They took a deep breath once they were back in the driver’s seat of the Nissan, allowing themself one forehead thump against the steering wheel. They wished Dahlia were here. They weren’t much in the mood for driving.
They pulled their phone out of their pocket. Sixty new Twitter notifications since the last time they’d checked. Thirty-nine from Instagram.
No new texts.
They put the car in reverse and drove out of the parking lot.
London couldn’t sleep.
The finale was in ten hours, and every anxiety-ridden thought London’s brain had ever possibly conceived since flying to LA over a month ago was now parading through their brain.
London was proud of the visibility they’d achieved for their community onChef’s Special.
But right now, in the dark, the clock ticking away until the moment they would step onto that set for the last time with the world watching, that visibility felt heavy on their shoulders.
They knew that those who didn’t like them would discredit them either way. If they lost, they would have had it coming. If they won, then it would be rigged in favor of political correctness.
But what if London lost in front of everyone who wanted them to win?
How would that trans kid in Kentucky feel?
Quietly, London got to their feet. Their habits of the last week were still ingrained in their system. Their body was itching to walk.
They would just go get some of that awful green tea from the lobby they’d drunk too much of this week. Walk around the corridors for a bit.
But London didn’t even make it as far as the tea station. Because when they walked through the lobby, they were stopped short by a familiar short profile, a dark bob of hair with a streak of silver, sitting at the hotel bar.
Automatically, London walked toward her. They sat down next to their mother.
“What are you drinking there?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and then lowered again. Her creased forehead smoothed, and she smiled.
“A hot toddy. If I consume any more wine tonight, I’ll be passed out for your big day tomorrow. Please.” She pushed the warm glass along the counter toward them. “Drink it.”
A hot toddy actually sounded perfect right about now. London took a sip.
“So you’re in love, huh?” Charlotte Parker asked.
London choked on the rum. Once they had recovered, they cast her a sidelong glance. “We’re just jumping right in then, huh?”
“Will we be able to meet her anytime soon?”
London ran a finger along the countertop.
“Hopefully.”
They took longer sips of the toddy. It slid down their throat, warm and comforting.
A moment passed, and then Charlotte sighed. She reached up a weathered hand and rested it on London’s cheek.
“Oh, baby,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
London put down the glass. They stared at the rings it had left on the counter.
“I just don’t get it,” they said eventually. “He’s had so long. I don’t . . . I don’t know why it’s such a big deal.”
Their mom ran a hand through London’s hair and looked at them for a long moment. They closed their eyes, wanting to lean on her while they could.
