Welcome to Dark Honey, where we share spicy short stories for adults. Escape inside a world of romance and fantasy while you close your eyes, relax, and listen to the next episode

I almost didn't come. For three weeks, the invitation sat on my kitchen counter, tucked beneath unopened bills and grocery coupons, as though ignoring it would somehow erase the fact that fifteen years had passed since graduation. Fifteen years since volleyball practices that stretched into sunsets.

Fifteen years since cafeteria lunches that lasted too long because neither of us wanted to leave the table. Fifteen years since Sunny. By the time I parked outside the hotel, I had convinced myself that I wasn't here to relive the past. I was only here because curiosity is a stubborn [00:01:00] thing. The ballroom buzzed with familiar voices wrapped around unfamiliar faces. Time had softened everyone differently. Former football stars now wore expensive suits stretched across comfortable middles.

The academic overachievers clustered together comparing careers and graduate degrees. The drama kids were somehow still the loudest people in the room, laughing with theatrical enthusiasm. High school hadn't disappeared, it had simply grown older.

I tugged at the sleeves of my navy blazer and glanced at my reflection in one of the polished mirrors lining the hallway. Medium height, lean, more freckles than I remembered having at eighteen. My short black curls framed my face in every direction, no matter how much product I used.

College had changed me. Life had changed me. Back then, I couldn't explain why I felt different whenever Sunny smiled at me. I only knew my heart behaved [00:02:00] differently around her than it did around anyone else. It wasn't until sophomore year of college that I finally understood the word bisexual belonged to me. Understanding it, however, hadn't made confessing any easier.

I drafted the email at least six times over the years. Every version started the same way. Hey, Sunny, I know this is going to sound strange." None of them were ever sent. Eventually, she stopped appearing online. Life became jobs, cities, deadlines, rent payments, birthdays forgotten through distance instead of neglect.

Minnesota, that's where someone had told me she'd moved, and she got married, had a daughter, and by all accounts was pretty happy. I'd repeated those facts to myself for years like they were reasons to let go, and they should have been enough, but they never were. I wandered toward the refreshments, accepting a name tag and a glass of sparkling water I had no [00:03:00] intention of finishing.

Conversations floated around me in overlapping waves. "Remember Coach Thompson?" "I can't believe we're almost 40." "My son starts middle school next year." The music shifted into an early 2000s anthem, and for a second, I was 17 again, laughing in the backseat of Sunny's old Honda while we were screaming lyrics with the windows down.

My chest tightened. Don't think about her. She's probably here with her husband. Then someone near the entrance gasped, "Sunny!" I turned before I realized I was moving. There she was. Every memory I carried for 15 years suddenly seemed blurry compared to the woman walking through the ballroom.

She had always been beautiful. Memory hadn't exaggerated it. Her long, dark hair fell over her shoulders like silk catching moonlight. It moved with effortless confidence as she hugged old classmates.

Her almond-shaped eyes still held that [00:04:00] quiet warmth that made people feel as though they were the only person in the room. Her lips curved into an easy smile that hadn't changed since high school. Time had refined her rather than altered her.

She wasn't the girl I remembered. There was something richer and more certain, elegant without trying. My heartbeat stumbled. 15 years, and somehow my ridiculous crush had survived every one of them. I looked around for the husband. Other than Carl, the guy in our class who was on that reality dating show, I didn't see anyone near her.

She was wearing jewelry, but no wedding ring on her finger. Hmm. Maybe he stayed in the room. Maybe he was parking. I reminded myself not to be ridiculous. Then I heard someone ask her, "So where's your family?" Sunny smiled politely. "Oh, it's just me tonight." Trisha, who was a notorious gossip and not the [00:05:00] most subtle person in the world said, "I heard about the divorce.

I'm so sorry." Some things never changed, I guess. But one word hung in the air, divorce. Suddenly, Sunny gave a small shrug. "It was the right decision. Hard, but right." The conversation drifted as another classmate pulled her into a hug. I couldn't move. Sunny was divorced? The word echoed louder than the music.

Not because I was happy she'd been hurt, never that.

Because for the first time in 15 years, every excuse I'd hidden behind quietly dissolved. But that didn't mean she was available. Just because she was divorced didn't mean that she would all of a sudden realize how much she loved her friend from high school.

