10. Stephen
10
STEPHEN
"Stupid moron idiot mother fucker." I mumble to myself under my breath as I lift my wrist and check my watch. Twenty minutes. Twenty fucking minutes I've been standing in front of my closet, staring.
Well, to call it a closet is being generous.
I think to be considered a closet, it needs to have a door, or at least some sort of specified alcove that separates the area from the rest of the room. What I'm looking at is a glorified shower rod hanging over a basket of my dirty work boots. It’s weighed down by flannel shirts, a couple old hoodies and one or two button-down shirts I break out for nice occasions. I feel like the sad, lonely bachelor version of Posh Spice, for god's sake.
Am I gonna wear the little blue flannel with the hole in the pocket, or the little blue flannel with the hole in the pocket?
"This is so dumb," I say to no one, unless you count Daisy May. But even she isn't listening to me. She's over on the bed, lying on her back with her feet in the air, sleeping like she's the one who works forty hours a week to pay the bills, dog drool dripping all over my freaking pillow.
Great, now I get to add laundry to my list of things I don't want to do today.
Not that I don't want to see Dorothea. I do, I really fucking do. So much so that I took the entire morning off from work just to prepare.
I just have this overwhelming feeling that I'm going to make a complete and total idiot of myself. I've let myself imagine this moment over the years, of course. It's not like I've had a barrage of other things to keep my mind occupied, after all. That's sort of the issue, though. I've thought about it so much that it's morphed from some far-off possibility into an impossible daydream. Now it resembles a fantasy more than real life.
A fantasy where I get her alone, hold her hand, and finally find out why she didn’t tell me she was going. Why she left me behind. If it made her happy.
I scoff out loud to myself. How pathetic. I am a grown man. Twenty-eight years old and here I am fantasizing about holding my high school sweetheart's hand in mine, and having a little old-fashioned communication.
And I do mean fantasizing.
Often to completion.
Fucking pathetic .
I decide to switch things up and pull a red flannel off a hanger and shrug it over my gray t-shirt, then tuck said t-shirt into my jeans. I flip my head over, letting my hair fall and then gather it into a bun, tying it off with the elastic I keep on my wrist. As I tie it all back, I think of all the times Dorothea would play with my hair, absentmindedly running her fingers through the locks that I kept long just for her.
And when we were a little older and she'd detangle them with purpose, her nails scratching against my scalp as we kissed and sought friction from each other under the stars.
And that's enough of that line of thinking, young man.
I stick my hand into my pocket and pinch my upper thigh, promptly sending my wakening dick back to sleep.
"Daisy May, girl," I coo at my pup, who lets out a little doggy snore in response.
"Daisy," I say again, and the brat of a dog has the nerve to put a paw over her eyes as she ignores me.
"Fine," I sigh, dramatically. "Guess I'll just have to go for a waaa-"
I don't even get the full word 'walk' out before Daisy May is awake and leaping out of the bed, trouncing to the coat rack by the door and taking her leash in her mouth.
"That's a good pup," I tell her, rewarding her with some sweet ear scratches. I leash her up, pop in my headphones, and the two of us make our way down Main Street to Noble Brews before I have the good sense to change my mind.
'Best of Me' by The Starting Line starts to play in my ears as Daisy May and I walk along, slowing only for friendly head nods and the occasional pet for her. We stop outside of the coffee shop so that Daisy May can have a drink of water from one of the dog bowls they keep refilled under the front window.
It's not because I need a moment before I go in. Nope. I'm cool. I'm totally unfazed by the unmistakable woman sitting ten feet away from me, with her back turned, wearing a cream-colored sweater.
I watch her through the window for a moment. She has her phone held up to her ear, and she's gesturing with her free hand. I feel like a deranged weirdo, staring at her like this, but I also don't want to interrupt her. I don't know if she's working or not. Maybe she's doing that thing where you pretend to talk to someone so you don't seem like a loner in public, although that seems unlikely.
Maybe she's changed, but the Dorothea I knew couldn't have cared less about being a loner. In fact, she relished her solitude. I was often the only person she'd allow to occupy her quiet times. She puts the phone down on the table and picks up an oversized pink mug, a novelty of Noble Brews. Each coffee mug is completely different, like it's been pulled straight out of some eccentric auntie's pantry.
