Page 4 of When We Were Younger

"Alright," I sigh, conceding to the continuous begging Kira has been doing as I've drifted in and out of thought. "Even though we both know Stephen Hudson is not a hermit and that you're a lying liar who lies and there's a 99 percent chance of me having to confront the emotional ghosts of my past, you've worn me down. I have no fight left in me. Tell yourdads to throw some spare pillows in the guest room for me."

"OH MY GOD! IT WORKED? YOU'RE COMING?!" Kira squeals, jumping up and down, shaking her head back and forth. I can't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. You'd think I just agreed to pay off her student debt and gift her a lifetime supply of tequila, not accompany her on a trip to her parent's house after her years and years of negging me.

"Tis the damn season, am I right?"

2

DOTTIE

They say time flies when you're having fun. Not true. Time really flies when you're just floating through life. Waking up every single day and just existing.

Six weeks ago, December was a mere blip on the horizon. A far-off destination. A problem for future Dottie.

October was a blur of flights back and forth from Los Angeles and San Francisco for emergency meetings of The Pussy Posse while Rachel was in a relationship crisis, prepping and scheduling content to get me through Black Friday and the holiday season, and solo dates classic slasher films at Hollywood Cemetery.

November was a whirlwind of cropped hoodies, canopies, linen samples, and phone calls with James as I helped him (read: happily did all the work) plan his last holiday party as CEO of the techI-wasn't-listening-and-it's-too-late-to-askcompany he founded with his best friend and Rachel's new roommate Amir. I'm not anevent planner, but it can't be denied that I have an eye for aesthetics. Even though I won't be able to attend, I'm excited to see all my work on the party come to fruition.

Before I knew it, my annual sad, lonely Thanksgiving turkey sandwich was nothing more than crumbs on a plate next to an empty bottle of white wine, and I was packing my bags for ye olde Tennessee.

My flight got in twenty minutes before Keeks was set to land. I sit and wait for her here in terminal B, having deplaned just a moment ago with my Louis Vuitton Neverfull stuffed with half-eaten snacks and my favorite travel cardigan. With all this time I'm spending alone, I'm starting to regret leaving my current self to deal with all of my emotions.

The last time I was in this airport was…never.

God, can that be true? I've never actually been to this airport. Kira and I drove to California when we left after graduation, and it's not like my mom took me on any grand vacations as a kid. Or any vacations, at that. For all her bitching, Mom never made any attempts to leave Fox Hole until I was gone.

I look around, breathing in the scent of stale burgers and fries wafting from the nearby chain restaurant and watch weary travelers with floral neck pillows browse the latest stale fiction paperbacks at the newsstand. I'm somewhat unsurprised by the overwhelming 'blah-ness' of it all. Even still, there seems to be more entertainment here in this tiny terminal than in the entirety of Fox Hole–at least that’s what I remember.

Maybe I'll just stay here for the month. I can surviveon $8 bags of peanut M&M's and mid-as-hell romance books for a few weeks.

Ugh. That's a bleak thought. I should get a coffee. Or maybe a shot of tequila.

I decide to be practical and go for the coffee. Alcohol and lingering doom do not sound like a fun mix.

Unfortunately, my only option for caffeine in this pathetic excuse for an airport is a coffee chain that burns their beans, so I reluctantly order a flat white for me and a double-dirty iced chai for Kira. I wince when I take my first sip. I swear it's impossible to find a good cup of coffee these days. The only person I trust to make me a perfect coffee is Rachel, but she and her shop are in San Francisco, just like everything else I seem to love.

I head back out to the terminal and pull out my phone to take an aesthetically pleasing picture of a plane taking off into the bright blue, cloudless sky. I'll post this gem on Instagram a little later. I always try to wait until I leave a place before I post about having been there. I haven't had to deal with any serious stalkers, but I've heard a lot of stories from other people who, like me, live their lives on the internet for the world to see.

I did have one close call a few years ago, though. Apparently, all it takes is one creepy guy in your DMs asking for feet pics and sending you pictures of your car parked in the garage at The Grove to scare some sense into a girl. I'm not willing to tempt fate and post my actual location at any given time.

I'm applying my favorite preset filter to the image so that it flows with the rest of my grid when a hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle jumps on to my back.

"Hey Keeks, how was your flight?" I ask as this spider monkey of a woman squeezes me with her arms around my chest and her rock-hard quads squishing my belly. There is not a single person on the planet who has a stronger love language of physical touch than Kira. We’ve been mistaken for a couple on several occasions because of her inability to keep her hands to herself, but I’ve never minded. I welcome all her love.

"Awful, thanks for asking! That for me?" She asks, nodding towards the chai I'm holding as she disembarks from my body, and I hand her the plastic cup. She boops my nose before downing half of her drink in one gulp.

"Tell me something Dottie girl. What the fuck is the point of having a friend with a private jet if he never lets you use it?" Kira asks, referring to the private jet James has parked in a hangar near San Francisco. She links her arm in mine as we float towards baggage claim. I can't pretend I didn't have the same thought. As nice as first class is, all the money in the world can't drown out the sound of a screaming baby on a commercial flight.

“The guys only use their plane for business, Kira.” Even though I've been on the company jet in question, it's still hard to wrap my head around the fact that I know someone with their own plane.

“And for sky fucking. G is already having orgasms at thirty thousand feet on the regular, and it's only a matter of time before Rachel joins the mile-high club with Am. If they haven't already, that is. She's been a little too hush hush about the whole affair lately. I just know that man must be a capital F freak," Kira says, and it's impossible not to agree with her. The only person that doesn't realize Amir is in love with Rachel is Rachel, and with the way those two have been going at it, orgasms at thirty thousand feet seems inevitable.

“Okay, true…” I concede.

“And James flew you up to the city and back for one singular lunch date," she continues.

“Extenuating circumstances! He was asking our permission to propose. I needed to be there. You might as well let it go, Keeks. They don’t like to abuse the jet. It’s bad for the environment," I say, turning her by her shoulders and pointing her to the direction of her flight's baggage carousel.

“I call bullshit. A few measly flights to Tennessee aren’t going to speed up the end of the world any faster. And besides, I'm not buying the 'eco-warrior' tagline. We all know there is no such thing as an ethical billionaire, and James and Am not letting us use their private jet is a hate crime against the working class. When the revolution comes, I’m eating Adler first. Then I’m taking his plane and flying to Fiji.” She skips over to carousel six, where she pulls her RIMOWA suitcase off the rotating metal.

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