Page 1 of When We Were Younger

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DOTTIE

I've got a love and hate relationship with LA.

I nod my head along to the swooning country pop magic of Kelsea Ballerini, taking a moment to appreciate the irony of this song popping up on the random playlist I have on shuffle.

I, too, have a love and hate relationship with LA. Though these days, the hate is seriously outweighing the love I once felt for the City of Angels.

I've been here for almost ten years, and even after growing up in the smallest of small towns in Tennessee, I acclimated to Los Angeles quickly. I start every day with a green juice. I regularly hike Runyon Canyon. I took up surfing. I never freak out when random celebrities show up at my Sunday morning Hot Yoga classes–at least, not on the outside, anyway. I get my bright-blonde highlights touched up every three weeks, on the dot. I forget how to drive any time the forecast calls fora little bit of rain. I took to Los Angeles like a fish takes to water.

However, days like today make me wish the city would just up and fuck itself already.

What should've been a twenty-minute drive to my home in Malibu from a skincare brand photoshoot in Santa Monica is nearing minute 57, and I'm not even halfway there. I'm about ready to hop out of my car and pitch a hissy fit right in the middle of the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway. I crank the A/C in my BMW iX as the afternoon sun blazes through my tinted windows.

Even though it's October, everything is hot. My steering wheel is hot, my seatbelt is hot, the center console where I'm laying my arm is hot. My thighs stick to the leather seat beneath me, and my undercarriage is a swampland of salty sweat and remnants of the thick body moisturizer and spray on tan from the photoshoot. Not to mention, I have to pee so goddamn bad. I've been squeezing my thighs together for the last ten minutes, but I'm convinced a little pee has leaked out. After all, my bladder isn't the same as it was when I was bar hopping at 21, refusing to break the seal until I got home for the night.

It's definitely going to take a good 'everything shower' and some serious exfoliation to get my ph. balance back to normal after this.

Kelsea Ballerini fades into Olivia Rodrigo, which is followed by some Tina Turner, thanks to the eclectic girl power playlist I've curated for rides just like this. Trafficinches forward, and I start to sing and dance to Proud Mary, not caring that the people in the cars around me can see my attempts at recreating my high school cheer routine in my SUV. I don't care what anybody thinks, it's physically impossible to sit still while Tina Turner belts about rolling on the river.

And let's be honest, in traffic like this, if I don't dance, I will most definitely start to cry.

The congestion of cars inches along like a tortoise racing a hare until eventually, finally, there's a break in the jam. I squeeze my way onto the shoulder and glide past the stalled traffic to my exit. From there, it's smooth sailing as I–carefully–speed through the side streets and into my neighborhood.

I'm barely fully parked in my driveway before I'm throwing the door of my car open and sprinting into my house. Just as I expected, as soon as I turn onto my street, my bladder connects with the Bluetooth from my toilet and I'm about half a second away from peeing myself as I tear my shorts and thong down and fling myself onto the toilet.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I start crying just a little when I finally get to relieve myself.

Next time I have a photoshoot ending at rush hour, I'm packing an adult diaper.

After washing my hands and finger brushing my hair into a bun on the top of my head, I head back to my kitchen. I find my Valentino tote open on the floor, its contents spilled all over the tile from where I haphazardly threw it in my attempt to make it to the toilet ontime. I lean over to scoop it all up, and as I do,WAPby Cardi B and Meghan Thee Stallion starts to blast from the phone nestled in the inside pocket. I know immediately that it's my friend Kira. She's the only contact in my iPhone with a personalized ringtone, one she set for herself.

Knowing she'll be on video, I choose to answer on my iPad instead. I prop the pink tablet up and swipe to answer the FaceTime call as I climb onto one of the barstools at my kitchen island. I'm pondering whether I should eat one of the apples in the fruit basket in front of me or order a hundred dollars’ worth of tacos when Kira's ecstatic face pops onto the screen.

"…it's ringing!" I catch the end of my friend's sentence as the call connects. She's calling over her shoulder, most likely trying to corral our other pals into her orbit so they can join the conversation as well.

As soon as I see the fancy balcony and glowing sunset creating a halo around Kira's features, I'm reminded of what my best friends have been up to today while I was working. I'm sure I can deduce exactly why they feel the need to call me in the middle of it.

I push off from the island, taking my iPad with me as I go to the fridge and pull out the bottle of vintage Dom Perignon I've been saving for this very occasion.

Kira McKenna is my best friend from my hometown. We moved to Los Angeles together after graduating from high school and navigating the weird world of 'influencing' and being social media moguls together.She's a certified genius with way too much energy, so she used her double majors in biology and kinesiology to go into fitness and personal training.

My record of being a high school dropout who failed her GED test twice and stowed away in Kira’s dorm at USC landed me some modeling gigs, a bit of DJing, and eventually, the world of lifestyle influencing. A few years ago, Kira got a job opportunity she couldn't pass up working as a spin instructor at a startup called Spin Sync. The company hosts on demand fitness classes both in person and online that can be streamed through their own line of cardio and strength equipment.

The job took her out of LA and up north to San Francisco, where she met Rachel Davenport, a coffee shop owner and all-around sweetheart. I met Rachel in one of Kira's classes on a visit two years ago, and she immediately became part of our friend group. Kira officially dubbed the three of us 'The Pussy Posse'.

Then a few months ago, Georgie Hansley wandered into Rachel's coffee shop on an errand for a temp job she was working at the time. When Rachel brought her to meet Kira and then me–via group chat, of course—our little threesome became an inseparable foursome, and The Pussy Posse was complete.

Having three best friends that live in an entirely different city hours away from me is difficult, to say the least. Unfortunately, my work keeps me here in Los Angeles, but I visit my girls in San Francisco every chance that I get.

Which brings me back to today. In a total whirlwindromance, Georgie and her boss from that temp job I mentioned–tech billionaire and Official Hotty James Adler–fell madly in love. A few weeks ago, he flew me up to San Francisco to have lunch with him, Rachel and Kira so that he could officially ask us for our blessing to marry Georgie.

It was sweet and romantic as hell.

Today, James and Georgie are throwing a housewarming party at their penthouse in the affluent Pacific Heights neighborhood. A party that I unfortunately couldn't attend due to my photoshoot obligation. Even though he promised he'd try to wait for a time that I could be present, I always knew James wouldn't be able to wait long. I had a feeling when I woke up this morning that today would be the day he popped the question.

My suspicions are confirmed when Georgie is dragged into the frame by her left hand, Kira shoving Georgie's ring finger directly into the camera so I can admire the huge oval diamond resting on a simple gold band.

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