I watch as she lowers the mug back down to the table, and even from here, I can see the slightest imprint of pink lipstick on the lip of the cup. It's time to go in before my lizard brain falls down a very dirty rabbit hole at that sight.
"C'mon, Daisy May. Let's go be adults about this."
I push open the door and the bell above us rings as we enter. I nearly curse the business owners in this town and their instance on putting these stupid fucking bells on top of every door. Sometimes a man just wants to enter an establishment without alerting the freaking presses.
But as the insipid bell rings, her blonde hair whips around at lightning speed, as if she'd been anticipating the noise. Our eyes meet, and she drops her gaze to the floor. If she's embarrassed at having been caught, she shouldn't be. I'm just relieved that I'm not the only one who seems to be so apprehensive about this whole situation.
Daisy May has no such nerves, it seems, since she bounds her way right into the shop, dragging me along with her. She goes right for Dorothea, who stretches out her hand. Daisy May skips the hand sniff and goes straight to indulging herself in the ear scratches being doled out. She's already comfortable as hell with her new pal. Go figure.
"Hey, Dorothea," I say, interrupting the incoherent baby talk she's chattering at my dog. She looks up to me, and my knees go weak. It's one thing to carry a torch for a woman from afar, yearning for someone that exists only within the confines of your phone and your memory. It's a whole other thing to have the object of your every desire sitting in front of you, letting your dog lick her perfect, flawless skin.
With my former girl sitting in front of me in the flesh, every teenage feeling I've suppressed for the better part of a decade comes barreling back to me in full force. Her eyes are wide, an unthinkable shade of blue, like a collision of stars and galaxies shining up at me from under long, black lashes. They're exactly how I remember them, expressive in a way that is almost unfair to her. Her eyes have always given up all her secrets, at least to me.
Like right now, how they're swimming with emotion, almost as if her irises were pooled with unshed tears. Her hair is a brighter shade of blonde than it was when we were younger. Almost white, if it weren't for the streaks of gold weaved throughout. Messy, sun-kissed highlights. Not ones that were painted on intentionally but instead were hard fought for, like the bronze glow to her skin and the spray of freckles decorating her nose.
Her lips are painted pink, with a tiny smudge from sipping her coffee right at the top of the heart shaped bow that once tasted like Juicy Fruit gum and unspoken promises.
"That seems to be your go-to line, these days," she says, sitting up and away from Daisy May and interrupting my inner musings on the flavor of her skin. She gestures to the chair across from her, and after getting Daisy May settled and lying down under the table, I take a seat .
"Your name is a line, now?" I ask, aiming for playful, but judging by the way she shakes her head and quickly backtracks, I must have come off a little bite-y.
"No, that's not… it's just my name. I haven't heard it in a while. Not outside of the DMV or another government agency, anyway." She runs a finger over the lip of her cup as I furrow my brows.
"You haven't heard your name in a while? What does that mean?"
"My full name, I mean. Everyone calls me Dottie, or Dottie Lynn. You're the only person who ever called me Dorothea," she shrugs, giving me a half smile.
"I told you before, I like the way it feels in my mouth. Like eating a marshmallow. Should I stop? I can call you Dottie, if you'd prefer," I say, though I personally wouldn't prefer it.
"No. No please, call me Dorothea. I forgot how nice it sounds when you say it." Her eyes meet mine, and I stare into them for a moment, searching for something. What, I don't know. A memory, a longing, and indication that this feels like a crazy dream to her as well.
"I see you didn't forget my coffee order," I say, picking up the other glass sitting on the table, the one with two lemons on the lip.
"Honestly, I didn't know if you started drinking coffee since the last time I saw you, so I asked the girl at the counter if you had a go-to. Imagine my delight when I found out you're still a ‘sweet tea with two lemons’ kind of guy," she says, gesturing towards the iced tea in my hand .
