See Dot Smile

14

Brent: Happy Birthday, Dotsky!!

Dot: Thanks.

Brent: Big plans for debauchery today? Strip club? Cigarettes? Play the lottery? Visit the over 18 sites? Legally for once?

Dot: I don't watch porn.

Brent: That's too bad. I should send you some links. You're missing out.

Dot: All set, thanks.

Brent: What can I do for you on your birthday?

Dot: Grow up.

Brent: Aw. You're a bitch now. I love it.

Dot: I have to go, Bud's picking me up.

Brent: BUD? My beautiful mountain man? Does that mean you two are ...?

Dot: No.

Brent: Why not? Don't tell me you're against it because he's big. That's shallow.

Dot: I don't care that he's big.

Brent: Is it because you're too small? And you're afraid he won't ... fit?

Dot: What is wrong with you?

Brent: What size are his shoes?

Dot: Bye, Brent. Let me know when you grow up.

Brent: Sure thing. I'll send those porn links asap.

Dot: I hate you so much.

Brent: Love you, too. And I'm fucking with you. Tell Bud I said hi, for real. And have an awesome birthday. I'm proud of you, sis. And I miss you a ton.

Dot: I miss you too.

Dot: Fuckface.

Brent: ❤️

* * * * *

"If you could change one thing about your appearance, what would it be?"

I think about it. Even glance at myself in the visor mirror looking for forgotten flaws. The truth is, I've never been hung up on my looks. Enough people told me I was pretty during my impressionable years to keep my self-esteem from tanking. I'm not a bombshell like Ali, or a leggy farmer's daughter like Maren, but I'm ... cute, I guess. Still....

"I wish my hair was less ... meh ... sometimes."

"Got it," Bud says. He pulls his car over and parks in front of the sea wall.

"What are you doing?" I ask, my stomach growling for my promised birthday breakfast.

"I need to make a call," he says, grinning mischievously as he abandons me in the car. He returns a few minutes later, looking very pleased with himself.

"Can we go eat now?" I ask like an entitled birthday brat.

"Yes," he says.

"Who were you calling?"

"My guy."

My stomach somersaults. "Guy? What guy? Do you ... have a boyfriend?"

"What!? No."

I exhale, relieved. Wait. Why am I relieved?

"Oh, Okay," I say. "Okay. I just ... okay."

The car goes silent. That's on me for being totally weird there for a second. And I'd rather not unpack my mixed reaction to the idea that Bud might be gay. Or ... attached.

"What would you change about your appearance?" I ask, loudly to cover the weirdness.

He chuckles. "Pick something."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm kind of a disaster physically." The worst part is he sounds like he believes it.

"You are not," I say. "You've lost weight. Haven't you?"

"Yeah. I lost fifteen pounds before Christmas."

"That's amazing," I say.

"I've gained eight back since New Year's." He side glances me. "Too many pancakes."

"Oh," I say. "We don't have to go to breakfast if you don't want to." I hope he still wants to.

"Dot, I always want to go to breakfast with you. I used to go to breakfast alone, all the time. I don't miss that. I'd rather be fat and have someone to eat with than be less fat and alone."

I don't know what to say. I'm picturing Bud eating breakfast, at all these diners we've been going to, by himself. Sure, he has people there who know him and like him, but he still would have to drive there by himself, walk in by himself, ask for a table for one, order for one, and then eat alone, in silence, until the check came. With no one to split it with.

Not that we ever split the check. Bud always pays. He says it makes him happy to treat me.

"What size shoes do you wear?" I ask, seeking a way out of my sad visions.

"Fourteen."

"Jesus Christ!" I gasp. "Are you serious?"

"Yes." He laughs. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Six," I say. "But seriously, a fourteen? I've never even seen a shoe that big."

"They're on my feet, right now," he says. "Have you never looked at my feet before?"

"No." Brent's voice is in my head. And it's out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Is it true what they say about guys with big feet?"

"That they wear big shoes?"

I laugh. Hard. "No--that they have really big--"

"Socks?"

Oh my God. "No! They have big--"

"Podiatrist bills?"

"DICKS!" I blurt out over my laughter. I'm doubled over and in tears. He's just grinning like the all-powerful ringmaster of my gutter brain circus.

"Dicks, plural?" he teases. "Who the hell are these guys? I just have the one."

"Stop ... I'm dying ... Please stop..."

He giggles and leaves me alone to recover from my fit. I struggle to get my wits back and ask the question again. Because it wasn't hypothetical the first time.

"Is it true?"

Bud puts the car in park. Sets the emergency break. Puts his phone in his coat pocket and finally turns to face me. His cheeks are at maximum pinkness. "I'm pretty sure that's a myth. Let's eat, birthday girl."

After we order, Bud excuses himself to the restroom. 

Dot: 14

Brent: Holy shit, Dot. Marry him.

* * * * *