December, 1986
"Linds, you almost ready?" Michael called up the stairs.
"Almost!" she called back. He sighed exasperatedly. They had planned on leaving fifteen minutes ago. It was their eighteenth birthday and Michael was taking her out to dinner in Santa Monica, wanting to something special to celebrate the progress she'd been making in her recovery. She'd always liked romantic things like that.
Lindsay came down the stairs wearing deep red lipstick and the new red floral dress and leather jacket she'd gotten when their mother had taken her shopping earlier that day. Her hair was curled and tied up with a black cloth headband. She looked like Madonna.
"You look nice," he said.
She blushed, making her look even prettier. He felt his own face grow warm with embarrassment. He didn't know why, he'd said similar things before.
"Thanks," she said, smiling shyly.
"Okay, we'd better go," he said.
"I know, I know," she sighed, following him out the door into the cool wet evening. The sky was deep blue with clouds.
"So where are we going?" Lindsay asked as they walked to the car.
"I told you, it's a surprise."
"Ugh, fine. You do know it's your birthday, too, right?"
"Yeah, I know. This will be fun."
They reached the car and he opened the door for her.
"Well, aren't you a gentlemen?" she teased as she climbed in.
