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Her eyes landed on me. That slow, assessing scan. Then, the mouth curled. That specific, venomous smirk I hadn’t seen in a decade but recognized instantly.
“Oh. My. God,” she drawled, loud enough to turn heads. “Is that who I think it is?”
I froze. Tried to turn, blend into the small group discussing real estate near the bar. Too late. She strode over, heels clicking aggressively on the polished concrete floor. Grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. Pulled me towards a circle of vaguely familiar faces – people who’d probably watched her torment me back then.
“Guys, look!” she announced, beaming like she’d discovered a particularly interesting insect. “It’s Roach Girl! She actually came!”
Every muscle in my body seized. The air felt thick. Roach Girl. Ten years, and that’s the first thing out of her mouth.
She turned to me, still holding my wrist hostage, her voice dripping with fake sympathy but her eyes glittering with malice. “Wow, Maggie, look at you.” Her eyes did a slow, deliberate scan from my clearance-rack dress down to my sensible flats. “Still broke? Still lonely? Still… this?”
A few people in the circle chuckled nervously. A couple looked away, suddenly fascinated by their drinks. No one spoke up. Just like old times.
