“It’s me, Betty,” I said smoothly, my voice steady and warm. “It’s good to see you.”
I waited for the sarcastic jab. I waited for her to make a passive-aggressive comment about my skin, my dress, or my past.
Instead, Betty burst into tears.
She didn’t just tear up—she covered her face with both hands and let out a choked sob right in the middle of the ballroom floor.
Her friends rushed over, holding her shoulders, whispering frantically. “Betty, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I stood there, completely stunned.
When Betty finally pulled her hands away from her face, I looked at her closely for the first time in ten years. Behind the expensive makeup and designer dress, her eyes looked exhausted. Her smile was forced, her hands were shaking, and the effortless, cruel confidence she had wielded in high school was entirely gone.
“Can we talk outside?” she choked out, looking at me with a desperate, pleading expression. “Please, Maya. Just two minutes.”
