Page 22 of When We Were Younger

Stephen

You know that I've always had a sensitive soul, Dorothea. What would I have done without you to nurse me back to health with your chocolate and your company?

Somehow, I think you would have managed. And to answer your question: yes, Stephen. I would love to meet you and Daisy May at the tree lighting. I would be especially thrilled if there happens to be a peppermint white hot chocolate with my name on it waiting for me.

When Stephen first proposed another meetup on Friday night and I accepted, I was afraid that the week would drag on with a sense of impending doom and dread hanging over my head. I mean sure, the coffee shop ended up okay in the end, but it could have easily been a fluke. It was afternoon coffee. It doesn't get more casual than an afternoon coffee.

And Friday night is… well… night. Things are different at night. It's dark. It's chilly. There will be romantic, stupid, twinkling lights everywhere.

I decided early on I would be bringing Kira as backup. Nothing stupid or romantic can happen with Keeks on the case.

It turns out I didn't have much time to wallow and worry about what may or may not go down tonight. Monday rolled into Tuesday, where I spent the day with the McKenna men, helping them chop wood for thefireplace and sauna while Kira drank hot tea and critiqued my axe-swinging skills.

On Wednesday, we made good use of the wood in the sauna, soaking and sweating and easing my aching shoulder muscles. As it turns out, chopping wood isn't as easy as the sexy mountain men on the internet make it look.

Thursday morning, I slept in while the McKenna family went to pick out their Christmas tree. I didn't want to intrude no matter how many times I was invited, because picking their tree is an important family tradition. Jay and Keith were very receptive to my decoration ideas after the Douglas Fir was up in the family room.

The Mountain looks fantastic with their nostalgic ornaments and decorations mixed in with some more modern pieces scattered throughout. The whites I suggested blend beautifully with the ornate silver menorah that sits proudly on the fireplace mantle, which was passed down to Keith from his bubbe. We drank the night away, sipping through bottles of Sauvignon Blanc while judging the hotness of the male love interests in a bunch of different cheesy Christmas movies.

And now it's Friday, and the wallowing and worrying has come back in full force. I know Keeks can tell, because she's tugging my hair a little too tight as she twirls strand after strand around the hot curling wand.

"I don't even know why I'm bothering to do this.The second you walk outside you're going to flatten the hell out of these gorgeous tresses with a beanie. It's a total waste of my time," she whines, but she picks up another piece and continues to curl anyway.

"Okay first of all, Keeks, you're curling my ends. The ends do not go into the beanie, they will not be flattened. Second, you begged to curl my hair. Your exact words were 'I will die like a Victorian woman succumbing to Typhoid right here on this couch if you don't let me sink my hands into your luscious lion mane'. I remember exactly because it made me pee my pants a little out of fear for your future spouse. God save the person who has to put up with you for the rest of their life," I mutter the last sentence under my breath, hoping she didn't quite hear me. Don’t bite the hand that currently has a four-hundred-degree dildo-shaped rod near your scalp.

"Well, it seemed like more fun when I started. You've got too much hair. You gotta stop taking those biotin vitamins and start using one of those 'wet to straight' flat irons after you shower. Kill of some of this extra protein, you know?" She finger-brushes the back of my hair as she talks, loosening the curls from Shirley Temple-tight to soft waves that flow down my back.

She gives my roots a zhuzh with her fingertips and then twirls the piece in the front into a tight coil–the one that is still too long and too short after a year of trying to grow out my ill-advised bangs phase–and pins it back by my ear with a light-gold bobby pin. "Perfect,"she says, leaning over and digging through her makeup bag.

"What are you looking for?" I ask her. I already did my makeup. I went light on the stuff, opting for a monochromatic, pumpkin spice-y look, with orange and brown tones from my eyelids to my lips that highlight my tanned skin without being too ‘look at me! I'm wearing hundred-dollar blush!’

"Aha!" she exclaims, pulling a crusty looking tube out from the bag. There's caked on product stuck to the side, and I'm pretty sure the tiny white spots I can see are mold growing inside the plastic container.

"What the actual fuck is that?" I ask as she pries the lid off the tube, dry flakes flying everywhere as she finally yanks it off.

"It's my old lip kit! If you want to give Stephen to the full 'Dottie in High School' experience, you're going to need the over lined lips or he won't recognize you. Actually, let's find a shot glass you can suck on for a bit, really plump these babies up."

She circles the wand towards my mouth, circling it and cooing like a mom trying to get her toddler to 'open up for the airplane'. I hit her hand, and the wand goes flying, smacking into the opposite wall and cracking in half.

"Bitch!" She yells. "I was saving that!"

"For what?" I ask, taking the tube from her hand and tossing it into the trash can before the fumes from the toxic mold kills us.

"For when the 'fish who just sucked a dick' look comes back. I think I could really make it work this time around," she harrumphs, crossing her arms across her chest. When I snort, she breaks, and we fall into hysterics. We both know that look is never coming back, and even if it does, Keeks will not be 'making it work'. She’s stunning, but overlined lips have never been her look.

"Thanks, Keeks," I say when my laughing calms down and I catch my breath. "But as much as I would love to contract some brain-eating amoeba from your moldy lipstick, I think Adult Dottie's makeup will be just fine for a casual meetup with an old friend."

"Casual meetup with an old friend, my ass," Kira mutters under her breath as she leans over my shoulder to adjust her own lipstick in the mirror. I step on her toes, making her yelp.

"Wanna say that a little louder, Miss Ma'am?"

"I said CASUAL MEETUP WITH AN OLD FRIEND MY ASS!" She turns and screams into my face, piercing my ears. I forgive her though, since she punctuates it with a quick little kiss on my nose. "Don't worry Dottie girl, I promise not to embarrass you in front of your ‘old friend’ while you ‘casually meet up’ with him under the twinkling snowflake lights and sip the sexiest non-alcoholic beverage known to man."

I furrow my brow at her.

"Peppermint white hot chocolates are sexy?" I ask her, and she nods furiously.

"Of course they are. Not only do they make your lips taste like sugar and sin, but the peppermint alsofreshens your breath. They're an aphrodisiac, everyone in town knows that."

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