I hired an actor to stand beside me at my high school reunion because I couldn’t face my bully and my ex-husband alone. I thought I was only buying myself one night of courage, but when my bully recognized him, the story she’d told about me finally started to fall apart.
That afternoon, I erased the words ‘Unreliable Narrator’ from the whiteboard as my last literature student filed out of the lecture hall.
“Don’t forget,” I called after them, “the person telling the story isn’t always the person telling the truth.”
A few students laughed, and for one quiet minute, I felt like myself.
Then my phone buzzed.
I glanced down.
“Come to our reunion. All our friends will be there, and even your ex, Mark, now my fiancé. We’re really looking forward to seeing you. XOXO, Miriam.”
Just like that, I was 17 again.
I sat down hard and read the message three times.
The words didn’t change.
Miriam had made my life unbearable all through high school. She mocked my thrift-store sweaters, my library books, and my careful answers in class.
She called me “Miss Perfect” until people stopped using my name.
Years later, she found Mark, my husband, and fed him a new version of me. Cold. Judgmental. Hard to love. The kind of woman who made a man feel small.
Mark believed her.
By the time I understood what was happening, my marriage already had Miriam’s voice in it.
For two weeks, I stared at that reunion message every night.
My friend Felicia found me in my office one afternoon.
“Delete it,” she said after reading the message. “You’re not going.”
“If I don’t, she’ll tell everyone I was too scared to show my face.”
“So let her talk.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “I always did.”
Felicia softened. “Then don’t go alone.”
That night, I opened my laptop and did the only thing that made sense to my tired, wounded brain.
I hired an actor to be my plus-one. Not a boyfriend, not an escortt.
An actor, through a real talent agency, for a social event. I didn’t need romance. I needed one person beside me who hadn’t already been handed Miriam’s version of me.
His name was Solomon, and we met two days before the reunion in a coffee shop near campus.
He arrived in a gray blazer, handsome enough to make me consider fleeing through the back door.
“You’re Dorcas?” he asked.
His mouth twitched. “That bad?”
“I’m hiring a stranger to help me survive a high school reunion. What do you think?”
“Fair.” He sat across from me. “Your booking notes were clear. No fake romance, no kissing, no jealousy act.”
“I’m an English lecturer,” I said. “I hate cheap fiction.”
He laughed, and I relaxed a little.
“So what exactly is my role?” he asked.
“A steady witness,” I said. “Miriam bullied me for years. Then she helped end my marriage by telling my ex-husband the same kind of lies. Now she’s invited me to watch her stand beside him.”
Solomon’s face changed. It wasn’t pity. It was attention.
“That’s cruel.”
“She’s very good at cruel.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to lie more than we have to. I just want one night where I don’t feel like I’m apologizing for existing.”
Solomon nodded. “Then look back when she looks at you like she won.”
My eyes burned. “You make that sound easy.”
“I didn’t say easy. I said possible.”
He signed the contract.
“Steady witness,” he said. “No grand romance. No lies we can’t walk back from. We have a deal, Dorcas.”
On Friday night, I changed dresses three times before choosing the navy one with the silhouette that made me feel seen.
When Solomon knocked at 7:00, I opened the door before I could lose courage.
In the car, he glanced at my shaking hands. “Want to rehearse?”
“No. If I rehearse, I’ll sound rehearsed. I was horrible at drama.”
At the high school, music spilled from the gym. The reunion banner hung over the doors.
My hand tightened around my purse.
“I can’t do this.”
Solomon turned off the engine. “You can, but you don’t have to pretend it’s easy.”
I looked at the bright gym doors. “She wants me to walk in small.”
So I got out.
Solomon offered his arm.
I took it.
The second we stepped inside, people turned. A few whispered, and my 17-year-old self reached for the nearest exit.
Then Miriam appeared.
She moved through the crowd like she owned the air. Mark followed half a step behind her, older than I remembered and less sure of himself than I expected.
“Dorcas,” Miriam said, spreading her arms. “You actually came.”
“I did.”
Her eyes moved to Solomon. “Well. You brought someone.”
Solomon held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Miriam ignored it and looked him up and down.
