Page 22 of A Perfect Fit

Like me, Aaron was born and bred in New York. We met on the first day of kindergarten and immediately became best buddies. Despite living in different cities for the past eight years, we still kept in frequent touch.

Aaron wanted a career change from his banking job, and he decided to pivot to marketing because, in his words, “Why not?” At least working with my best friend is something I’ve been enjoying.

“Someone’s early,” I sarcastically say.

“It’s not my fault the line at Burger Shack was massive,” Aaron protests. He sits in the chair in front of my desk and places his to-go boxes on the table, opening them up. “Blame Burger Shack, not me. You know I can’t think straight or do work on an empty stomach.”

I grab a fry, placing it inside my mouth. I’ve missed this.

“Hey!” Aaron cries, moving the box closer to his side of the table. “Don’t steal my food.”

“It’s not my fault the smell is tempting,” I say. “Blame Burger Shack, not me.”

“I know. I’m just kidding.” Aaron moves the box back to where it was originally placed and shoves two fries into his mouth. “Take as many as you want. Sharing is caring.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for another fry.

“So, did you see?” he prods.

“See what?”

Aaron rolls his eyes. “The post about the upcoming Summerhurst High reunion. I even tagged you in it. Don’t tell me you didn’t see it.”

I lean back in my seat. “Yeah, about that. I don’t know if I’m going.”

“What?” Aaron gasps, an unchewed fry falling from his mouth. “Why not?”

I state the obvious. “Well, I didn’t graduate from Summerhurst High.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aaron insists. “You still graduated with us in spirit. And besides, I already told people you’re coming, so you and your ass are gonna have to show up.”

I help myself to another fry. “I think me and my ass would rather stay at home.”

“Come on,” Aaron persists. “I’ll be there.”

“I already see you five days a week for work.”

“Fine,” Aaron scoffs, pretending to look offended. “Everyone on the speech and debate team and the football team will be there.”

I didn’t keep in touch with any of them when I moved to London. My performance suffered when my parents were going through their divorce, and I always felt like I let my team down.

Aaron takes my silence as a sign to keep talking, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. “Maybe Isabelle will be there, too. You know, the girl you claimed to ‘hate.’” He makes air quotation marks with the word hate. “Don’t you want to see her again?”

I never told Aaron about my encounter with Isabelle on my flight, or that I ran into her again at The Daily Brew, or for a third time at the market. That proved to be a good call, judging by the shit-eating grin on his face now.

“The way you two went at each other and did that thing with your eyes was actually hilarious. You guys were the literal definition of a heated debate,” Aaron adds with a laugh. “Seriously, remember how people would bet on when one of you would either end up strangling or kissing the other?”

For the record, neither of those things ever happened.

Yeah, maybe Isabelle will be attending the reunion.

Maybe Oliver will show up, too.

Oliver Morrison. He and I never liked each other. We were both on the football team, and he didn’t like that I was the quarterback instead of him. More generally, there was something about him that ticked me off, although I couldn’t work out why exactly.

I almost forgot that Isabelle dated him.

Dated. Because I stalked Isabelle’s Instagram—for the first time in years—after she accidentally liked one of my photos, and I noticed she’d deleted all her photos with him. I even went to check her following list and confirmed that she’s no longer following him. You don’t need to be a detective to know this only means one thing.