Page 14 of When We Were Younger

"You could get out of here, you know. Retire, relax. Spend some time with your wife. Mom, remember her? I mean, isn't that the whole point of having kids? Building a legacy and then leaving it to them instead of hanging around and staring over their shoulder as they try to do their damn jobs?" I say, my tone coming across a little less teasing and a bit more biting than I mean it to.

It's not my dad's fault I'm in a sour mood. I don't even care about the business like that. Sure, I'm here and willing to take over for him so that hecanretire and enjoy his life, but not because I'm particularly passionate about small town construction. I'm not clamoring to become the king of excavators or anything, but sometimes I wonder why he won't just let go and let metake the reins. Like maybe he doesn't trust me not to screw it up, or something.

Dad lets out a low whistle before I have the chance to apologize for being an ass.

"Does this stick up your ass have anything to do with little Dottie Lynn showing up back in town?" he asks, and my head snaps up. I didn't tell my parents about my run-in at Liquor World on Friday night. I just returned with Daisy May and the Pinot Grigio, ate my chicken picatta and went home like nothing ever happened.

"Please, Stephen," Dad laughs, rolling his eyes. "Mrs. Johnson down at Liquor World had your mother on the horn immediately, probably before you two even left the store. The way those two play the telephone game, I'd be surprised if the whole town didn't know about the puppy-dog eyes you two were giving each other at the register.

I open my mouth, then close it again. Of course they know. I should've realized Mrs. Johnson and her big yapper wouldn't just pretend like she saw nothing. Dottie Lynn Hart back in Fox Hole is front page news in and of itself, let alone the two of us interacting right in front of her. When she left town, it was all anyone could talk about for months. I couldn't go into town without falling victim to a deluge of pitying looks and sympathetic smiles.

"There were no puppy-dog eyes," I say with absolutely zero conviction, because of course there were, on my face at least. As much as it pains me to admit,Dorothea has the exact same effect on twenty-eight-year-old me as she did on my thirteen-year-old self.

"Mhm sure. You weren’t mooning over a girl who was attached to your lips from age fourteen to eighteen," he nods, sarcasm dripping off him as he smirks.

Fifteen. We didn't kiss until we were fifteen, Dad.

I certainly felt fifteen again when I spent the weekend scrolling through old pictures on my laptop, hoping she'd call.

"You know, I never did understand what happened there. Your mom and I always thought you kids would go the distance," Dad continues, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil. I answer with a grunt. He doesn't understand what happened because I didn't tell them. Why would I? It was simple and humiliating.

Dorothea wanted to leave, and even though I would have dropped everything, she didn't want me to come with her. I still don't know why.

"Can we drop it?" I ask, pushing back from the desk and pulling a black and white flannel onto my back. I walked to the office today since it was unseasonably warm this morning, but now that it's nearly five o'clock and the sun is low in the sky, the December chill is bound to bite me on the way home. Dad just throws his hands up in defeat.

"Dropping, I'm dropping it. But your mother-"

"Yeah, I know," I say. Now that my mom knows that I know that they know—Jesus Christ that's a mind fuck—she's going to be bugging me for information. Iwhistle for Daisy May who has been waiting patiently under Dad's desk for me to finish my day.

She nuzzles her snout against my legs as I attach her leash. I pop my headphones into my ears and lose myself to a playlist I've carefully curated over the years- the one filled with alternative classics from the last few decades. I enjoy the orange and purple sky as I trudge through town. Leaves crunch under my work boots and Daisy May picks up a stray stick that she carries all the way back to our apartment.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I open the front door and unhook Daisy May's leash. She runs straight to her bowl, sits like the good dog she is, and waits for me to fill it up with her dinner. I huff out a breath, pulling my phone out and bracing myself to deal with Spanish Inquisition (also known as my mother), but it's not her name on the screen.

Right there, overlaid on the photo my sister took of Daisy May and me at the lake this past summer is the message I've been waiting all weekend for.

Unknown Number

Hey Stephen. It’s me. Truth or dare?

I love how she doesn’t bother to say her name. Even if she had just sent the question, I would have known exactly who was messaging me.

I’m going to be brave and say dare.

Dorothea

I dare you to follow through on your offer to hang out. Maybe we could get that cup of coffee tomorrow? I'll be at Noble Brews tomorrow around noon, if you want to meet up. Caffeine and croissants are on me.

I think about it playing it cool for all of two nanoseconds, then text right back.

Make that croissant a giant chocolate chip cookie instead and I’ll be there.

Dorothea

:) see you then, Stephen.

9

DOTTIE

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