Chapter 1: The Confession and the Betrayal

If you’d told sixteen-year-old me that Chase Young would ever say my name like it mattered, I would’ve laughed you out of the lunchroom.

The guy I’d secretly liked for three years—Chase Young—confessed to me. My nerves buzzed under my skin, my heart pounding so loud it drowned out the chatter, the slap of sneakers against linoleum, even the whistle from baseball practice outside. For one suspended moment, it was just us, and all the background noise faded away.

Just as I was about to say yes, my older sister’s voice cut through the air:

"You don’t seriously believe that, do you? With your two hundred pounds—what, have you no self-awareness?"

Her voice echoed off the lockers, loud enough that even the JV baseball team looked over. It felt like everyone’s eyes were on me, and I wanted to unzip my skin and disappear. My cheeks burned, my grip on my backpack tightening until my knuckles were white.

Humiliated, I was about to bolt—eyes glued to the floor, fighting the urge to run. The lockers stretched tall around me, my body heavy as if cemented in place.

But then Chase said, "I like you. It has nothing to do with how you look."

His voice was steady, defiant. I waited for the punchline, the snicker, but all I saw was the set of his jaw. For a heartbeat, I almost believed high school could be like those movies—where the nice guy stands up and everything changes.

In that moment, it felt like I’d finally been chosen. Like maybe, despite everything, I could have this one small, impossible thing.

But later, I caught him and my sister making out behind the bleachers.

The metal fence rattled as Madison pulled him closer, her laugh slicing through the sticky air. I tasted old pennies in my mouth. I can still see their hands and her smug, closed-eyes smile.

I didn’t say a word. I packed the ache away, zipped it up tight, and walked out to meet my dad in the parking lot.

No yelling, no drama. Just silent, numb steps back to the car. I watched the school shrink in the rearview mirror, the Georgia air thick and humid as ever.

Eight years later, at a class reunion, I’d become slim and confident.

The kind of confidence you fake until it becomes real. I wore a dress that actually fit, heels that clicked with purpose. I’d learned how to walk into a room and meet people’s eyes.

Chase crossed the banquet room—reeked of chicken fingers and over-chilled white wine, just like every school event I’d ever dreaded—to find me. "Can we talk?"

He looked older—his hair a little shorter, his face more serious. There was a hesitance in his step, almost apologetic.

I looked at the calm, composed man standing behind him—my husband, standing tall and easy, with a quiet confidence. It anchored me.

"No. My husband would get jealous."

I let the words hang there, steady and sharp, and watched the shock flicker in Chase’s eyes. There was nothing left for me in that moment except satisfaction.

I didn’t know it then, but leaving Georgia was the best thing I’d ever do. I just had to survive the reunion first.