"Breakfast of champions," I say as I take a sip, relishing in the refreshing sweetness and ignoring the somersaults my stomach insists on doing over the simple gesture. The glass hits the table, and I suck a breath in between my teeth.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel all the eyes in this room zeroed in on our table. Hell, I know can feel the eyes outside on us. I'm sure if I listen hard enough, I'd be able to hear the sound of my mom pressing a glass to the other side of the wall, trying to listen in on our conversation – or lack thereof. The people in this town were far too invested when everything came to an end all those years ago. Naturally, they must be curious at this turn of events.
"So," I say, snapping my fingers to no specific beat. "What did you get to drink?"
What did you get to drink? I mock myself in my head. What a stupid fucking question.
Clearly, she agrees, because she crinkles her nose at me. If I wasn't embarrassed, I might comment on how adorable the little scrunch is.
"A flat white," she answers. I have no idea what that is. I could ask, but I don't think I have it in me to handle another nose crinkle, cute as it may have been.
Shit. Think, man. Say something clever. Say something cute.
Say fucking anything.
"This is weird, isn't it?" she asks, breaking me out of my inner self-flagellation while simultaneously confirming that I'm screwing this whole thing up. I sigh, dragging a hand over my face.
"It is. I'm sorry. I don't really know what to say. It's been a long time."
"I know. It's funny. I thought about this a lot, seeing you again. What it might feel like. What we'd talk about. It was always so intense in my imagination. I thought there would be… I don't know.
Anger? Arguing?
I never considered that we might be struggling just to make small talk. Simple things like conversation were never difficult for us." She keeps talking, but I don't hear the words anymore. Everything has gone fuzzy.
"You've thought about this? Talking to me?" I ask, interrupting her. She tilts her head, those blue eyes darkening slightly as she furrows her brow.
"Yeah, Stephen, I have. Is that so surprising?"
I shrug.
"Honestly sweetheart, I didn't think you thought about me at all." I bite my lip, cursing myself at the slip of my tongue. Twice this week I've ended up in front of this woman, and both times I've screwed up and called her sweetheart like we're still eighteen and she's still mine to claim. Her cheeks flush, and I don't know if it's the term of endearment or something else, but I can't help noticing how beautiful she looks anyway.
"I'll admit, the thoughts usually come around when I'm alone. Quiet midnights, early mornings. Times like that. Don't you ever think of me?" her question is quiet and timid, and my palms itch. I suppress the urge to reach out and hold her hand in mine.
"I do," I say. "Especially when I see you on TV, or when a DJ DeeEll remix pops up on my gym playlists."
Her eyes go wide, and I hit her with a wink.
"Okay, the remixes I can believe. My DJ skills were in high demand for a blink of an eye a few years ago. But my commercials? You've seen me on TV?"
"I have. Mom saved the GMA segment you did a while back about closet organization tips on the DVR. Not to mention that makeup ad you did. The one where you're running through a field of wheat."
"Huh," she smiles "I didn't think they aired those ads on ESPN," she teases with a smirk.
"Now, Dorothea, don't tell me you've forgotten so much about me. I may watch the Crushers religiously on Sundays, but every other day of the week, I'm a Bravo man. Give me Real Housewives and a six-pack of Budweiser and I'm a happy, well-entertained camper."
She throws her head back and laughs like a little kid, and my chest warms. I watch her face as it stretches into a wide smile, the first true smile I've seen on her beautiful face in years. And just like that, I feel like we're back.
"God, you're so grown up and manly looking these days. I thought you would have outgrown your Bravo phase by now. Do you still listen to boy bands too?" she giggles as she asks, but somehow, I know she's not trying to poke fun at me. She just seems curious about the person I am now, just like I'm dying to know who she is these days.
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me that you're too cool for One Direction just because you grew up. Not after the hours we spent dissecting those lyrics to try and uncover if Taylor Swift was a co-writer on any of the songs. Oh, and all those times you read me the smutty fanfiction out in our field at night," I tease, wagging my eyebrows at her.
"Oh my God!" she yells, slamming her hand down on the tabletop hard enough to make the liquid in our cups slosh over the sides. "I can't believe you remember the fanfiction!"
