6. Dottie
6
DOTTIE
"Hey, Stephen!" someone says in an annoying, cheery, fake tone that sounds like a mix between Siri and a WASP-y mom who's had one too many martinis. I take a quick glance around, looking for the culprit of the ridiculous voice before quickly realizing it was me. I'm the annoying voice.
I'm Knockoff Siri, The White Girl Wasted Housewife.
The dog at our feet wiggles, it's tail flicking back and forth where it sits on the linoleum floor. I'm going to go ahead and assume it's a girl dog, considering her pink collar and the tulip-pattern bandanna wrapped around her neck.
Of course, Stephen Hudson has an adorable, well-behaved golden retriever that he dresses up with cute accessories. Just fucking of course.
"Who's this little cutie?" I ask, dropping into a squat and running my hands over the dogs soft, floppy ears. She immediately perks up, her tail whipping faster behind her as a long pink tongue licks a slobbery stripe up the side of my cheek. It's gross and so sweet. What is it about dog breath that makes it so disgusting and endearing at the same time?
"It's been a long time, huh?" Stephen muses, ignoring my request for the pooch's name. I don't bother looking up at him. I can feel his judgement dripping from where he glares down at me, coating me in something that feels muddy and thick. I start to scratch the pup behind her ears, and she gives me an approving headbutt.
At least someone here seems to appreciate my presence.
I don't quite know how to respond to Stephen. It wasn't a question, not really. It was barely even a statement. More like a thought he seemed to accidentally mutter out loud. I can only let this silence stretch on so long, so I swallow my pride and say the only thing that comes to mind.
"Yeah, well. I've been busy. Lots of work, you know?"
Stupid, stupid, stupid. No one is that busy for nine years.
"Hmm. Must be important work to keep you busy for a good–what has it been? Nine years?" he asks like a mind reader, his words laced with biting sarcasm. Sarcasm that I probably deserve, but that I resent, nonetheless. Maybe it's not the point of this conversation, but my work is important, especially to me, and I'm not going to sit here and let him act like it's not. I stand and cross my arms, popping a hip and finally looking at him. I hit him with my fiercest, 'take no shit' gaze and try to ignore the dazzling flecks of gold that glitter in his otherwise green eyes.
Eyes that are softer than I remember them being. A bit sadder, with small lines in the corners that do nothing but show the passage of time and how favorable the years have been to him. I take note of the messy knot of thick brown hair at the back of his head. I wonder if it still falls into those eyes, if he keeps it tied back now so that he doesn't have to push it out of his face. I almost smile when I think back to the summer when we were thirteen and he really started to grow his hair out. He was constantly pushing it out of his face, saying that the messy mop was the reason he couldn't catch the footballs that Kira's brother torpedoed his way. I'd offered to braid it for him, and he’d scoffed in the moment.
Later that night, though, when it was just him and me stargazing in his parent's backyard, he let me have a go at it. He fell asleep with his head on my shins as I knotted a million tiny braids into his soft locks.
A green-eyed monster of jealousy tries to claw its way out of my gut when the passing thought runs through my brain that he probably has someone else to braid his hair now. I quickly tamp it down, squish it like a bug under my shoe, and go back to being annoyed at his sarcasm.
"Yes, Stephen," I say with a proverbial stomp of my foot, "my very important work has kept me extremely busy. So busy, in fact, that I've barely even thought about Fox Hole or its residents in years. But I'm here now. Is that going to be a problem?"
He smirks down at me, and I just know that he knows I'm full of shit. He's always been able to read me like a magazine. His tongue peeks out between his lips, running a quick swipe over them before he smacks them together.
"Nope. Not a problem at all, Dorothea. In fact, I'm just surprised you'd leave California at all. How ever will the Malibu cliffs stay put if you're not there holding them up?"
I roll my eyes, but I can't help the snort that escapes me at the image of me holding up the cliff sides, Atlas style, dressed head to toe in Lululemon. My less-than-ladylike sound garners a snicker from him and before I know it, we're belly laughing right there in the wine aisle. The dog even seems to join in, wagging her tail and jumping up, placing her front paws on Stephen's stomach with a happy bark.
"I, uh. Yeah," I mumble as my laugh simmers down. "I don't know. Kira asked me to come back with her for the holidays, and I said yes. I'm staying with her and her family up on McKenna Mountain."
