I don't know what to do with myself. It's Friday morning, and I have never been so bored. Usually, around this time I'd be drafting up new ideas for new stories to pitch to Doug. And even though he'd reject every last one of my stories, I could never shake the new ideas.

But now, I was having breakfast all by myself on the rooftop of a beautiful cafe. And still—I'm so damn bored. The waitress serving me was a beautiful girl with a Spanish accent, and eyes that just couldn't seem to get enough of me.

A few years ago, I'd be all over that, maybe flirt a little here, compliment her a little there, and then leave without so much as giving her my last name. But for some reason, I just couldn't get out of my funk today. Perhaps it has something to do with losing my job at twenty-seven and having absolutely no idea what to do next. Or maybe, it was because my ex-girlfriend and I had only broken up a month ago and she was already partying it up New Zealand while on vacation.

I poured creamer into the dark brown coffee that'd been laid down in front of me by the beautiful waitress, and dipped my croissant into it before taking a large bite.

With one leg crossed over the other, I reached into my shoulder bag, and pulled out the tiny compact mirror I carried around for whenever I went out to eat.

After popping it open, I lightly coated my lips with another layer of deep red lipstick, the shade reminding me of a certain someone I try not to spend so much time thinking about. But alas, I do anyway.

"Can I get you anything else, beautiful?" The waitress asks me, her accent earning a light tingle from my inner thighs. Not enough.

I tilt my head, the shoulder of coat funnily dropping and revealing the thin strap of my dress. Her chocolate colored eyes fall almost instantly to trace the vulnerable skin. "Just the check, please."

With a daring finger, she reaches out to tap under my chin, earning a light gasp. "Of course, it'll be right out."

She walks away again, her hips swinging back and forth, almost tempting enough for me to write my name and number down on the receipt. Almost.

     My cellphone buzzes loudly on the breakfast table in front of me, earning an irritated groan. I flip the cellphone open, holding it up my ear. "Rebecca Reyes."

     "Hi, Rebecca, it's Cindy!" I don't say anything at first, wracking my brain for anybody I knew named Cindy. Who the hell was that? Probably another one of Doug's Oscar-worthy editors who just wanted to check in on me. Bunch of posers.

     I reach for the tiny spoon sitting on the napkin in front of me and use it to mix the creamer in with coffee, brows burrowing in pure confusion. "I'm sorry, who?"

     The woman on the other end laughs, seeming just as very entertained with my confusion. "Beck, it's Cindy—Cindy Burke from high school," I'm quiet again, but this time not because of confusion, but because of shock. "Don't break my heart and say you don't remember me."

     Of course I remember her. How could I forget? It's not everyday the student body president of your graduating class calls you during brunch to discuss God knows what. How did she even get my number? She was always Cher's friend—not mine.

     Cher. Haven't thought about her in a while.

     That's a lie.

     "Oh, my gosh, Cindy!" I don't really know what else to say. "It's been so long, how've you been?" I've got to admit, I've gotten pretty awful with small talk over the years. Maybe that's what happens when you start to become too comfortable.

     "Good, good. I just had a little boy not too long ago, I'm a little surprised you didn't overhear anything about it actually. Everyone was talking about it, I mean, what are the odds Johnny and I start a family right here where we grew up, you know?"

     This was the problem with Cindy; growing up, she'd always been popular and for some reason, she was under the impression that, that would carry into her adult life. Which no, it did not.

     Because how the hell was I supposed to know that she and Johnny Waynes were starting to pop out miniature evil versions of themselves. And were people really talking about it?

     I run a hand through my hair, trying to gather a not-to-bullshitty response. "Of course, you guys did. I really did not expect anything less." Not the best, but it sufficed.

     "Well, I was just calling because you haven't responded to that email I sent you yet about the reunion and I was just wondering if you were gonna come and check it out," I'm seconds away from replying with a big fat no, but she's talking again before I can. "And you know—Cherrie's coming."

     I pause.

     I knew that there was about a 98% chance that she was lying to me. But still, I found it hard to form an actual sentence. Was Cher going? And if she was going, was it smart for me to go, too? Because I hadn't seen her since graduation and I had no idea what sort of feelings would resurface if I were to spend the entire weekend with her.

     "I-Is she, really?" My tone is so soft and hesitant that I'm unsure if Cindy caught it.

     Then, she's laughing again, causing my nostrils to flare in pure anger. She doesn't seem to care, continuing on in her laughing stock. "I'm only kidding, sweetheart. She hasn't replied yet, either. I'm gonna give her a call after you and I hang up."

     My fingers tighten on cellphone, the hand that was once running itself through my strands or long dark hair, pausing. "Actually, Cindy, thank you for the offer but I think I'm gonna have to pass. I have a lot to get down out here over the weekend and I just don't think I'll have any time."

     "Wait, Beck, but I need to know—"

     "The answers no, sweetheart." I slam the cellphone shut, pushing in the antenna.

My finger hovered over the send button for longer than I care to recall, the adrenaline pulsing through my veins like a drug. I'd spent my entire rest of my night last drafting up this stupid email to Cindy Burke about how I would not be attending the ten-year-reunion.

But then I completely chickened out and decided to sleep on it before I came up with an official answer.

     And now, it was Friday morning, I was sitting at my desk with my tall foam cup of espresso and have still not come up with courage to send the email. I knew that I sent it and somehow changed my mind later, I could always send another email, but for some reason—that wasn't good enough for me.

     My eyes traced the short paragraph of a response I'd typed out the night before, the words being burned into the far corner of my brain where all of the other thoughts and feelings about high school sat. A corner that I only visited whenever I was alone and had a bottle of tequila in my hand.

Dear Cindy,

Thank you so much for the invitation but unfortunately, with renovating and expanding my restaurant, I don't think I'll be able to make it. But it's been so good to hear from you again, and I hope we can get together soon!

My throat dried a little at the email I'd typed out the night before. In person, I was hardly ever that kind and two-faced. But it was Cindy Burke—she was doing the exact same thing.

But what I struggled with was whether or not I was actually going to press send. If I did, and I didn't go to the reunion, I'd always wonder what happened and if she happened to show up. I was about 85% sure she wouldn't, but still—what if she did and I completely missed it?

What would I do if I had to hear stories about how she looked, after, and how she was doing? It would drive me insane not being able to see for myself.

My finger darted out to click the backspace button repeatedly, until the words of pure nonsense were gone.

I took a deep breath.

Dear Cindy,

I appreciate the invitation, I might be able to swing a quick weekend away for the reunion. You can go ahead and email my assistant the address, time, and whatever else is necessary at @-MellisaWilkins

     I was about a split second away from typing out a pathetic, also, do you have any idea if Rebecca Reyes will be attending? Remember her? The girl you and I and the rest of our friends teased for years until I inevitably fell in love with her until we had the messiest breakup known to man?

     Thankfully, I decided to not say that. She'd probably have a heart attack if I did, anyway.

     I bit onto my bottom lip while my finger hovered dangerously over the send button. What's the worst that could happen? I go and have a terrible weekend? I could always come back to Chicago and forget it ever even happened.

     I hit send.