Page 5 of When We Were Younger

Working class, my ass. Kira is the spoiled onlydaughter of a former pro athlete, not to mention I know the kind of money she pulls in as Spin Sync instructor and the brand deals that come along with it. She's just as likely to be eaten by the real working class as the rest of us well-off lot.

“Yeah, Georgie will love that," I call over to her from my flight's spot at carousel five. I spot my hunter-green Goyard case taking a trip around the belt and yank it up with a grunt. How can seventy pounds be so heavy and yet still not contain all the clothes I thought I'd need for the next few weeks?

“Hey, G is a billionaire by association now, she’s going down too. I can’t wait to take a bite out of her juicy ass.” She takes my bag as I struggle with the weight, lifting the seventy plus pounds like it's nothing. "C'mon," she pats my butt and gestures towards the door with the big ‘Rental Agency’ sign hangs. "Let's get on the road and find somewhere really greasy looking to get some lunch. My treat."

Ninety minutes, one rented Volkswagen SUV and fifty miles down a two-lane highway later, Kira and I split a burger, mozzarella sticks, and the best fries I think I've ever tasted.

"Pops and IronDad are fucking pumped to see you, by the way," Kira says around a mouthful of burger, as she dips three fries into the pile of ketchup on my plate. "They've got the guest room all decked out with new bedding and shit. They bought coffee table books for the nightstands. It’s got total ‘clean girl influencer’ vibes now."

"They didn't have to do that! I was totally prepared to bunk up with Dean's old Xbox and all the copies ofJ-14we used to read in there when we were teens," I sigh, briefly reminiscing on being thirteen with braces, listening to Miley Cyrus with Kira on her old pink radio. We’d desperately flip through all the teeny-bop magazines her dads bought us at the drugstore for tips on how to make my first kiss go smoothly.

The tips didn't work. I put dental wax on my front teeth for a 'smoother experience', and when Alex Goldman kissed me at the end of the year seventh-grade dance, a piece of wax dislodged and went straight into his mouth. Our gym teacher had to give him the Heimlich maneuver, and I was mortified.

Stephen had hidden under the bleachers with me and held my hand until his mom came to pick us up, and even then, I remember thinking I should have waited and kissed him. He never would have choked on my dental wax.

"Please. They're two gay men inviting an influencer with millions of followers into their home. You think they'd let the room look anything less than perfect in case you decided to snap an OOTD pic?” Kira rolls her eyes, but her smile gives her away. I know she adores her dads and their dramatics. I adore Keith and Jay too, and I honestly can't wait to see them. It's been over a year since I last saw the McKenna Dads. It was last June, and we were all in town for San Francisco Pride. Jay was even in the parade, on a float with other queer, retired athletes. He was a tight end for the KnoxvilleCrushers back in the nineties, and when he started openly dating Kira's other dad, Keith, he became one of the first out-and-proud athletes in the country.

I might not be a McKenna, but I spent enough time in their home in my youth that the two men have always felt like bonus parents to me, and I shed so many proud tears watching Jay waving proudly in his old green and black jersey up on the float that day.

"That's fair, but I hope they know I'm totally tagging them in any pictures I post. I hope they're ready for an influx of Gen Z followers telling them their high-angle selfies are 'basic'," I chuckle. Kira pulls some cash out of the belt bag strapped to her chest and throws it on the table to cover the tab.

"Let’s hit the road, Dottie Girl," she says, taking my hand and pulling me out of the vinyl-covered booth. A tiny bell jingles over our heads as the door to the diner closes, and the door to my past swings open.

3

DOTTIE

There are so many expressions, idioms, human-isms–whatever you want to call them–that a person can't truly appreciate until they've experienced them.

'Youth is wasted on the young', for example. When I was a preteen, all I wanted was to be a grown up. Twenty-five, specifically. It sounded so fabulous, being twenty-five. I'd be independent, beautiful and have a husband who loved me and two kids and a golden retriever. I'd wear red lipstick and black dresses every day and do Pilates with other hot moms on the weekends.

