Page 53 of When We Were Younger

Snorts.

He snorts. And chuckles.

Before I know it, he is full on belly-laughing, clutching at my waist for dear life as he loses himself to the laughter.

I maneuver myself around, turning to look at him. He does have tears in his eyes, but they're from all the laughing. I can't help it. I start to giggle too.

Then the giggle turns bigger. Louder.

Before I know it, we're both gasping for air and I'm holding my stomach as my abs ache from the pressure.

I blow out, catching my breath as Stephen runs a hand over his facial hair, our laughter subsiding.

"What in the world is so funny?" I ask, braving the question.

"It's just. God. There was a time back then when I thought-" he snorts. "I thought maybe you left because I was bad at sex."

My eyes go wide, and then I burst out into another fit of giggles. He clasps my face in his hands and pulls me to him, and through our laughs, he kisses me sweetly. We melt into it, kissing and caressing as the songbirds whistle in the woods surrounding us.

When we pull apart, I hold his gaze, searching for something in his eyes.

"I don't understand you, you know. If I were you, I would be so mad."

He looks at me, then up at the sky, and then back down at me. His hands run up and down my back, sliding under his hoodie and grazing my bare skin.

"I was mad, a long time ago. And I was sad. But now? I don't know. I think I get it. Even before this morning, when it was all still a mystery, I just got it. We were both so young. When you're young, you think you know everything, and everyone else around you assumes that you know nothing. And at the same time, you're expected to be an adult, to fend for yourself, to make all the right decisions all the time. Being eighteen years oldis fucking impossible for a regular person. Throw in your mom feeding you all that bullshit over and over again, and I'm just happy you survived it." His eyes are soft and molten, and I want to kiss him, hold him, tell him it would be different if I could do it all over again, but…

"Stephen. The thing is, even knowing what I know now, I wouldn't change it. If I had to do it all over again, I'd still leave." My lips tremble, and he pulls me just a little bit closer.

"I know. You had to go. That house, this town, it dulled your shine. It sucked, and I hated it. But you had to go. I understand that, even though it hurt."

"How do you not hate me?" I whisper, and he gives me a half smile.

"I could never hate you. I can't even find it in me to hate the woman who gave birth to you. Although I could kill her for putting her hands on you. But I don't hate her."

"Okay, are you some sort of saint or something? You don't even hate mymom?"

He shrugs.

"I hate what she did to you. I hate that she got into your head. I hate that she hurt you. But I don't hate her. I'm thankful for her. If there hadn't been her, there wouldn't be you. And I really, really, like you, sweetheart."

My chest swells and aches. It's too much. He's too much. He's still too good, too kind, too bright. He's so much better than me. And I'm falling for him all over again anyway.

29

STEPHEN

"You know, this entire week has been like some kind of weird, mind fuck fever dream that I'm not fully convinced I won't wake up from at any moment. But Christmas Eve at your parents has got to be the strangest part of it all," Dorothea says.

She's sitting at my kitchen table, legs crisscrossed underneath her, wearing only a pair of ultra-thin black cotton tights that go up to her belly button. She also has a lacy scrap of fabric that I don't think actually counts as a bra, because it's barely doing anything to hold her gorgeous tits in.

She's got a mirror with a light propped up in front of her. I ordered it for her after the second night she slept over here–apparently, my bathroom mirror isabsolutely atrocious–and she's applying mascara. Her hair is already curled and pinned with red and green shiny barrettes, her skin dusted with a light, shimmery powder that makes her look delectable (but has alsoseeped itself deep into spaces between my kitchen tiles.)

I'm at the stove, finishing up the Nutella pastry Christmas tree. Mom always cooks up a feast big enough to feed a small country for Christmas Eve, but I can't show up empty handed. Spreading chocolate hazelnut spread on a premade puff pastry and shaping it into a tree is about as creative as I get in the kitchen. I dust powdered sugar over the top, and Daisy May bites at some of the powder as it falls to the ground, chomping at it like I've never fed her a day in her life.

"How is this the strangest part of it all? You've spent eleven Christmas Eves with my family," I point out, though I know what she means. Everything is different now, but I don't want to lean into the oddities. Not when the clock on our time together is winding down so rapidly. Since our revelation on the dock, every minute feels borrowed. Before I know it, she'll be gone, out of Fox Hole and probably out of my life again. I want to soak up all the time I can with her before that happens.

"Oh my god, that smells amazing," she says, changing the subject. I swipe a drop of Nutella off the plate where the pastry sheet is laying and walk over, offering it to her. She takes my chocolate covered finger in her mouth and sucks, swirling her tongue around the tip and looking up at me with sex written all over her beautiful face. I groan and pull my finger back before kissing her, tasting the chocolate on her lips.

---