8. Stephen
8
STEPHEN
The chair in Dad's office is lowering.
I can feel it moving beneath me.
It's not happening quickly.
I don't know if he's even noticed it, but I have. I've been sitting here for ten minutes, and I am at least three centimeters closer to the ground than I was when I first sat down. There's something wrong with the hydraulic lift, I'm sure of it. Not surprising, since this chair has been here for as long as I can remember, and it has a Dad-shaped imprint in the seat, but still. I can almost guarantee that if I sit here any longer, my knees will be up to my chest.
I pick up my phone to dictate a reminder to myself– order Dad a new chair because he'll never do it on his own. When the screen lights up and there are no notifications to be seen, my stomach sinks.
I did not spend my weekend alone in my apartment with my dog and a deluge of Chinese takeout. I did not spend my weekend staring at my phone. I did not revert to the pathetic, lovesick, teenage boy of my past. I did not spend my weekend gripping this stupid rectangle in one hand, greasy Crab Rangoon in the other, willing Dorothea Lynn Hart to text me.
Except I totally did. All weekend. I barely even showered. I just watched my phone, nearly shitting myself each time the screen lit up, then sinking into a depressed oblivion every time it turned out to be an email from some store I once bought a shirt from and not a text from the girl I once thought would be mine forever.
Part of me wants to believe that Friday night was some kind of fever dream. That maybe it was a mirage, a twisted figment of my imagination, a brutal hallucination concocted by my subconscious after too many years alone. But it wasn't. I know it wasn't, because on Saturday night I used the nameless, faceless social media account that I keep in my back pocket for special occasions–like nights when I'm particularly lonely, drunk, horny, or some lethal combination of all three–to sleuth out the situation and prove to myself that I'm not losing my mind.
Sure enough, right there on @MissDottieLynn's Instagram story was a shot of the McKenna's Lake with an 'out of office' GIF posted earlier that morning. And over on @KiraMcKillerFit's page, a photo of Dorothea lying belly up on the hardwood floor of the McKenna's kitchen with two dogs licking her face sits right on top of the grid with the caption 'The bitch is back!!’ .
In the photo, she's wearing a pair of spandex black shorts that hit her mid-thigh and a pink t-shirt that's ridden up to just below her bellybutton, showing off a peek of smooth, tanned skin.
My mind flashes back to the photo, and the memories come flooding back to me. I'm assaulted by one from a summer day when we were thirteen. The day that my mind and my body synced up like the snap of fingers and she suddenly wasn't just my friend or the girl who lives next door anymore.
It was a particularly hot August day. I'd spent most of the afternoon tossing a football around with Dean and wanted to cool off. Dorothea and I decided to take a swim down in the creek. It had been a confusing summer, to say the least. I sprouted up a few inches, my voice was starting to sound different, and it seemed like every time she was around, my cheeks felt warm. I was suddenly so worried that everything I said to her would sound stupid.
Lucky for me, she was always ready to do most of the talking. We walked through the trees, across the open field and down a hill to the creek, where the water was high and rushing from the rain a few days prior. As soon as we hit the muddy shores, Dottie whipped off her t-shirt and shorts, revealing a two-piece bathing suit I hadn't seen before.
My mouth went dry, and I turned my back so fast I practically gave myself whiplash. She jumped into the water and called for me to join her, but I had to sit on the edge with my knees to my chest until the evidence of these newfound feelings towards her subsided and it felt like I could breathe again.
We were both still kids, but that was the day that, to teenage me, Dorothea Lynn Hart became a woman.
That night I laid in bed and thought about my best friend and her lips and what it might feel like if I kissed her, and I knew right then and there that everything had changed.
"You're fucking pathetic, dude," I mutter to myself as I set the phone aside, opting to write myself a 'new chair' reminder on a Post-it instead. I drag a hand through my hair and pick up the iPad sitting in front of me. I scroll through our management software, double-checking the site preparation checklist for the new strip mall Hudson Family Constructions is starting on next week.
Of course, I know it's all good to go. I'm the manager on the project–I'm the manager on most projects these days–but it can't hurt to check for a fifth time that all our i's are dotted, and t's are crossed. Especially if it keeps my mind off a certain blonde who seems keen on continuing her nine-year streak of ignoring my existence.
"If you stare any harder at that screen, you're going to burn a couple holes in it," Dad says from the doorway. I look up to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed against his chest, yellow hard hat hanging from his belt loop. Even though this is his office, he walks in and takes the visitor's seat opposite of me, propping his feet up on to his desk with a groan .
He’s well into his late fifties, but he still insists on visiting job sites and getting his hands dirty pretty much daily. I don't know if it's his stubbornness or an instance that he's not getting older, but as much as he complains about wanting to slow down, he doesn't seem keen on doing so. It doesn't matter that I'm here and willing to take over for him, the business is his third baby, and I guess he's not ready to give it up just yet.