“Someone’s doing charity work.”
My face warmed.
Before I could answer, Solomon tilted his head. “Jealousy is a sin, ma’am.”
A few people nearby laughed. Miriam’s smile twitched.
Mark cleared his throat. “You look well, Dorcas.”
He glanced at Miriam. “I’m glad you came.”
I wanted to ask if he’d ever wondered whether Miriam had lied.
Instead, I said, “It’s good to see familiar faces.”
Miriam laughed softly. “Oh, Dorcas. Still so careful.”
There it was. The little needle.
Careful Dorcas. Cold Dorcas. Difficult Dorcas.
But this time, I didn’t shrink.
“Solomon and I are going to look at the yearbook table,” I said, and walked away before Miriam could answer.
At the table, our senior album lay open to the drama club page. Miriam smiled from center stage. I was in one corner, holding programs.
Solomon leaned closer. “You were in theater?”
“No. I wrote the program notes. Miriam said I had the face for backstage.”
A woman beside the table glanced over. “Dorcas? I remember those notes. They were funny.”
For the first time that night, my smile came easily.
Solomon murmured, “See? Not everyone remembers her version.”
For almost an hour, I moved through the room instead of hiding from it. I spoke to old classmates and even laughed.
Then Miriam tapped a champagne glass.
“Everyone?” she called from the stage. “Can I have your attention?”
My smile faded.
Solomon leaned closer. “Stay with me.”
Miriam lifted the microphone. “It’s wonderful seeing familiar faces tonight. Old friends, old memories, old stories.”
Mark stepped toward her. “Miriam. Don’t.”
She smiled wider. “And speaking of stories, let’s clear one up.”
My hand tightened around my glass.
“Before everyone starts admiring Dorcas’s handsome plus-one, you should know he isn’t her boyfriend. He isn’t even her date.”
People turned.
Miriam raised her glass. “She paid him.”
The room gasped.
Someone whispered, “Oh my God.”
Miriam laughed. “She hired an actor because nobody would actually choose her.”
Phones lifted.
I looked at Mark.
He stared at the floor.
“Say something,” I whispered, though I knew he couldn’t hear me.
He didn’t.
I turned toward the exit, but Solomon touched my elbow.
“Your choice,” he said softly.
My throat burned. “I can’t stand there while they laugh.”
“Then don’t stand there. Walk.”
I looked at Miriam, glowing under the gym lights like she’d already won.
I refused to let that happen.
I set my glass down.
“I didn’t come here to run.”
Solomon nodded once, then stepped onto the stage and took the second microphone.
“Miriam is right about one thing,” Solomon said. “I am an actor. Dorcas hired me through a professional agency as her plus-one. Not as a boyfriend. Not as anything shameful. As support.”
Miriam rolled her eyes. “Support. How sweet.”
Solomon looked at her. “You already knew what I was, Miriam.”
Her smile slipped. “I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do. Think.”
“Solomon,” she warned.
That was the first time she’d used his name.
Mark looked between them. “Wait. You know him?”
Solomon nodded. “We were once signed with the same talent agency.”
Miriam stepped forward. “Don’t.”
“You were dropped,” he said, “after making complaints every time someone else got a callback.”
“That’s a lie!”
“No,” Solomon said. “It’s a pattern. You’d insult people, report them for reacting, then cry first.”
A few people murmured.
Mark stared at Miriam. “Is that true?”
“You’re seriously asking me that?” she snapped.
Solomon turned to me and held out the microphone. “Dorcas should answer the rest.”
Miriam laughed. “She won’t say anything. She never does.”
I walked up the steps and took the microphone.
“I teach literature,” I said. “This week, I taught my students about unreliable narrators.”
Miriam scoffed. “Oh, please.”
“An unreliable narrator hides the truth,” I said. “Sometimes by lying. Sometimes by leaving things out. Sometimes by smiling while handing everyone a twisted version of someone else.”
The room went quiet.
“In high school, Miriam told people I thought I was better than them because I liked books. She said I was cold because I was shy. She said I was stuck-up because I didn’t know how to fight back.”
