Dorothea visits her hometown for Christmas.

By megalodon  Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories.

Dorothea fiddles with her scarf, nerves tangling her insides as she gazes out the window. Her hometown seems so small thousands of feet below her private jet, a village of dollhouses, and she smiles to herself, the view bringing back memories of her childhood.

She’ll be seeing them again, all her childhood friends. After all these years, how much have they changed? Lord knows she’s not the gangly teenager she once was, wishing her friends goodbye as she boarded the plane to California, giddy with optimism and naivete.

She bites back a wistful smile as she remembers all her friends waving her off. Well, nearly all of them. All but her high school sweetheart, Elliot.

Elliot, so unlike the men she dallied with these days, all chiseled jaws and plastic veneers, inhumanly gorgeous and emotionally constipated. Elliot was nothing like that, with his curly hair and quiet beauty. He adored her; worshipped the ground she walked on, and she, young and conceited, reveled in that, wrapping herself in his devotion. A pang of nostalgia shoots through her as she reminisces. She and Elliot were attached at the lips, sneaking away to screw in backseats and under bleachers. He gave her the confidence to make the big move, to get where she is today: A-list actress, Hollywood star, face plastered on massive billboards and tiny screens. But he wanted to keep her all to himself; couldn’t stand to watch her board the plane, leaving him and his small-town life for bright and shiny Hollywood.

Will she see him again? Surely they’ll bump into each other; a town this small, it’s bound to happen eventually. But would he remember her as fondly as she did him?

The boys are treating him with a careful wariness that’s edging on his nerves. Stephen and Cory are giving each other sneaky sidelong glances and not-so-subtle elbow jabs as they prattle on about nothing in particular. None of the typical ribbing and roasting that accompanies them when they intrude at the bar where Elliot works. They think he doesn’t notice, but he’s no idiot.

Finally, with a sigh, Elliot says, ‘Come on lads. Spit it out.’

Stephen and Cory exchange glances and feign innocence.

‘What do you mean?’ says Cory, tapping tattooed fingers on the bar.

‘Spit what out, Elliot?’ says Stephen, chewing on the complimentary peanuts.

Elliot is wiping down the bar with a cloth. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. What’s up? Out with it, already.’

Stephen grimaces, then stuffs his mouth with another handful of peanuts. He looks at Cory, who seems to find the countertop absolutely fascinating.

'Oh my god,’ says Elliot, 'I’m not some delicate flower. Just tell me.’

Cory, finally, is the brave one. 'Dorothea’s back in town,’ he says, with such insincere nonchalance it’s almost laughable, were it not for the bomb he just dropped. Dorothea. Back. Here? 'Just for the weekend,’ Cory continues, 'she’s seeing her folks for Christmas.’

But Elliot can barely hear the words. Blood rushes in his ears.

'Dorothea?’ he mutters. His high school girlfriend, back home? Does she remember him? He never stopped thinking about her; not that she’d given him that chance. He sees her every day, in blockbuster movies and makeup ads, on magazine covers and the poster at the bus stop. (And the secret polaroid in his pocket. When Cory found out he gave him shit for it, but never told Stephen, for which Elliot is grateful)

Dorothea. He never thought he’d see her again, not in real life, resigned as he was to always be just one of her many admirers, only ever dreaming about being able to touch her again, to fuck her like he used to in the back of his old truck.

Stephen scoffs. 'See, I told you he’d get like this. Get that fuckin’ dopey look off your face, dude.’

Cory laughs, and mocks, 'Oh, Dorothea, the one that got away. Do you think she still remembers me?’ He puts his hands over his heart and bats his lashes, pouting.

This snaps Elliot out of it, and he throws his wet cloth at his friend. 'Shut the fuck up, dude. That was years ago, we’ve both moved on.’

Stephen, evidently, thinks this is the funniest thing Elliot has ever said, and he chokes on his beer.

Cory throws the cloth back at him, and says, 'She’ll be at carols tonight.’

'She will?’ asks Elliot.

'She will?’ Stephen copies, mocking in falsetto. Elliot punches his shoulder.

Cory ignores Stephen. 'So I’ve heard,’ he says. 'You’re gonna go, right?’

