Fuck Lizzie.
London jiggled their leg.Okay.Breathe.They couldn’t focus on Dahlia right now.
They watched their family settle into the front row.
London wasn’t supposed to leave the staging area, but they had decided, at some point between last night and right now, that there was something they needed to do. They slipped out the back door, and they searched for Janet.
“Parker, you’re supposed to be waiting for the final call,” she said with irritation once London tracked her down not too far away.
“Please,” they said, knowing she was about to punch them. “I need you to do me a tiny favor.”
“Are you serious right now?” Janet stared at them over the top of her skinny violet frames. “You know how many balls I have in my court at this very moment? Yours, for one.”
“Do you see that guy out there? Standing near Cath?” London rushed out. “Tall, hair the same color as mine?”
“The dude who looks just like you but old. Yeah, London, I see that dude.”
“I need to talk to him. Can you send him back here for just, like, five minutes? Please?”
Janet gave London a dead stare before promptly walking away with nothing more than a shake of her head. Even after six weeks of taking direction from the woman, London still wasn’t certain if this was a yes or a no.
But two minutes later, their dad stood in front of them.
His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his khakis, and he wore a chagrined look on his face. A hungover look. London didn’t care.
London had to spit out these words now, before they lost their nerve. If they didn’t, they worried they’d accidentally swallow them forever.
“London,” their dad started. “Look, I’m very—” And then he stopped. He sounded startled when he asked, “Are you wearingmakeup?”
London closed their eyes. Which were adorned with green eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. They had convinced some PAs to let Julie come on set with them, early this morning, to do it the way they liked.
And they would not let their dad distract them.
“Just . . . stop. Don’t say anything.” To London’s own shock, their voice sounded steady. “I’m talking now, and you’re listening. Okay?”
Their dad shut his mouth. To London’s relief, he nodded.
London inhaled deeply. They briefly shut their eyes.
They could do this.
“Dad, you start using my pronouns or else I’m done. You don’t see me anymore.”
Their dad frowned, let out a small disbelieving huff. “Now, London—”
“I don’t come over for Sunday suppers,” London continued. “You won’t be allowed in my apartment. I won’t see you at special occasions. I know we live in the same town, and we might run into each other occasionally. But you’ve had three years, Dad. And every single time you use the wrong pronoun, what I hear is that, even though I feel better about myself than I have my whole entire life, you don’t respect me. You don’t see me. Sometimes, it feels like you don’t love me. And yes, people slip up with pronouns all the time. It’s natural to make mistakes. But every time you misgender me, it’s purposeful, and it fucking hurts.”
London took a breath. They found that they couldn’t look directly at their father’s face, so London wasn’t quite sure of his reaction to any of this. They were staring somewhere in the vicinity of the right shoulder of their dad’s blazer instead.
But they were still doing it. It was terrifying, but they were saying the words. And they were almost done.
“No matter what happens, whether I win or lose, don’t find me after the show. I don’t want to talk to you again until you decide. And I want you to take your time, take this as seriously as I am. So.”
London faltered for just a moment, feeling suddenly dizzy. But they pushed on.
“I’ll see you back in Nashville, Dad. Or I won’t.”
And then they turned and walked away, back to the claustrophobic staging area they were now desperate to get to.