Miriam folded her arms. “You were stuck-up.”
“No,” I said. “I was scared.”
For once, she had no quick answer.
So I kept going.
“Then Mark married me,” I said. “And Miriam handed him a new story. She said I was judgmental, cold, and impossible to love.”
Mark looked up. “Dorcas. Not here.”
His jaw tightened. “This isn’t fair.”
I almost laughed. “You mean public? Because unfair was coming home to a husband who’d already put me on trial. She lied because that’s who she is. But you believed her because it was easier than asking me for the truth.”
He flinched.
Miriam stepped forward. “Don’t blame me because your marriage failed.”
I turned to her. “I blamed myself for years. You don’t get that gift anymore.”
Her face hardened.
“For years, I thought Miriam stole you,” I told Mark. “Tonight, I understand something. She only opened the door. You walked through it.”
Miriam’s eyes filled with angry tears.
“You’re all listening to this?” she cried. “She paid a man to stand beside her!”
“Yes,” I said. “I did. I hired Solomon because I was afraid to walk into this room alone. Not because I needed a man to make me valuable, but because I needed one person beside me who hadn’t already been told I was worthless. I had no idea he knew who you were.”
A woman near the photo booth stood up.
“She did it to me too,” she said. “You told everyone I cheated on my scholarship essay. I didn’t.”
A man near the punch table added, “You told people I got my job because my uncle knew someone.”
Mark stared at Miriam. “How much of what you told me about Dorcas was true?”
Miriam grabbed his sleeve. “You’re choosing her now?”
I lifted the microphone. “No. He doesn’t get to choose me now.”
Esther, the reunion chair, stepped onto the stage and picked up the printed program.
“Miriam,” she said, “you’re not giving the closing toast.”
Miriam froze. “You can’t do that.”
Esther looked at me. “Dorcas, would you be willing?”
I saw Solomon in the crowd, giving me the room.
“Yes,” I said. “I would.”
I stood at the microphone and looked at the room that had once made me feel small.
Then I raised my glass of untouched punch.
“To everyone who spent years believing someone else’s version of themselves,” I said, “may you finally hand the pen back to the person who lived the story.”
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Esther started clapping.
Someone else joined.
Then another person followed.
Soon, applause filled the gym.
Miriam grabbed her purse and left.
“Mark,” she snapped. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t move.
She stopped at the door and looked back at him. “Are you coming or not?”
Mark looked down at her hand, which was still gripping his sleeve. Then he gently removed it.
“No,” he said quietly.
Miriam’s face twisted, but no one chased her when she left.
A few minutes later, I walked outside.
I’d almost reached the parking lot when Mark called my name.
“Dorcas, wait.”
I stopped, but I didn’t turn around right away.
That was new for me.
Before, I would’ve turned quickly. Eagerly. Gratefully.
This time, I took my time.
He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong.”
“Yes,” I said. “You were.”
He swallowed. “I forgot who you were.”
“No, Mark. You let someone else tell you.”
His eyes shone. “Can we talk? Five minutes?”
“For years, I begged for five honest minutes from you.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t. Because if you did, you would’ve given them to me before I had to defend myself in front of strangers.”
“Is there any chance?” he asked.
“For what?”
“For us.”
I almost smiled. “There hasn’t been an us for a long time. There was you, me, and Miriam’s voice between us.”
Behind him, Solomon stepped outside with his keys.
He stopped when he saw Mark. “Everything okay?”
I looked at Solomon. Then at Mark. Then back at the gym doors.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m ready to go.”
Mark stepped closer. “Dorcas, please.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t get my time now because the room finally stopped believing her.”
Solomon unlocked the car but didn’t open the door for me.
I opened it myself.
Before I got in, I turned to Mark one last time.
“You should’ve asked me for the truth when it still mattered.”
Then I got into the car.
As Solomon pulled out of the parking lot, I looked back at the gym.
For 20 years, I thought that room belonged to Miriam.
It had only been waiting for me to stop letting her hold the microphone.
I hired someone to stand beside me for one night.
But I left with the woman I should’ve stood beside all along.
I left with myself.
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