"Oh my God, how could I forget? I have fond memories of those stories. In fact, I think one of those stories was the catalyst to me ruining my favorite pair of sweatpants during senior year. We were reading the one where Harry makes sweet love to ‘Y/N’ on the dining room table, and you were rubbing yourself all over me, remember? I had to leave my pants out in the field or else I would’ve had to walk into the house with a giant wet spot on my crotch." I chuckle, thinking back on that night in the field, lying on my back on the trusty orange blanket, kissing and laughing until the sun started to rise.
She laughs, the loud, cackling kind of laugh that used to get us in trouble at school. The kind of laugh that would get us kicked out of class for fooling around, the kind she couldn't hold in when I'd do something stupid, like that one trick where I made a pencil go in one nostril and come out the other. A laugh that I knew I missed terribly, but didn't realize just how much until hearing it again.
The loud action gains us a dirty look or two from the other coffee shop patrons, but I don't care. Not when my girl is smiling like that. "You're never gonna believe it. I'm friends with the writer of that fic!" Her voice ticks up at the end, like her words are being followed by a handful of very excited exclamation points.
"Shut up. You're telling me that not only does 'Harrys_ Georgia_ Rose' live in Los Angeles, you've managed to track them down and befriend them? My god, I knew you'd get shiny new friends when you went out to California, but I never could have imagined you rubbing elbows with someone so famous," I gasp as I smack a hand to my chest. Dorothea laughs at my dramatics as she reaches across the table and shoves my shoulder. I can feel the sting of her fingertips on my skin, even through the layers of clothing separating us.
"Yes! Harry's Georgia Rose is my friend. Her name is Georgie. Except she doesn't live in LA, she's up in San Francisco. Keeks introduced us, and her old secret online identity came out one night after some wine. I was absolutely starstruck. I mean, how often does a person get to meet the purveyor of their sexual awakening?"
"I might have to send her a thank you card for that awakening," I mutter, sipping my water. "So, what is our old pal HGR up to these days?"
"She's a romance novelist," Dorothea says .
"That tracks."
"And recently engaged to a six-foot-six billionaire who's positively consumed by her,"
"Ahh, so not Mrs. Harry Styles, then. She must be so disappointed."
"Yes, I do believe she and her therapist are actively working through the trauma of it all."
Our laughter fades into quiet, but it's not as awkward as it was before. Like the recalling of memories helped to break the ice. Or at the very least, put a crack in it. Daisy May huffs out a sigh under the table, and I glance down to check on her. When I look back up, Dorothea is still staring at me. The smile has faded from her face, replaced with a contemplative look.
"This is nice. We can do this," she says quietly, like a thought that accidentally made it out of her mouth and not a statement she meant to share with me.
"Do what?" I ask.
"We can be friendly while I'm here. I was worried this was a huge mistake, but it's nice. I don't have to hide from you. That's a relief." she wipes at her brow, as if the idea made her sweat.
Friendly .
I choke over the word. Friendly is watering your neighbors’ plants while they're away for the weekend. Friendly is letting someone with less items cut the line at the grocery store. I have never had any interest in being simply friendly with Dorothea Lynn Hart.
"We can do better than friendly, sweetheart. We're going to be friends, just like old times. "
"You think we can manage being friends? Just like that?" she asks. I gesture between us.
"Look at us now, what do you call this? I call it having a mid-morning chat with a friend. Come on, Dorothea. Don't make it complicated."
She tilts her head, looking up towards the ceiling as she thinks.
"Dorothea. Sweetheart. You keep pulling out all the old classics," she muses.
"What can I say? Old habits die kicking and screaming," I shrug.
A beat passes. She looks back at me.
"We've always been pretty good at being friends, haven't we?"
"I'd say being your friend was always the thing I was best at," I say.
"So. Friends for now," she says.
"Friends for now," I agree.
She glances down at the table and starts to fiddle with her nearly empty mug.
"And maybe for longer? We can stay friends, even after I leave, right?"
And there it is. The cold hard truth. She's here now, but she'll be gone again.
And I decide right now, right here, that I'm going to make Dorothea mine again.
Even though she's leaving.
But maybe this time she won’t leave me behind.