Page 67 of Never Not Friends

“What was that, Emma? What did you want to document?”

Oh, dear.

I sit up straighter, my stomach dropping like I’m on one of those stupid rides that drags you up to the top of a tower just to plummet you down.

Boldly, I step in front of the camera.

Fifteen-year-old me has no fear.

Fifteen-year-old me is a liability.

“Mark my words. It’s November fifteenth, two thousand thirteen, and I’m calling it now.” My face gets right up into the frame, braces and all. “I’m going to marry Vinny Brooks.”

My entire body tenses. My eyes widen as heat floods my face, heart slamming into overdrive like it’s trying to exit my body and leave me here to deal with this alone.

“You can play this at my wedding,” teenage me continues, full of confidence, “because I will marry Vinny.”

I actually think about lunging for the TV and knocking it off the wall so that everyone has something else to focus on. There’s laughter around the room—some of it real, some of it not. The kind of laughter people use when they’re not sure where to look.

Juliet doesn’t notice. “Isn’t that hilarious?” She turns to me with the biggest, most unassuming smile. “Do you remember that?”

Do I remember declaring lifelong devotion to your fiancé in a room full of witnesses?

Vaguely.

I mean, it’s not surprising. Up until three weeks ago, when she announced a wedding date, I still thought that I was going to marry him. Somehow. Someway.

I transform my face, pulling every ounce of composure I’ve ever had into place. “No, I don’t,” I lie.

I cannot look at Vinny.

Not even a little.

Not even accidentally.

Because if I do, I will simply dissolve into the floor, and I don’t think that’s socially acceptable. Think of the carpet-cleaning expense.

Instead, I shift my gaze to Camila.

Big mistake.

She’s staring at me with an I knew it! expression so loud it might as well be projected on the wall next to the video. Her lips press together, barely containing it. The timing of her confronting me earlier and this video could not be worse.

I swallow, my throat as dry as the Sahara Desert.

And just like that, I’m back at my sixteenth birthday party. Sitting in a room where everyone knows something about me that I wish they didn’t. Everyone looking.

Everyone connecting dots. Everyone whispering, “Poor Emma. Vinny chose Juliet over her.” My chest tightens, something sharp and familiar settling in right behind my ribs.

Luckily, Juliet’s already moving on. “Okay, wait, this one is even better.” She clicks into another video from ninth grade.

The room shifts with her. Laughter picks back up. Attention moves on. Another moment from the past is dusted off and turned into entertainment. Everyone else moves forward.

But I don’t.

I’m stuck in the chaos in my chest—loud, messy embarrassment impossible to get over.

And on top of it all, from somewhere in my peripheral vision, I feel Vinny’s gaze burning into the side of my face, but I still don’t look at him.