Lena turned the card over in her hands. She hadn’t been to a single reunion. Not the casual fifth at a downtown brewery, not the holiday mixers organized by the alumni committee. But this one— Reunion Seven —felt different. Not because she missed the lockers or the fluorescent hum of the cafeteria. Because of the name scrawled at the bottom of the organizing committee’s list: Julian Cross.
She was exactly where she was supposed to be. reunion7
The invitation arrived in a cream-colored envelope, heavier than it looked. Seven years. That was the headline, printed in elegant gold script beneath the embossed logo of Ridgemont High. Seven years since they’d tossed their caps into a humid June sky and scattered like seeds into the wind. Lena turned the card over in her hands
Lena stood near the punch bowl, feeling seventeen again in the worst way. She had spent an hour on her dress—deep green, fitted, confident. But the moment she walked in, she became the girl with the too-loud laugh and the secondhand backpack. But this one— Reunion Seven —felt different