Chapter 3: The Perfect Stranger

No one knew how ugly our breakup really was.

The rumors barely scratched the surface. People saw the aftermath, not the wreckage that led us there. I wore a brave face, told everyone I was fine. No one suspected the truth.

Someone pushed me toward Derek, laughing, "Derek used to love Natalie so much he didn’t care about his own life. How could he bear to let her go?"

It was all a game to them—like we were characters in a high school soap opera, not two people with scars that still bled. I managed a half-smile, even as my hands trembled.

Everyone started making a fuss, saying we should get back together.

The old crowd, a little tipsy and nostalgic, egged us on with chants and sly winks. It stung more than I’d admit.

Derek’s friend glanced at me, sneered, and suddenly said, "What kind of woman can’t Derek get? Who is Natalie, why should my buddy keep thinking about her?"

He said there was a woman who had been with Derek for three years.

She was gentler and prettier than me, more suitable to be Derek’s girlfriend.

Derek had been dating her for three years. His friends all called her future Mrs. Walker, and it was said they were about to get married.

I felt my cheeks burn. I tried to keep my eyes on the table, picking at the edge of my plastic cup, pretending I didn’t care. But inside, it twisted like a knife.

The laughter stopped. Only Derek’s friend was still smiling, inviting everyone to attend Derek’s wedding.

He flung the invitation, tossing it at my face. It landed in my lap.

I looked down and saw Derek’s name on the invitation, and next to his, another girl’s name.

That girl was called Lillian. She looked like someone who’d have been voted Homecoming Queen—blonde, polished, the kind of girl who always had the best Halloween costumes. Just from her name, you could tell she was a good girl.

It was a soft, Southern-belle kind of name—Lillian Rose Miller, the kind of girl who volunteers at the library and never misses Sunday service. My heart clenched a little at how perfect she seemed.

I thought, she must be more sensible and easygoing than me, better at caring for others, and wouldn’t always make Derek sad.

I tried to picture them together—her fixing his tie, laughing at his jokes. I wondered if she’d ever made him angry, or if she always just smoothed out his rough edges.

Six years apart, meeting again after so long, knowing Derek was doing well—that was enough.

I tried to convince myself I meant that, tried to find relief in the idea that he’d moved on. That at least one of us had.

I held back the tears that nearly fell, looked up, and said to Derek, "Congratulations."

My voice almost cracked, but I managed to steady it, pushing all the memories aside.

Derek stared at me. Hearing my congratulations, he suddenly smiled, stubbed out his cigarette hard, and said coldly, "Natalie, don’t come to the wedding."

His tone made my skin crawl. There was a finality there, like a door slamming shut.

"If my fiancée sees you, she’ll be upset. If she’s upset, I’ll feel bad."

I gripped the thin white invitation, stunned.

It felt like a slap, even though I knew it was coming. I pressed my lips together, willing myself not to cry.

Smiling, I nodded and replied softly, "Okay."

The word barely left my throat, but I made myself say it. I wouldn’t give him—or anyone—more reason to pity me.