"Makes sense. I figured that's where you'd stay if you ever came back. I was home for dinner. At my parent's house, I mean. Not my home. I don't live with them anymore. I moved into town a while back. I'm just here to grab the wine my mom forgot for her picatta," he says, reaching behind me to grab a bottle from the shelf. The motion brings him close, his arm brushing over my shoulder as he goes, and I visibly shiver.
Stephen, to his credit, pretends not to notice.
"Right. I'm on a similar mission. Vodka," I say, holding the bottle of Tito's up between us.
"For the Cosmos," he smiles, and I smile right back. The McKenna Cosmopolitans are legendary, but even still, it feels special that Stephen knew instantly what the liquor was for. Whether it's a memory from childhood or if he's been up to the mountain for Cosmos since I left, I suppose I'll never know.
We look at each other for a beat longer than what feels normal. His gaze holds mine, those green eyes like two lasers turning my insides molten and mushy. I feel my knees start to quake, literally go weak, like I'm some lovestruck heroine in the romance books Georgie writes. My breath grows labored, and my lips start to feel dry. Neither of us is moving, but somehow, we're getting closer, like an impossibly patient and meticulous marionette is manipulating our strings, pulling us millimeter by millimeter. His eyes drop to my mouth and my breath catches.
The bell over the top of the front door rings, breaking the spell. I jump back, even though I hadn't moved my feet. Stephen clears his throat.
"I'd better get this back to Mom," he says, moving the bottle of wine back and forth between his hands.
"Yeah," I say, nodding my head like an idiot. "Yeah, same. I gotta get back up McKenna Mountain. Dean is on his way, and if I don't hurry- "
"There will be no food left for you when you get there," he finishes for me.
"Exactly," I say, and we awkwardly make our way to the register together in silence. He lets me pay first, and as soon as Mrs. Johnson slips my vodka into a brown paper bag, I grab it and turn towards the door. I'm stopped by a large hand softly cupping my shoulder.
"Maybe I can see you again while you're in town? Grab a coffee or a shot of tequila or something?" Stephen asks over my shoulder.
"Sure," I say, glancing back at him. "I'll text you, let me just-" I stick my hand in my pocket, looking for my phone, but Stephen shakes his head.
"Number never changed, sweetheart," he whispers. I don't have it saved in my phone anymore, but we both know that I could still dial those ten digits in my sleep.
I give him a soft, half smile and slink towards the door. As soon as I pull into the McKenna's driveway, I twist the cap off the bottle of vodka and take a swig, gagging at the burn.
This winter is going to last for-fucking-ever.
Pussy Posse Group Chat
Rachel
Hey, you two get in okay? You didn't text when you landed
Kira
We're sort of going through it over here
SOS. My head and my heart are already a mess
Rachel
Already? You've been in Tennessee for three hours. Isn't there some sort of grace period before you have a hometown emotional breakdown?
I saw him. Stephen. MY Stephen. Stephen Christopher Hudson. At the liquor store. AND he saw me. This is a nightmare.
Georgie
OMG. How did he look?
Kira
Hotter than he did in high school, according to the new picture on his dad's website.
image
He is. All. Man. I'd let him toss me like a hay bale
Rachel
Keeks, love you, but hush.
He just… talked to me. Small talk. Niceties. No acknowledgment of anything. I was practically pissing myself and he was talking about Malibu?! What am I supposed to do with that?!?!
Rachel
I… I don't even know…
I think I almost kissed him…
Kira
Excuse me?
Georgie
KISSED HIM? Where? Like on the cheek?
Rachel
Or on the dick?!
Kira
Rest assured ladies, I’ve just flung a hair tie across the room at Dottie for not leading with this pertinent information.
Nailed her right in the forehead.
It was a heated moment! We were just staring at each other and it felt like we were being pulled together or something.
It’s like my lips instantly remembered what it was like to kiss him and started to move on their own. I didn’t, though. There was no kissing. But he does want to get a drink or something while I’m in town.
That’s a bad idea…
Right?
Georgie
Call me a hopeless romantic, but I say go for it!
What’s the worst that could happen?
I could die.
Rachel
That’s always a possibility but highly unlikely in this scenario. C’mon Dottie, be serious. You’re there, he’s there. Why not hang out, reminisce, lean into the nostalgia a bit?
Ugh. I don’t know.
Kira
Don’t worry, Pussy Posse. Pops and IronDad are whipping up some Cosmos. We’ll get Dottie Girl nice and drunk. That oughta sharpen her decision making skills.