Chapter 3 - The Prom Photograph
Before Ryan could dig his conversational grave any deeper, the overhead lights dimmed, and the reunion slideshow kicked off on the dual projection screens mounted near the stage. Grainy, sepia-toned photographs from two decades ago began flashing across the room to a soundtrack of nineties pop hits.
Then came the infamous slide. A photograph of Ryan and Lauren at their senior prom, both of them wearing tacky cardboard paper crowns, his arm locked tightly around her waist while her hand pressed flat against his chest. The ballroom erupted into laughter and nostalgic hooting. Someone near the center tables hollered, "Recreate it right now!" and a chorus of voices joined in, demanding a live-action remake of the iconic high school memory.
Ryan stiffened. He slowly turned his head to look at me before standing up from his chair.
That single glance mattered more than a thousand spoken words. By that moment, Ryan knew exactly how deeply uncomfortable I was. He wasn't looking at me to share a joke; he was silently testing my boundaries, asking for tacit permission so he could absolve himself of the guilt of making the choice alone. He wanted me to nod, to smile, to be the "cool wife" who sacrificed her peace for his ego.
Instead, I looked straight into his eyes and said, "Do whatever you think is appropriate."
He froze. He stared at me, blinking in confusion, because suddenly I had stripped away his excuse. The responsibility wasn't shared anymore—it was dumped squarely back into his lap, where it belonged.
He went anyway.
At first, under the blinding glare of the projector lights, they posed awkwardly while the crowd jeered good-naturedly. But the audience wasn't satisfied; people started shouting that the pose wasn't dramatic enough, that it didn't match the original photograph. Lauren laughed, tossing her head back theatrically, and teased him for being stiff.
That was all the invitation Ryan needed. He slid his hand down from her shoulder blade, planting it firmly back on her lower waist, pulling her flush against his body. The crowd’s cheering spiked into a roaring approval. Emboldened by the applause, someone near the front yelled, "Closer! Kiss the prom queen!"
Lauren turned her face toward his cheek, perhaps intending a harmless, playful peck. But whether Ryan misjudged the distance, or whether they had both stepped so deeply into their shared adolescent fantasy that they forgot the rest of the world existed, their mouths met. It was only for a fraction of a second—a clumsy, intoxicated collision of lips—but the ballroom exploded into wild applause.
May you like
Ryan instantly jerked backward as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes widened, and he looked straight across the room, locking onto my seat at table nine.
I didn't wait for him to cross the floor. I stood up smoothly, scooped my leather clutch off the table, and turned toward the exit.