"Get it together, Jax," I said to myself quietly. "She's your friend, if she even remembers you." Then she looked up, straight at me. Recognition bloomed across her face so quickly I didn't have time [00:06:00] to prepare. "Jax?" Her voice carried exactly the way I remembered. Soft, bright, like hearing your favorite song after forgetting it existed.

I smiled before realized I was smiling. "Sunny!" She crossed the room in seconds, squealing like she used to when she was excited about a new favorite song. Then she wrapped her arms around me. The hug lasted longer than polite reunions usually do.

Long enough for old memories to slide effortlessly back into place. She still smelled faintly of jasmine. Some things apparently refused to change. When she finally stepped back, she laughed. "I can't believe it's really you. I was hoping you'd be here.

I'm so upset with myself that we didn't stay in touch." "I was thinking the same thing." She looked over at me, smiling. She touched my hair gently. "You cut your hair." "You noticed?" "I always The words landed somewhere deep inside [00:07:00] me before either of us seemed to realize she said them.

She smiled again and looked away nervously, like she'd accidentally revealed a secret. "So, tell me everything." And somehow, I did. We found a quiet corner away from the louder groups and caught each other up on 15 missing years. She told me about Minnesota, about working for a respected law firm that specialized in corporate litigation.

She admitted she enjoyed the challenge more than she'd expected, though winter still felt like punishment every January. I told her about Chicago, about becoming a copywriter for one of the city's major newspapers, about deadlines that arrive faster than inspiration, about learning that writing headlines wasn't nearly as glamorous as people imagined.

She laughed exactly where I remembered she'd laugh. She leaned forward when she listened, and maybe it was my imagination, but the only thing that changed was the look in her eyes as she spoke to [00:08:00] me.

It had a strange intensity that I'd never noticed before. I brushed it off as maturity and the fact that I hadn't really seen her in years. Soon we weren't discussing careers anymore, remembering volleyball tournaments, bus rides, inside jokes.

The time we accidentally locked Coach Thompson outside the gym after practice. Sunny laughed so hard that she nearly spilled her drink. Her eyes stayed on mine a second longer than necessary. Heat climbed into my face. Was I imagining that? Probably. Definitely. Maybe? The DJ shifted into another song from our senior year.

It was one of those songs that we used to scream, "That's my jam," and run out onto the dance floor. Sunny looked at me and cocked my head towards the dance floor. I laughed and nodded in agreement and followed her out there. She reached for my hand before either of us thought about it, her fingers wrapped around mine.

Her warm, confident touch felt natural [00:09:00] next to my uncertain one. Every nerve in my body noticed. The dance floor filled with classmates attempting to reclaim knees that had worked much better at 18. We laughed until our sides hurt. Neither of us cared how ridiculous we looked. We sang the lyrics half correctly and way off-key, spun each other around, forgot we were adults, forgot that we were supposed to have become composed professionals with mortgages and sensible schedules.

The DJ continued the trip down memory lane, and for the next four songs, we were simply Sunny and Jax again. When the music slowed, neither of us immediately stepped apart. Instead, we stood there catching our breath. She smiled at me. "You haven't changed." I laughed softly. "Oh, I definitely have."

"So have I." There was something in the way she said it, something quieter than nostalgia, something more serious. The rest of the evening drifted comfortably around us. We floated between [00:10:00] conversations, introduced each other to people we'd both forgotten, and found ourselves repeatedly wandering back together as though some invisible thread kept pulling us into the same orbit.

Eventually, the reunion began thinning out. People hugged goodbye, phones appeared for last-minute photos, and promises to stay in touch floated through the ballroom with varying degrees of sincerity. Sunny looked toward the elevators. " I actually booked a room here.

I didn't wanna worry about driving after having a couple of drinks." " That's smart. I probably should have done that too," I said. "You can always stay with me," Sunny said softly and looked at me, then cleared her throat. "I'm not ready to quite call it a night.

Do you think you wanna hang out with me at the hotel bar? It's open for a little while longer, I think." I glanced toward the lounge overlooking the lobby. "I could definitely handle another glass of wine."

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