I turned twenty-five in a two-bedroom apartment that I shared with three girls in Glendale. I had a killer hangover from too many Washington Apple shots the night before, and found myself wishing I was a preteen looking forward to the boxed yellow cake with fudge frosting and eleven pink candles stuck on top made by Mrs. Hudson.

Another one of those expressions that you can't appreciate until you do?

'Time stood still.'

Sure, I understood it in a theoretical sense. The way everything seems to slow down when some says, 'Can I ask you a question?', or that charged, thick, buzzing second right before a first kiss that seems to last for an eternity.

But I never quite saw it in real life. Not until a moment ago when Kira drove right over the city limits, past the rotting, wooden 'Welcome to Be utiful Fox Hole' sign. The painted 'a' in beautiful has chipped off since before I can remember, and from what I can tell, the rest of the vowels are not far behind. Surrounded by lush green mountains, the view would almost be picturesque if I wasn't so determined to dislike it.

Driving down Main Street feels like entering some sort ofDoctor Who-esque wormhole to the past. Miss Pattie's Precious Pies & Sweet Treats still sits on the corner of Main Street and Raspberry Lane, conveniently located right next door to The Wheel Medic, the only mechanic shop within fifty miles of this place.

There's something sickly soothing about the smell of fresh croissants mixing with car grease that I forgot about. No wonder I always crave baked goods when I get my oil changed.

We drive past Share Shop Market, the one and only grocer in town, a cooperative that sells goods from local farmers, distillers and artisans, as well as the normal grocery store fare. I always thought it was kind offunny to see the yellow, family-sized bags of potato chips stocked right next to the forty-ounce bottles of Old Man Shoehorn's Tennessee Delight Pale Ale.

I suppose the folks of Fox Hole have always been a little less 'milk and cookies' and a little more 'pretzels and beer'.

For all intents and purposes, this place is the same as it always was. There's something weirdly comforting about that.

Kira somehow gets away with driving thirty-five miles per hour down the main drag of town without nabbing the attention of one of the three cops that suit up here, even though I'm pretty sure the speed limit in town is still a measly fifteen. She turns at the end of Main Street onto Lilac Loop, and five minutes later we're heading up the private drive that loops around the secluded mountain property owned by her fathers. Despite the Fox Hole address, McKenna Mountain–as it has been so nicknamed by the town since the McKenna men bought the property in the early aughts–could have its own zip code. The house itself looks modest enough from the outside, but it's gorgeous, nonetheless. Sitting on the edge of a sparkling blue man-made lake and surrounded by trees that seem to reach the sky, the four-bedroom cabin-esque home is wrapped in wood and stones. There's a large fire pit perfect for late summer nights roasting marshmallows and a dock made for cannonballing off on hot and humid August afternoons. The lush greenery makes the entire property feel like a forest oasis, and sometime in the last fewyears, Kira's dads have supposedly added an outdoor, wood-burning sauna that I'd really like to give a try.

With the sun low in the sky, the water of the lake sparkles with a purplish hue. I can't help the smile that creeps across my face looking at the familiar body of water where so many of my best moments were spent as a kid. Kira, Stephen and I would spend all day swimming, canoeing, chasing each other through the woods, sometimes accompanied by Dean when he felt like shedding his 'too cool for school older brother' attitude and slum it with us. I spot the far wooden dock, the one with the motorboat tied to its post, and think about the last time I sat at the edge. Stephen and I ditching Kira's graduation after party for a midnight stroll that ended with him on his back and my hands in his hair. An orange flannel blanket. Fingers intertwined, limbs tangled together in knots. Soft sighs, curled toes, and of course, the boy who might have been the love of my life whispering promises into my ear while his body moved in tandem with mine under the bright white June moon.

And the note I scribbled on an old receipt and stuck in his pocket as the sun rose and he slept soundly.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the nostalgia sitting heavy in my stomach.

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