wasn’t broken.”
She looked at him, not unkindly. “It wasn’t broken. It just never started.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s what I meant.”
A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that only exists between people who once knew each other’s rhythms. Chase gestured to the darkened storefront. “Remember when we used to study here? That semester when the library was under construction.”
Amelia smiled. “My gosh, remember that time my red pen vanished, and I thought someone stole it, and I freaked forcing you all to help me find it or confess to stealing it. Elvis wasn’t happy about missing his CSGO tournament and called it a ‘bottle episode’.”
Chase chuckled. “Elvis Santiago. Whatever happened to him? He was the only one who could make Professor Hendricks reconsider who really was ‘Saved By The Bell’.”
Amelia’s expression softened with nostalgia, then shadowed slightly. “I don’t know. He just… drifted after graduation. We all did, really. I wanted to message him, but I just never really found the time. I even stopped visiting our Facebook group page.”
“Yeah,” He shook his head. “Everyone just scattered after Orangeside. You, me, Elvis, Christina… like the baby spiders at the end of Charlotte’s Web, we all just scattered with a smile.”
“That part hurt me, but I understood,” Amelia said softly.
Chase smiled at that. “I teared up.”
For a long moment, they just listened to the wet rhythm of their steps. Chase glanced over his shoulder. The street was empty, just wet pavement and shadows, but the back of his neck prickled. It was a familiar feeling lately, the sensation of being observed by someone that wasn’t there.
She stopped under a lamppost that buzzed, as if it were a trapped spark, its gold light catching in her flowing hair. The quiet between them turned into something alive.
“Two years,” she said, as if testing the number. “You’d think time would make it less weird.”
“It doesn’t,” he said.
Her eyes met his, steady, curious, dangerous. “So what happens now?”
He wanted to say something clever, but what came out was the truth. “I don’t know. But I’m not walking away this time.”
That earned him a smile. Not big, not dramatic, but enough. “We’ll see.”
She stood close enough that Chase could feel her warmth in the damp air. For a second she didn’t move, just hovered at the edge of the moment like she was negotiating with herself. He couldn’t tell if she was waiting for him to step in…or daring herself not to.
“Thanks for the walk,” she said, breaking the tension before it grew teeth.
“Always,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. The way he looked at her wasn’t hungry or nostalgic.
It was steady.
That made it harder.
“Careful,” she said, teasing again to save herself. “That’s a dangerous phrase.”
“I like danger,” he said.
“Yeah,” she answered, starting up her steps. “You always did.”
She paused halfway, turned back. “Oh—and Chase?”
“Yeah?”
“If your friend offers you anything like money, favors or advice… Don’t call it a gift.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because men like that don’t give,” she said. “They trade.”
She vanished into the stairwell’s glow, leaving him on the sidewalk with more rain than answers.
He stood there a while, listening to the rain tick on the awning above her door.
Something about the way she’d said men like that stuck under his ribs.
He wasn’t naïve; Vincenzo didn’t feel the chaotic high school rivalry anymore, but evolved either naturally or by some outside force, into a different force.
