The question catches me mid-sip of champagne, and I feel Daniel's hand tighten on my knee under the table. "So Daniel," Mrs. Patterson says, her voice carrying across the reunion dinner with the same authority she wielded in AP English a decade ago, "if you could go back to senior year—knowing what you know now—would you accept Maya's confession?" The ballroom goes quiet. Thirty former classmates turn to watch, forks suspended, conversations dying mid-sentence. I set down my glass carefully. My husband—Daniel Reeves, the man I married three years ago, the man who promised me everything—sits perfectly still beside me. Maya Hartwell sits directly across from us, wearing a black dress that probably costs more than my car payment. She's barely touched her food, but her wine glass is empty. She's been watching Daniel all night with the kind of focus that makes my skin crawl. "Maya's confession?" I ask, forcing lightness into my voice. "What confession?" Mrs. Patterson laughs. "Oh, you didn't know? Maya wrote Daniel the most beautiful love letter senior year. Poured her heart out. Left it in his locker the day before graduation." She beams at Maya like a proud parent. "I helped her edit it, actually. Made sure every word was perfect." My stomach drops. Daniel hasn't looked at me. He's staring at his plate, jaw tight. "Daniel never mentioned it," I say. "Because he never responded," Maya says softly. Her voice is silk over steel. "I waited all summer. Thought maybe he'd call, or write back, or..." She trails off, takes a sip from someone else's wine glass. "But nothing." "Well?" Mrs. Patterson presses, delighted by the drama she's creating. "Would you? Accept it, I mean?" This is the moment Daniel should laugh it off. Should squeeze my hand and say something diplomatic about the past being the past. Should remind everyone at this table that he's married. Instead, he looks up. Meets Maya's eyes across the centerpiece. "Yes," he says. The word lands like a stone in still water. "Daniel—" I start. "I mean, back then," he adds, but his voice lacks conviction. "If I'd known Maya felt that way. If I'd actually gotten the letter. Yeah. I would have said yes." Maya's smile is small and private, like he's given her something precious. I pull my hand away from his knee. "That's so sweet," Mrs. Patterson sighs. "Young love. The ones that got away." She turns to me, finally noticing my expression. "Oh, don't worry, dear. We all have those what-if moments, don't we?" "Sure," I manage. The conversation shifts. Someone starts telling a story about prom. Laughter ripples around the table. But I can't hear any of it over the rushing in my ears. Daniel leans close. "Vera, it didn't mean—" "Not here," I whisper. Maya stands, smoothing her dress. "Excuse me. Restroom." She walks away, and I watch every man at the table track her movement. Including my husband. Ten minutes later, she hasn't come back. "I need air," I tell Daniel, standing abruptly. "I'll come with—" "No." I leave before he can argue. The hallway outside the ballroom is blessedly empty. I press my back against the wall, close my eyes, try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. "Vera." Maya's voice makes me flinch. She's standing near the coat check, phone in hand, watching me with something that might be sympathy if I didn't know better. "I'm fine," I say. "You don't look fine." "What do you want, Maya?" She tilts her head, considering. "I want you to know I didn't plan that. Mrs. Patterson brought it up, not me." "But you answered." "She asked Daniel. I just... confirmed the story." Maya steps closer. "Look, I know this is awkward. But it was ten years ago. We were kids." "Then why did you look at my husband like that?" "Like what?" "Like you're still waiting for him to say yes." Maya's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe I am." The honesty of it winds me. "You're married," she continues. "You won. I'm not here to—" "Then why are you here at all?" "I'm moving back," Maya says simply. "Just finalized everything yesterday, actually. I bought a house in town. Thought I should reconnect with old friends." My throat goes dry. "You're moving back." "Mm-hmm. Small world, right?" She glances at her phone, then back at me. "Actually, it's an even smaller world than you think. The house I bought?" She pauses, and something flickers in her expression—triumph, maybe, or challenge. "It's the blue colonial on Maple Street. You know the one. Two stories, wraparound porch, beautiful garden." I know the one. It's next door to ours. "You bought the house next to us," I say flatly. Maya's smile widens. "I did. Guess we'll be neighbors."