Page 8 of When We Were Younger

"No. I've never been to the ocean. But I will. I'mgoing to move to California when I grow up. There are oceans everywhere in California. I saw it on the internet. What grade are you in?"

"I'll be in second grade when school starts. I'm in Miss Temple's class," I tell her.

"Me too! She's nice. She was my recess monitor last year. She always has stickers. My best friend Kira is in Miss Temple's class, too. Kira talks a lot, but she's teaching me how to do cartwheels. I bet she could show you too, if you want."

"Cool. Are you allowed to ride your bike in the street?" I ask, and she shakes her head.

"No, but I'm not supposed to dig in the dirt, either. Sometimes I do stuff I'm not allowed to do when my mom is napping." She sticks her hand into the hole and pulls out a long, skinny brown worm. She holds it up between us, and we watch as it wriggles between her fingers.

"Want to come over to my house for lunch? We don't have a table yet, but my Mom ordered pizza," I tell her. She nods and stands up, placing the worm gently back into the dirt. She brushes off her knees that are messy from ground and tiny rocks.

"I like pizza. Do you want to be friends, Stephen?"

I don't know why, but my cheeks feel warm when she says my name.

"Sure, we can be friends. Let's go, Dorothea."

She puts her hand on my shoulder and keeps it there as we walk over to my house. Mom gives us both slices of pepperoni pizza on paper plates, and we sit inthe grass in my new front yard as we eat. She doesn't like the crust, so she lets me have it when she's done. I let her drink the rest of my fruit punch. It's only fair to share.

I think it's going to be nice to have Dorothea as a friend.

5

STEPHEN

Another Friday night, another dinner with my parents. I'm not complaining. My mom is a fantastic cook and it's not like there's much else to do in town in the evenings. There's The Dugout–the one and only bar in town–but until people start filtering in for the holidays in a few weeks, the only company to be found there on a Friday night is the over-fifty crowd.

The over-fifty crowd and Mandy, a woman who swears she's in her thirties but is somewhere near my parent's age and has been trying to get me and every other young man with a pulse into her sack the moment they turn eighteen.

Yeah, I'll take a few cold Budweisers. They're free, because Dad bought them. I'll take the chicken picatta, too. That's also free, because my mom is making it. I’ll take that over frozen mozzarella sticks and $5 You-Call-Its with the Baby Boomers of Fox Hole any night.

"Think The Crushers are gonna take it all the waythis year?" I ask my dad as I hand him a bottle of Bud and plop down on the other side of the sectional in the living room. It's my favorite room in my childhood home. The entire first floor is completely open concept, so the kitchen, dining room, and living room are like one big space. It was great place to be growing up. After school, either Mom or Dad would be in the kitchen cooking dinner, depending on whose turn it was that night. Delilah and I would be at the dining room table doing our homework, usually accompanied by Delilah's best friend, Ivy.

Since it was all right there, we could chat with each other, with Mom and Dad. We could get help with our math homework and sneak bites of food while dinner was being prepped. After we'd all sit down and eat together, we would typically migrate over to the couch and continue to hang out as a family, watching TV or playing games. Sometimes with mine and Delilah's friends, sometimes just the four of us.

It's still my favorite place to hang out with my family.

Dad turns the volume up on SportsCenter just a touch as I settle in, a quiet indication that he's not in a very chatty mood. That’s typical for my dad on a Friday night. He works his ass off all week, every week, doing construction. He started Hudson Family Construction before I was born, and even though I've been ready and willing to take over for him for years, he has yet to hand over the reins to me.

I can't figure out why. I know he's tired. I know he'sready to slow down and spend more time with Mom. He knows I'm more than capable of handling the business on my own. I've only been working for him since I was tall enough to reach the accelerator on the forklift.

And yet, he keeps on working.

"With McKenna's boy leading the pack? I have no doubt," Dad grunts, lifting the brown bottle to his lips just as a smile starts to tilt up at the sides. Dad downplays it, but he’s a lifelong fan of the Knoxville Crushers football team. I know it makes him giddy that their current star quarterback is a hometown boy who used to throw the ball around in the backyard with Delilah and I. Hell, Dad has been in a bowling league with Jay McKenna, Dean's dad and former Crushers quarterback, for as long as I can remember, and he still fangirls over the guy.

I take my cues from Dad, answering with a silent nod and twisting the cap off my own bottle of beer.

Just as I bring it to my lips for the first sip, there's a call from behind me.

"Stephen!" Mom yells a little too loud. I know she doesn't realize just how unnecessary her own volume is, given that she's got her favorite podcast going through her headphones. I turn and see her standing at the kitchen counter, hands coated in what I'm assuming is flour and egg wash, given the various bowls and a plate of raw chicken in front of her.

"STEPHEN! I NEED YOU TO RUN TO THE STORE FOR ME! I NEED-" she stops talking as I approach and pull the AirPod out of her left ear.

"Inside voice, Mom. I'm right here," I smirk, and she nudges me with her hip.

"I need you to run to Liquor World and pick up a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The cheap stuff, please. I need it for the sauce," she says, holding her messy hands up to show how she is currently incapacitated. I take a longing look back at my open, soon to be ruined bottle of Bud that I left on the coffee table. I should have known better. Mom forgets some imperative ingredient for nearly every recipe she ever makes, and the one way to guarantee you'll be the one to retrieve it for her is to open a fresh adult beverage.

"Yes mother, I will run to Liquor World for you. Anything else you need while I'm out?" I ask, and she shakes her head. I pat my pocket, making sure I have my phone before I go for when she inevitably remembers something else she needs while I'm gone. I whistle, gaining the attention of Daisy May, my golden retriever who was just asleep at Mom's feet with her head tucked under her paws but is now up and tilting her head at me.

---