Gemotions

The invitation felt flimsy in Amelia’s hand, just like Maya's carefully constructed apology. Twenty years. Twenty years since the beach bonfire, the one they both swore was the pivotal night of their friendship. Twenty years since Maya had, according to Maya, "heroically" saved Amelia from a rogue wave. Amelia remembered it differently. She remembered Maya screaming, grabbing at her arm, nearly pulling them both under.

Amelia smoothed the paper, a flicker of something sharp in her chest. She would go. She would smile. She would, if the opportunity arose, delicately remind Maya that she had spent the entire night shivering and coughing, while Maya preened, basking in the glow of the bonfire and the perceived heroism.

Her fingers tightened, leaving tiny indentations in the parchment. It would be a joy to watch Maya squirm, remembering things just a little differently. Maybe, just maybe, she’d bring up that little detail about the stolen ice cream cone. The one Maya had always insisted was Amelia's idea.