Page 2 of Later Bloom

Usually, Aubrey would say, at his own high school reunion, really? but tonight it’s the wrong tone. Maggie is practically vibrating with nerves, and the glass she was previously drinking from has been empty so long it’s gone dry. So Aubrey offers, “Well that’s rancid.”

“Mm. No fuss about it, really. It’s been years. It’s just, well, I thought maybe he wouldn’t show up. Since I put the whole thing together and all.”

“Right. Maybe he thinks enough time’s passed by now. I mean, it’s been a while.”

On the walls around them, stately portraits of past principals and vice-principals watch on with a judging eye. Aubrey ignores them pointedly. To Maggie, she offers, “Who’s told you he’s here? Maybe you won’t even run into him.”

“Oh, I already have. He obviously looks incredible. Like he hasn’t had a carb in years.”

“Why are you surprised? Weren’t you checking his feed the past few years? Mags.” Aubrey tuts. “It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

Maggie winces. “Ah, no, remember one of my exes made me block him everywhere? And then I figured it was one of those healthy habits I might as well keep up with. Like a gym membership, sticking with white wine.” She waves about her empty glass. “Do you need a refill at all?”

“I’ll come with.”

There’s no way Aubrey is leaving Maggie’s side. The risk of standing there on her own and meeting the inquisitive eye of people who weren’t too interested in talking to her ten years earlier makes her sweat in places she didn’t dare slather on deodorant. The dark silk of her dress sticks to her where it’s meant to hang loose. Her hair is up in a bun that she tried too hard to make look effortless. Crowds get her much too flustered for her hair to even graze the nape of her neck.

She makes herself small in Maggie’s shadow, trailing along with her eyes on the floor. Though she insists, quietly to herself, that she doesn’t care, she clings on with curiosity to the bits of conversations that reach her ears—talk of new jobs, heinous bosses, how nice it is to get out of the house, isn’t it, away from the kids for a bit, and how much are you charging for your babysitter, by the way? Someone is showing off a new ring, followed by gasps and congratulations, questions about the lucky fiancé, how it’s too bad he couldn’t make it tonight.

Maggie rolls her eyes at Aubrey. “Everyone’s been on my case for not allowing plus ones,” she says, an explanation to a question Aubrey didn’t even think to ask.

She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Ignore them. No one else bothered putting this thing together in the first place.”

“Right.”

They stop at the bar and Maggie sets her empty glass on the counter with a commanding jut of her chin. Bubbles fizzle and sparkle a nearly amber shade in the dim light. The truth is, Aubrey is glad they weren’t allowed a plus one. She much prefers it to the thought of standing by herself in a sea of tired new parents and fiancés and couples with hands on each other’s lower backs, asking her how come she didn’t bring anyone, and how things have been, and isn’t it so funny how this is a little like prom after all?

She knocks back the rest of her drink and sets it down where Maggie’s glass sat a second before. Bubbles appear like magic. Aubrey flashes a smile she hopes comes off as empathetic to the bartender, who doesn’t meet her eye.

Maggie says, “You’re drinking on me tonight,” and pulls out a comically large coil of blue tickets, sliding two of them across the bar.

All Aubrey finds to say in return is, “Okay.” She takes a sip, heavy and sharp on her tongue. Fizzy alcohol tastes more or less the same to her, but she decides she likes this one. She wonders if the people around her would agree, people who not so long ago couldn’t care less how the booze they drank tasted so long as it got them wasted. Someone calls for Maggie, whose eyes double in size.

It’s too quick for Aubrey to decide whether Maggie’s reaction is good or bad. “Who is it?” she asks through closed teeth, but the answer comes as a squeal, high and crisp above the chatter.

“You bitch!”

Promising enough. Aubrey risks turning around.

A sea of auburn hair engulfs the both of them along with the powdery, floral smell of hairspray. “Oh, my god, hi! You’re here!” Gold hoops and a wide smile, long arms that hold them in for a three-way hug. “I wasn’t sure you were coming!”

“Maggie talked me into it,” Aubrey says pitifully. The hug lasts half a second too long and then they part. It’s almost painful how good Ivory looks. Aubrey jokes, “I’m starting to wonder why I even bothered showing up.”

“Oh, stop!” Ivory’s nickname was Vivian for a long time when they were in school together. Mostly because of her resemblance to Pretty Woman’s leading lady, and also because the boys in their class loved how angry their teachers got at the reference, at their insolence to compare a teenage girl to such a character. But Ivory loved it. She’d dressed up in different Julia Roberts looks for Halloween for as long as Aubrey could remember. “You’re stunning!”

Ivory motions at Aubrey as though she’s really something to behold, eyebrows too high on her forehead, mouth agape. Then she clasps her hands together and says matter-of-factly, “It should be illegal we haven’t seen each other in so long.” It’s the sort of thing they say now, as adult women.

“I know, yeah!” The words sound so dreadfully rehearsed. Ivory’s hand moves to Aubrey’s arm and gives a long squeeze

“Must be a bit weird being back here,” Ivory says, almost too quietly in the crowd.

Aubrey decides she doesn’t know what that means. She insists on smiling. “Must be weird for everyone.”

Ivory nods. Her gaze travels to the faces around them. “No, I know,” she says, “but I mean, you know. With people being so awful to you.” Next to Aubrey, Maggie is focused on anything but the two of them.

Ivory’s always been like this, a bit grave, heavy-handed with the cryptic statements, as if she’s trying to get you to admit something she knows you won’t admit to yourself. It used to have more of an effect on Aubrey, but she’s older now. She’s had too much time on her own to think things over, to ask herself questions she used to dread hearing from other people.

“We were kids,” Aubrey says, and she relaxes in the comfort of these words. She’s mulled this over a lot in the last few years. She’s learned to remove her present self from the guilt of things she handled differently, maybe poorly, when she was younger. So long as she doesn’t think about it too long. “You think I’m the only one walking around here tonight with shitty memories?”