They heard rustling on their other side. Opening their eyes, they watched Maritza sink onto her haunches, hand on her mouth, face red.
Until Tanner Tavish appeared out of nowhere and asked, “How are things going over here?”
Maritza straightened. Dahlia choked on a snort.
“Fine. Things are going just fine,” London said between gritted teeth. They shoved their hands around Maisie’s teats, squeezing her blasted milk into the goddamn bucket.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It took twenty-four hours and two showers to get the cow smell off London’s skin.
And during those showers, they found themself humming the inane song Dahlia had made up while she milked her own cow, which of course she had handled flawlessly.
This should have been irritating, Dahlia’s cow song being stuck in their head. But instead, throughout that whole blessed Saturday off, London kept catching themself smiling.
While catching up on social media, when her laughter randomly burst into their frontal lobe, how she couldn’t stop giggling the whole bus ride home.
After they decided to take a dip in the hotel pool, lying on a chaise underneath the bright sun to dry off, when they closed their eyes and all they could see was Dahlia’s face, shining and open, when she found the perfect artichoke in the fields of Graham Family Farm.
All of which made it especially confusing hours later, when London ran into Dahlia in the lobby of the hotel and her face was pinched and closed off, her eyes red and blurry, like she’d been crying. London had a hard time remembering the cow song then.
They had been watching a movie in their room, had come downstairs to get junk food from the gas station across the street.
“A.m./p.m. run,” London said, after they stopped in front of each other and a second of awkward silence passed. They tilted their head toward the door. “Want to come?”
Dahlia seemed to think about it. London shoved their hands in their pockets to prevent them from touching her. Eventually, she nodded.
London opted for silence as they picked out white cheddar popcorn, Reese’s peanut butter cups, and powdered-sugar doughnuts. Dahlia followed quietly behind. London almost cheered when she finally uncrossed her arms to pick up a pack of peach gummy rings.
“It’s been a long week,” she said as they stood in line to check out. “Sorry. I’m tired.”
“That’s okay.” London shrugged.
Dahlia made a vague noise in her throat and looked down. She was wearing a fitted pink T-shirt today, a black polka-dotted skirt, and sneakers. She was one of those girls who could really pull off skirts and sneakers. Probably because her legs were so damn pretty. Probably because she could pull off anything.
London scratched at the back of their neck as they walked back toward the hotel. They had never been very good at being comforting. Whenever they wanted to make Julie feel better, they just made fun of her until she yelled at them. Yelling at London always made Julie feel better. But they didn’t think that strategy would work here.
They paused when they reached the sidewalk outside the hotel. Something at the corner of the building caught the edge of London’s vision. Out of simple desire to not leave Dahlia yet—they feared as soon as they walked back inside the lobby she would scurry away like a very cutely dressed mouse—they followed it.
Golden light and muffled noise spilled out from a tall window on the first floor. London peeked through the narrow slit where the heavy drapes of the window parted, offering a glimpse of a ballroom.
Dahlia waited silently behind them. London watched the swarm of bodies inside for a minute more.
And then they made a decision.
“Dahlia.” They swiveled back around to face her. Her head was cocked to the side, her eyes tired but curious. “Did you happen to have any plans this evening?”
“Um.” Dahlia bit her lip. “Sleeping?”
“Or”—feeling suddenly bold, London gripped her shoulders—“come crash this wedding with me instead.”
Dahlia’s eyebrows shot up into her forehead.
“Come again?”
“Crash this wedding with me.”
Dahlia shook her head. “What?” And then, “We’d get in trouble.”
