Page 28 of When We Were Younger

"Damn," I say, taking the thing as my face flushes what I'm sure is a very unattractive shade of red. "I thought I was being so subtle."

"There's nothing subtle about having candy stuck in your teeth. I learned that the hard way on a photoshoot about a year after moving to California. I'd eaten a Snickers on my way there, and since I was a background model and not the main attraction, no one felt the need to tell me there was a peanut stuck next to my incisor. Didn't notice until I was home and brushing my teeth that night. I never leave home without floss now."

As much as I appreciate the floss and her kindness, I don't want her seeing me going to town on my teeth, so I turn away from her as I finally free myself from my candy-coated prison.

"Feel better?" she asks as I turn back to her, the bamboo stick tucked into my pocket until I can find a trash can to dispose of it. Just then, the lights on the tree flicker on, illuminating the square in a twinkling white glow. Her skin glimmers, a shimmery coat of something dusting across her cheekbones. The black swipe of eyeliner on her lids makes her blue eyes shine brighterthan usual, and the lights reflect in the pupils like little stars shining from her soul. With my free hand, I reach out and tuck a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear, then brush my thumb over her cheek.

"You're just as beautiful as I remember. More, even." I say softly, letting the warmth of her cheek imprint itself on my job. Her lips part, and just when I think she's going to grant me one of her gorgeous smiles, she shakes her head and looks down to Daisy May at our feet. I don't push her. I let her deflect, let her distract herself by petting my dog. If there’s one thing I know about Dorothea Lynn Hart, it’s that she has to come to terms with things in her own time. No amount of pushing or prodding on my end will get me any closer to my goal, even if it’s killing me to let her change the subject.

"I'm hungry," she says, looking up and around at the dining options surrounding us. "I think I'm going to get a pretzel. You want one?"

"I got it," I say, standing and unclipping Daisy May's leash from where it's hooked on to my belt loop. I hold the leash out to Dorothea, who gingerly takes it in hand. "You stay here and keep Daisy May company. Mustard on the side, right?"

She nods, and I give myself a mental pat on the back for remembering her preferences, even if that one never left my mind. I've been dipping my pretzels in mustard ever since she taught me the superior way when we were eight years old.

I buy us two pretzels, and we eat them on the bench,listening to the teen choir sing carols before taking a lap around the square. She holds onto Daisy May's leash the whole time, and when she shivers, I slink my arm back around her shoulder as we walk, pulling her close to my side so we can share body heat. She asks about the new-to-her town things, like the four-way stop signs at Main and Daffodil Lane. When I tell her about the fist fight that broke out at one of the many town meetings about whether we actuallyneededthe signs, she doubles over in laughter.

Spoiler alert: we don't. No one follows them, and the cops have long since given up ticketing folks for blowing past the stop signs.

When the crowd starts to peter out, I ask if I can give her a ride back up The Mountain.

"I think I'm going to need one. Keeks drove me here, and I haven't seen her all night. And I can't imagine that there are many rideshare drivers in Fox Hole?" she says, her voice tipping up into a teasing-like question.

"I just saw Bob Linden, the one and only Uber driver in town, do a flaming shot of something with Mrs. Johnson, so I think you're shit out of luck on the rideshare front, sweetheart."

"Wasn't Bob Linden the janitor at our middle school?"

"He still is. Don't underestimate the power of a side hustle, even in a tiny town like this,” I tease.

"In that case, yes, I would very much appreciate a ride back up McKenna Mountain, if you don't mind."

"Not one bit," I say. We walk over to my truck, and Iopen the backdoor, letting Daisy May hop up before I help Dorothea in.

"This is much nicer than the bucket of bolts you drove in high school," she says as I slide into the driver's seat and press the button to start the engine.

"I thought you loved that old bucket of bolts," I say as I hand her my phone. "Password is 1105. Put on some music, will you?"

I feel her pause like it's a force pushing me forward, but she doesn't say anything about my four-digit password or the fact that it's the date of our old anniversary. She pulls up a streaming service app and scrolls as I pull on to the street. She starts to giggle, then leans forward and turns the volume on the car radio up.

"Do you remember the words to this one?" she asks as the opening notes toSteal My Girlstart to blare through the speakers.

"I know you know that I remember, sweetheart," I say, and the two of us sing along with the boys of One Direction as I drive just out of town and up the long driveway leading to the McKenna's home.

At the end of the driveway, I throw the truck into park and kill the engine, cutting off the music and the headlights. Most of the downstairs lights are still on inside the house, and knowing the McKenna's, I'll have no privacy for what comes next, but I am so beyond caring. I open my door and round the front of the truck to assist Dorothea down.

"What are you doing?" she asks, while taking my hand and allowing me to help her to the ground.

"I'm walking you to the door, Dorothea."

"I know where the door is, Stephen."

"God, you're still as infuriating as you were when you were a teenager. I know you know where the door is, sweetheart, but I'm a good southern gentleman. A gentleman walks a woman to the door when he drops her off at night. He makes sure she gets inside safely."

"What about Daisy May?" she asks, and I smirk at her as I roll my eyes.

"She'll be fine for a minute or two. The back windows are cracked, and the door is right there. Or did you forget where it was already?"

She swats my chest, but her fingertips linger, brushing softly against my pec through the layers of fabric.

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