"I'm just-"
"Quadruple checking everything for the strip mall, I know. You wouldn't be you if you didn't, kid." He throws his hands behind his head and leans back into them, stretching and yawning.
"You could get out of here, you know. Retire, relax. Spend some time with your wife. Mom, remember her? I mean, isn't that the whole point of having kids? Building a legacy and then leaving it to them instead of hanging around and staring over their shoulder as they try to do their damn jobs?" I say, my tone coming across a little less teasing and a bit more biting than I mean it to.
It's not my dad's fault I'm in a sour mood. I don't even care about the business like that. Sure, I'm here and willing to take over for him so that he can retire and enjoy his life, but not because I'm particularly passionate about small town construction. I'm not clamoring to become the king of excavators or anything, but sometimes I wonder why he won't just let go and let me take the reins. Like maybe he doesn't trust me not to screw it up, or something.
Dad lets out a low whistle before I have the chance to apologize for being an ass.
"Does this stick up your ass have anything to do with little Dottie Lynn showing up back in town?" he asks, and my head snaps up. I didn't tell my parents about my run-in at Liquor World on Friday night. I just returned with Daisy May and the Pinot Grigio, ate my chicken picatta and went home like nothing ever happened.
"Please, Stephen," Dad laughs, rolling his eyes. "Mrs. Johnson down at Liquor World had your mother on the horn immediately, probably before you two even left the store. The way those two play the telephone game, I'd be surprised if the whole town didn't know about the puppy-dog eyes you two were giving each other at the register.
I open my mouth, then close it again. Of course they know. I should've realized Mrs. Johnson and her big yapper wouldn't just pretend like she saw nothing. Dottie Lynn Hart back in Fox Hole is front page news in and of itself, let alone the two of us interacting right in front of her. When she left town, it was all anyone could talk about for months. I couldn't go into town without falling victim to a deluge of pitying looks and sympathetic smiles.
"There were no puppy-dog eyes," I say with absolutely zero conviction, because of course there were, on my face at least. As much as it pains me to admit, Dorothea has the exact same effect on twenty-eight-year-old me as she did on my thirteen-year-old self.
"Mhm sure. You weren’t mooning over a girl who was attached to your lips from age fourteen to eighteen," he nods, sarcasm dripping off him as he smirks.
Fifteen. We didn't kiss until we were fifteen, Dad.
I certainly felt fifteen again when I spent the weekend scrolling through old pictures on my laptop, hoping she'd call.
"You know, I never did understand what happened there. Your mom and I always thought you kids would go the distance," Dad continues, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil. I answer with a grunt. He doesn't understand what happened because I didn't tell them. Why would I? It was simple and humiliating.
Dorothea wanted to leave, and even though I would have dropped everything, she didn't want me to come with her. I still don't know why.
"Can we drop it?" I ask, pushing back from the desk and pulling a black and white flannel onto my back. I walked to the office today since it was unseasonably warm this morning, but now that it's nearly five o'clock and the sun is low in the sky, the December chill is bound to bite me on the way home. Dad just throws his hands up in defeat.
"Dropping, I'm dropping it. But your mother-"
"Yeah, I know," I say. Now that my mom knows that I know that they know—Jesus Christ that's a mind fuck—she's going to be bugging me for information. I whistle for Daisy May who has been waiting patiently under Dad's desk for me to finish my day.
She nuzzles her snout against my legs as I attach her leash. I pop my headphones into my ears and lose myself to a playlist I've carefully curated over the years- the one filled with alternative classics from the last few decades. I enjoy the orange and purple sky as I trudge through town. Leaves crunch under my work boots and Daisy May picks up a stray stick that she carries all the way back to our apartment.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I open the front door and unhook Daisy May's leash. She runs straight to her bowl, sits like the good dog she is, and waits for me to fill it up with her dinner. I huff out a breath, pulling my phone out and bracing myself to deal with Spanish Inquisition (also known as my mother), but it's not her name on the screen.
Right there, overlaid on the photo my sister took of Daisy May and me at the lake this past summer is the message I've been waiting all weekend for.
Unknown Number
Hey Stephen. It’s me. Truth or dare?
I love how she doesn’t bother to say her name. Even if she had just sent the question, I would have known exactly who was messaging me.
I’m going to be brave and say dare.
Dorothea
I dare you to follow through on your offer to hang out. Maybe we could get that cup of coffee tomorrow? I'll be at Noble Brews tomorrow around noon, if you want to meet up. Caffeine and croissants are on me.
I think about it playing it cool for all of two nanoseconds, then text right back.
Make that croissant a giant chocolate chip cookie instead and I’ll be there.
Dorothea
:) see you then, Stephen.