“Hey, Charlotte. How long has it been? Fifteen years? Maybe more?”
“Probably more. But you haven’t changed a bit.”
“*You’ve* changed. You look lovely.”
Emily studied the face of her once-best friend, hardly believing they’d actually run into each other—not just anywhere, but at their daughters’ free trial dance class, bumping into one another like something out of a telly drama.
“Thanks, Em,” Charlotte replied with a faint smile.
She wanted to return the compliment, but the words wouldn’t come. They’d run out over fifteen years ago, the last time they’d spoken—a hard, messy conversation Charlotte still remembered with a shudder.
“Who did you bring?” Emily asked. “Son or daughter?”
“Daughter. Veronica. She’s ten. You?”
“Also a daughter—Sophie. Just turned nine.” A pause. Then, bluntly: “Did you end up marrying James? Or was that just talk?”
Charlotte blinked. Was Emily *still* holding onto the idea that she’d stolen her boyfriend—and married him, no less? All these years, and Em hadn’t budged an inch.
“Let’s grab a coffee downstairs. We can sit, catch up properly.”
Emily stiffened. Clearly, the idea of lingering with her ex-best-turned-rival wasn’t appealing. But after a moment, she nodded. So much time had passed; they’d both built lives. What was the point in keeping up walls?
“Alright.”
They walked in silence, stealing sideways glances. Both were dying to know how the other had turned out, but neither dared broach the past—not yet.
They chatted about nothing and everything. Turned out Emily had moved back to Sheffield two years ago—her mum had fallen ill, needed care, and she’d convinced her husband to relocate.
“It wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “But Oliver’s brilliant. Kind, patient. I’m lucky.”
Charlotte smiled. So Em had a good life—a loving husband, a daughter. Maybe she wasn’t still holding a grudge? But no—less than a minute later, Emily circled back:
“And you? Did you marry James? Have his kid? Are you happy?”
Charlotte flinched. *Why did life have to twist like this?* They’d been inseparable since nursery—sandbox squabbles, primary school secrets, teenage sleepovers—only to ruin it all over *him*. She’d thought Emily had moved on, but here she was, still convinced Charlotte had built her happiness on her heartbreak.
“Em, you *actually* believe there was ever anything between me and James? We talked it out—I *tried* explaining. I thought you *understood*—just pretended not to because you were hurt.”
Emily pressed her lips thin—a habit Charlotte remembered from childhood, whenever Em was upset or out of arguments. It made her look ten again.
“I didn’t think about you at all,” Emily muttered, unconvincingly. “I’ve had my own life.”
“You’ve spent *fifteen years* assuming I married him, and now you’re pretending you never cared?”
Emily scoffed, looked away. Charlotte studied her profile, wondering if she’d ever truly forgiven her—or if she still believed Charlotte had betrayed her.
“I *didn’t* think about it,” Emily repeated. “That last conversation… I cut you *both* out. And your ‘nothing happened’ line? Always sounded like lies.”
*So she never forgave me.* With a sigh, Charlotte pulled out her phone, scrolled, then handed it over.
“Look. That’s my husband, Thomas. Remember Tom Bennett? The gangly bloke who fancied me, the one you called a ‘boring bookworm’?”
Emily squinted at the photos—Thomas grinning at a barbecue, holding a toddler, kissing Charlotte at some seaside resort. Her eyes widened.
“You *actually* married Bennett? I thought you were joking—that nothing serious would happen with him!”
“Daughter *and* son,” Charlotte corrected. “Andrew’s nearly thirteen, Veronica’s ten. I’m happy, Em. Just like you. And there was *never* anything between me and James—he made it all up to end things with you *and* split us apart.”
Emily’s lips thinned again, and Charlotte’s patience snapped. *Enough.* What was the point of dredging this up? Their friendship could’ve lasted a lifetime if James hadn’t decided to play puppet master.
They’d met at five, neighbours on the same Sheffield cul-de-sac. A fight over a doll—Charlotte’s prized Barbie—had nearly turned into a scrap before Charlotte’s mum stepped in. “You don’t take what isn’t yours,” she’d scolded. Emily had burst into tears, ashamed, until Charlotte silently handed over the doll. *”Play with it. I’ll wait.”*
From then on, they were inseparable—same primary school, same secondary, even the same uni. Then, second year, James showed up—transferred from Leeds, all confidence and cheeky grins. Emily was smitten instantly.
“Charlie, I’m *in love*,” she’d gushed a week later. “He’s *perfect*.”
Charlotte had been thrilled. Emily had never been boy-mad before, and she’d cheered her on—until the atmosphere turned frosty.
“You think *you* have a chance with him?” Emily had snapped once, out of nowhere.
Charlotte recoiled. Where was *this* coming from? Sure, she’d dated a bit—Tom included—but Emily had never cared. Until James.
Turns out, he’d been playing them. New Year’s Eve, he cornered Charlotte at a party. *”I fancy you. More than the other one.”*
“You’re *with Emily*,” she’d hissed.
He smirked. *”Slept together a few times. Doesn’t mean we’re *together*.”*
Disgusted, she’d kicked him out. Next day, Emily stormed in, sobbing.
*”How could you? You *knew* I loved him! You *knew* we were together, and you still threw yourself at him!”*
Charlotte had been stunned. *”What are you *talking* about?”*
*”Don’t lie! He *told* me—you went to him, said we’d never last, offered yourself up! You *knew* I was—”* A shaky breath. *”I’m *pregnant*, Charlie. And he’s walking away—because of *you*!”*
*”That’s not *true*!”*
The slap rang loud. Emily’s face was furious. *”I hate you. You ruined *everything*.”*
She’d vanished—moved to Manchester, left no forwarding address. Charlotte had tried reaching out, but Emily’s parents shut her out.
And James? He’d shacked up with a lecturer within weeks.
—
Fifteen years later, here they were. Mid-thirties, kids, marriages—but the wound still raw.
“You never let me explain,” Charlotte said softly. “You wouldn’t listen. I *knew* what James was, but I didn’t say—because I knew you loved him.”
Emily checked her watch, stood abruptly. “Class is nearly over. Let’s get the girls.”
They stood side-by-side outside the studio, watching their daughters twirl.
“You still angry?” Emily asked suddenly. “About the slap?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No. You were hormonal, heartbroken. I just wish we’d talked. Fifteen years of silence over *nothing*.”
Emily turned, a flicker of a smile. “Funny thing—I just thought: if not for James, I’d never have met Oliver. No Sophie. No happy life.”
Charlotte smiled back as Veronica barrelled into her. Sophie, mirror image of Emily, did the same.
“Fancy taking the girls to the park this weekend?” Emily asked.
Charlotte hesitated—then nodded.
It wouldn’t be the same as before. No more late-night chats, no more finishing each other’s sentences. But the anger? The weight of unsaid things? *That* could finally lift. And that—was better than nothing.
