Page 18 of When We Were Younger

"You haven't heard your name in a while? What does that mean?"

"My full name, I mean. Everyone calls me Dottie, or Dottie Lynn. You're the only person who ever called me Dorothea," she shrugs, giving me a half smile.

"I told you before, I like the way it feels in my mouth. Like eating a marshmallow. Should I stop? I can call you Dottie, if you'd prefer," I say, though I personally wouldn't prefer it.

"No. No please, call me Dorothea. I forgot how nice it sounds when you say it." Her eyes meet mine, and I stare into them for a moment, searching for something. What, I don't know. A memory, a longing, and indication that this feels like a crazy dream to her as well.

"I see you didn't forget my coffee order," I say, picking up the other glass sitting on the table, the one with two lemons on the lip.

"Honestly, I didn't know if you started drinking coffee since the last time I saw you, so I asked the girl at the counter if you had a go-to. Imagine my delight when I found out you're still a ‘sweet tea with two lemons’ kind of guy," she says, gesturing towards the iced tea in my hand.

"Breakfast of champions," I say as I take a sip, relishing in the refreshing sweetness and ignoring the somersaults my stomach insists on doing over the simple gesture. The glass hits the table, and I suck a breath in between my teeth.

I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel all the eyes in this room zeroed in on our table. Hell, I know can feel the eyes outside on us. I'm sure if I listen hard enough, I'd be able to hear the sound of my mom pressing a glass to the other side of the wall, trying to listen in on our conversation–or lack thereof. The people in this town were far too invested when everything came to an end all those years ago. Naturally, they must be curious at this turn of events.

"So," I say, snapping my fingers to no specific beat. "What did you get to drink?"

What did you get to drink?I mock myself in my head. What a stupid fucking question.

Clearly, she agrees, because she crinkles her nose at me. If I wasn't embarrassed, I might comment on how adorable the little scrunch is.

"A flat white," she answers. I have no idea what that is. I could ask, but I don't think I have it in me to handle another nose crinkle, cute as it may have been.

Shit. Think, man. Say something clever. Say something cute.

Say fucking anything.

"This is weird, isn't it?" she asks, breaking me out of my inner self-flagellation while simultaneouslyconfirming that I'm screwing this whole thing up. I sigh, dragging a hand over my face.

"It is. I'm sorry. I don't really know what to say. It's been a long time."

"I know. It's funny. I thought about this a lot, seeing you again. What it might feel like. What we'd talk about. It was always so intense in my imagination. I thought there would be… I don't know.

Anger? Arguing?

I never considered that we might be struggling just to make small talk. Simple things like conversation were never difficult for us." She keeps talking, but I don't hear the words anymore. Everything has gone fuzzy.

"You've thought about this? Talking to me?" I ask, interrupting her. She tilts her head, those blue eyes darkening slightly as she furrows her brow.

"Yeah, Stephen, I have. Is that so surprising?"

I shrug.

"Honestly sweetheart, I didn't think you thought about me at all." I bite my lip, cursing myself at the slip of my tongue. Twice this week I've ended up in front of this woman, and both times I've screwed up and called her sweetheart like we're still eighteen and she's still mine to claim. Her cheeks flush, and I don't know if it's the term of endearment or something else, but I can't help noticing how beautiful she looks anyway.

"I'll admit, the thoughts usually come around when I'm alone. Quiet midnights, early mornings. Times like that. Don't you ever think of me?" her question is quietand timid, and my palms itch. I suppress the urge to reach out and hold her hand in mine.

"I do," I say. "Especially when I see you on TV, or when a DJ DeeEll remix pops up on my gym playlists."

Her eyes go wide, and I hit her with a wink.

"Okay, the remixes I can believe. My DJ skills were in high demand for a blink of an eye a few years ago. But my commercials? You've seen me on TV?"

"I have. Mom saved theGMAsegment you did a while back about closet organization tips on the DVR. Not to mention that makeup ad you did. The one where you're running through a field of wheat."

"Huh," she smiles "I didn't think they aired those ads on ESPN," she teases with a smirk.

"Now, Dorothea, don't tell me you've forgotten so much about me. I may watch the Crushers religiously on Sundays, but every other day of the week, I'm a Bravo man. Give meReal Housewivesand a six-pack of Budweiser and I'm a happy, well-entertained camper."

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