'Eh,’ says Elliot, with a shrug, 'not really my thing. Probably not.’

That was a lie. Of course he goes to carols.

Inside the church, he’s skittish all evening, eyes peeled for perfect auburn curls and blue eyes. He sings along to the carols half-heartedly, craning his neck to examine each face in the crowd. Cory has to elbow him when he misses the cue to sit down.

'Pull yourself together, man,’ Cory hisses to him. But Elliot doesn’t, letting the sounds of carols and Christmas hymns wash over him, inattentive. He has better things to focus on; namely one celebrity ex-girlfriend hidden in the throng.

After the service ends, he’s unintentionally rude to regular churchgoing old ladies, brushing them off as he scans the congregation. Just as he’s resigned to miss her, ready to head out among the dispersing crowd, there she is.

Rugged up in designer coat and scarf, laughing in slow motion, perfection personified. She’s so shiny and smooth compared to the rest of the town, in their thrift store layers and five-dollar haircuts. Everything about her is so magnetic, the rest of the world fades to greys beside her vibrancy; she’s a cut-out from a glossy magazine taped to a scribbled children’s drawing.

Elliot is caught in her orbit, and he finds his legs moving toward her before his brain can catch up, and suddenly he’s standing right in front of her. Heart hiccupping in his chest, he wipes his palms on his jeans as he clears his throat, catching her attention.

'Hey, uh,’ he begins eloquently. His voice breaks, squeaking like he’s a teenager again. 'Dorothea. I don’t know if you remember me, but uh?’

Dorothea’s face breaks into a wide grin. 'Elliot!’ she all but squeals, 'Of course I remember you, silly!’ She wraps him up in an affectionate hug, and his nerves melt away, slush down a drain. She’s standing on tiptoes to reach her arms around his shoulders, and his arms snake around her waist as if they were made for this, and it feels exactly the same as it did eight years ago.

Dorothea loosens her grip and Elliot pulls away reluctantly. Behind Dorothea, Stephen makes a lewd gesture, which Elliot ignores. Instead, he says, 'Wanna go on a walk with me?’

Dorothea’s smile could melt polar ice caps. She takes his hand.

Wandering through town streets, mittened hand in mittened hand, Elliot and Dorothea reminisce over old memories. The main drag is empty and quiet as they walk down it, streetlights aglow.

'Oh, I remember the Christmas pageant parading down here every year,’ Dorothea says, wistful smile on her face. 'Is that still going! Oh, tell me it is!’

Elliot has never been one for Christmas spirit, but Dorothea’s enthusiasm is just so adorable, he can’t help but get caught up in it. 'Yeah, they’ll be parading tomorrow.’

'Oh, we have to go!’ she says, tugging his arm. 'I used to love the parade!’

'Loved being the centre of attention, huh? You in your little elf outfit, with the stripy tights, I remember.’ Elliot pokes her side and she squeals, skipping away.

'It was very vogue, Elliot,’ she jokes, putting her hands on her hips. 'Not that I’d expect you to understand.’ She gestures to his khaki puffer coat, and he gasps in mock offense.

'Not all of us have closets the size of Texas, Dolly,’ he retorts, giving her a playful shove.

She laughs. 'Don’t get started with that old nickname again, Elliot!’

'If it fits, it fits!’ Elliot says, 'You had a new Sunday best each week! Your mother dressed you up like a little plaything. You were her little Dolly!’

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. 'I’m everyone’s Dolly.’

Elliot says quietly, 'You were never a toy to me, though.’

Maybe that was too sincere. She looks away, avoiding his gaze, and an awkward silence makes the chilly air colder.

Then suddenly, Dorothea points and says, 'Hey look, the playground!’ and she tugs his hand, skipping towards it. Elliot struggles to keep up, following Dorothea and her ruby red scarf flapping like a flag in the wind.

They play on the playground like they’re kids again, and they don’t talk about their lives since Dorothea left. They don’t talk about who they’ve been seeing, even though Elliot knows she’s been seen with some strong-jawed Adonis of a co-star, and the thought of it leaves him with an iciness he’d do better to ignore. Dorothea was never his to keep. Always her own person, never tied down; he’d do well to remember that. But when she tilts her head back and says in that sing-song voice 'It’s sn