Page 19 of When We Were Younger

She throws her head back and laughs like a little kid, and my chest warms. I watch her face as it stretches into a wide smile, the first true smile I've seen on her beautiful face in years. And just like that, I feel like we're back.

"God, you're so grown up and manly looking these days. I thought you would have outgrown your Bravo phase by now. Do you still listen to boy bands too?" she giggles as she asks, but somehow, I know she's not trying to poke fun at me. She just seems curious aboutthe person I am now, just like I'm dying to know who she is these days.

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me that you're too cool for One Direction just because you grew up. Not after the hours we spent dissecting those lyrics to try and uncover if Taylor Swift was a co-writer on any of the songs. Oh, and all those times you read me the smutty fanfiction out in our field at night," I tease, wagging my eyebrows at her.

"Oh my God!" she yells, slamming her hand down on the tabletop hard enough to make the liquid in our cups slosh over the sides. "I can't believe you remember the fanfiction!"

"OhmyGod, how could I forget? I have fond memories of those stories. In fact, I think one of those stories was the catalyst to me ruining my favorite pair of sweatpants during senior year. We were reading the one where Harry makes sweet love to ‘Y/N’ on the dining room table, and you were rubbing yourself all over me, remember? I had to leave my pants out in the field or else I would’ve had to walk into the house with a giant wet spot on my crotch." I chuckle, thinking back on that night in the field, lying on my back on the trusty orange blanket, kissing and laughing until the sun started to rise.

She laughs, the loud, cackling kind of laugh that used to get us in trouble at school. The kind of laugh that would get us kicked out of class for fooling around, the kind she couldn't hold in when I'd do something stupid, like that one trick where I made a pencil go inone nostril and come out the other. A laugh that I knew I missed terribly, but didn't realize just how much until hearing it again.

The loud action gains us a dirty look or two from the other coffee shop patrons, but I don't care. Not when my girl is smiling like that. "You're never gonna believe it. I'm friends with the writer of that fic!" Her voice ticks up at the end, like her words are being followed by a handful of very excited exclamation points.

"Shut up. You're telling me that not only does 'Harrys_ Georgia_ Rose' live in Los Angeles, you've managed to track them down and befriend them? My god, I knew you'd get shiny new friends when you went out to California, but I never could have imagined you rubbing elbows with someone so famous," I gasp as I smack a hand to my chest. Dorothea laughs at my dramatics as she reaches across the table and shoves my shoulder. I can feel the sting of her fingertips on my skin, even through the layers of clothing separating us.

"Yes!Harry's Georgia Roseis my friend. Her name is Georgie. Except she doesn't live in LA, she's up in San Francisco. Keeks introduced us, and her old secret online identity came out one night after some wine. I was absolutely starstruck. I mean, how often does a person get to meet the purveyor of their sexual awakening?"

"I might have to send her a thank you card for that awakening," I mutter, sipping my water. "So, what is our old pal HGR up to these days?"

"She's a romance novelist," Dorothea says.

"That tracks."

"And recently engaged to a six-foot-six billionaire who's positively consumed by her,"

"Ahh, so not Mrs. Harry Styles, then. She must be so disappointed."

"Yes, I do believe she and her therapist are actively working through the trauma of it all."

Our laughter fades into quiet, but it's not as awkward as it was before. Like the recalling of memories helped to break the ice. Or at the very least, put a crack in it. Daisy May huffs out a sigh under the table, and I glance down to check on her. When I look back up, Dorothea is still staring at me. The smile has faded from her face, replaced with a contemplative look.

"This is nice. We can do this," she says quietly, like a thought that accidentally made it out of her mouth and not a statement she meant to share with me.

"Do what?" I ask.

"We can be friendly while I'm here. I was worried this was a huge mistake, but it's nice. I don't have to hide from you. That's a relief." she wipes at her brow, as if the idea made her sweat.

Friendly.

I choke over the word. Friendly is watering your neighbors’ plants while they're away for the weekend. Friendly is letting someone with less items cut the line at the grocery store. I have never had any interest in being simplyfriendlywith Dorothea Lynn Hart.

"We can do better than friendly, sweetheart. We're going to be friends, just like old times."

"You think we can manage being friends? Just like that?" she asks. I gesture between us.

"Look at us now, what do you call this? I call it having a mid-morning chat with a friend. Come on, Dorothea. Don't make it complicated."

She tilts her head, looking up towards the ceiling as she thinks.

"Dorothea. Sweetheart. You keep pulling out all the old classics," she muses.

"What can I say? Old habits die kicking and screaming," I shrug.

A beat passes. She looks back at me.

"We've always been pretty good at being friends, haven't we?"

"I'd say being your friend was always the thing I was best at," I say.

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