Too Late For Regret: The Lawyer's Comeback

Emily Carter POV:

The news that I wasn’t applying to Princeton with Kevin and Jack, and that they were staying local for Brittany, spread through Northwood High like wildfire.

The graduation party was at Sarah Miller’s house, her backyard strung with fairy lights.

“Can you believe it?” I heard Tiffany whisper to Megan by the punch bowl. “Kevin and Jack, ditching the Ivy League for Brittany Mason. She must be something special.”

“And Emily choosing Berkeley out of nowhere? Sounds like sour grapes to me,” Megan snickered.

My cheeks burned. I kept my head down, fiddling with the strap of my dress.

Brittany was holding court near the makeshift dance floor. Kevin was on one side, laughing at something she said, his arm casually draped over the back of her chair. Jack was on the other, refilling her drink, looking at her with an expression of intense concentration, as if her every word was a profound revelation.

He used to look at me that way when we debated physics problems.

“Brittany, you just focus on being happy,” Kevin was saying, his voice carrying over the music. “We’ll handle the academics.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, don’t stress about classes. We’ll make sure you pass everything. Your well-being is what’s important.”

In my first life, after my dad passed, I fell into a deep depression. The doctors told Kevin and Jack to try and make me laugh, to keep my spirits up.

They never told me a single joke. Not once.

Now, they were a regular comedy duo for Brittany.

I clutched the graduation yearbook in my lap. I’d planned to get their signatures, a memento of our lifelong friendship, even if I was going to California.

Stupid, I know.

Brittany glanced over, her eyes, bright and calculating, landed on me.

“Oh, Emily,” she called out, her voice syrupy sweet. “Still planning on that big move to California? Or are you hoping to stick around and, you know, get tutored by the boys too?”

Kevin’s head snapped towards me, his expression hardening. “Don’t get any ideas, Emily. We’re busy.”

Jack, ever the diplomat, softened slightly. “If you really want us to sign your yearbook, I guess we can. But Brittany needs our SAT notes. Yours are the best, Emily. She’s really struggling.”

My meticulously organized SAT notes. Three years of highlighting, color-coding, and annotations. The key to my near-perfect score.

For Brittany.

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

“Sure,” I said, my voice flat. “She can borrow them. The notes won’t do me much good anymore.”

I wouldn’t need them for Berkeley’s entrance. My acceptance was already in hand, a secret I held close.

“And the yearbook?” Jack pressed, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, standing up. “I don’t need it.”

Kevin smirked. “Playing hard to get, Emily? Fine. Give it here.”

He snatched the yearbook from my hands. Jack leaned over.

They scribbled quickly.

Kevin handed it back, a smug look on his face.

I opened it later, alone in my car.

Under “Most Likely to Succeed,” they’d written nothing for me.

Under “Favorite Memories,” they’d detailed a recent trip to the lake with Brittany.

Then, scrawled across my photo, in Kevin’s blocky handwriting: “Good luck with ‘California’.”

And in Jack’s neat script beneath it: “Hope you find what you’re looking for. We already have.”

The implication was clear.

I tore the page out, ripped it into tiny pieces, and let them scatter in the wind as I drove away.