“I don’t think so. Look at them.” London pointed their now-healed thumb behind them at the window. “This is clearly a huge wedding, and everyone’s trashed. Like, they are duh-runk. No one will even notice us. Look at that bride! She would probably give us a hug and thank us for our years of friendship at this point.”
Dahlia stared at them. London, a complete fool, kept their hands on her shoulders. Because it was the weekend, and because it felt good.
And then a ghost of a smile appeared on Dahlia’s lips.
“Are you a frequent wedding crasher?” she asked.
London shook their head. “But there’s a first time for everything, right?”
“A first time for everything,” she repeated.
One of them could get kicked off next week.
But right now? It was Saturday. They’d survived a long week. And London had almost turned Dahlia Woodson’s frown upside down.
Whatever happened from here on out was worth it.
“We’ll have to get changed.” Dahlia’s face turned thoughtful now, plotting. Damn, but London loved that Thoughtful Face. “Do you have wedding attire?”
London hadn’t thought this far. “Maybe I have a bow tie? I don’t know. I’ll fake it.”
“I have . . . a dress,” Dahlia said slowly, like the existence of it was precarious, and London’s stomach flipped, imagining the possibilities of this dress.
“Okay.” Dahlia stepped away, nodding. Her smile was shaky, but it was there. “Okay, let’s do this thing. I’ll meet you at your room in fifteen?”
London nodded.
And now she was really smiling. “All right, London. Go make yourself dapper.”
Dahlia’s head tilted to the side.
“Are you listening to Tegan and Sara?”
“Is that weird?”
London glanced at Dahlia once before retreating back into their room, picking up their phone to stop the music. They couldn’t spend any longer than that brief second staring at that dress. It was a silky black thing with a severe neckline that dropped between her small breasts, practically down to her navel. Jesus Christ, it was indecent and incredible. No wonder she had paused before she mentioned it.
It was the first thing that sent flares up in London’s brain that perhaps this had been a bad idea.
“No, I guess it’s not weird,” she said. “I just expected you to listen to like . . . a lot of hip indie rockers I’d never heard of, or something.”
Londondidlisten to hip indie rockers Dahlia had probably never heard of. But when they were nervous, they retreated to their playlist of early-to-mid-2000s music they and Julie had grown up listening to when they were just kids: Tegan and Sara, The Shins, Modest Mouse, Death Cab, stuff they listened to before they could even understand the lyrics. Being twins, they and Julie fought constantly, especially in elementary school. But as the two of them grew into adolescence, music had started to tether them to each other. It likely always would. This playlist always made London feel grounded and calm.
“Okay. I’m ready.” London approached the door again, where Dahlia was still standing. She didn’t move, forcing London to stand there awkwardly, waiting. They tried for dear life to hold on to their Tegan-and-Sara calm.
Dahlia reached forward and straightened London’s bow tie. “You look cute.”
London was ready to crash this wedding, but they did not think they looked cute, and they certainly didn’t expect Dahlia to say they looked cute. A printed button-up accompanied by the bow tie and dark jeans was the fanciest thing they could conjure up. Even if London had accepted it more in the last few years, had worked to make it feel more comfortable, they still thought they had a weird body: lumpy in places it shouldn’t be, like their stomach and hips; too narrow in others, like their shoulders. They looked like an Oompa-Loompa compared to Dahlia.
She had put on makeup, too, her eyes even darker than normal, her lips redder than before. She was unequivocally gorgeous.
For a second, while getting ready, London had considered putting on some makeup, too. The desire to mess around with makeup was a pull they experienced maybe once or twice a year. They’d gone so far tonight as to pull out mascara from a bag stuffed in their closet. But then they’d remembered that the only person who could make makeup look semi-decent on them was Julie. And the few times they’d let Julie do it, they’d been drunk. They didn’t even know why they’d brought it here to LA.
Anyway, even if London did look cute, did they want Dahlia to think they were cute, specifically? Cute was for puppies. For babies.
London cleared their throat and walked forward, forcing Dahlia to back up so they could close the door.
It was time, clearly, for alcohol.
