“I’ll take a rosé, please.” Dahlia flashed that bright white smile at the bartender five minutes later, after they had slunk into the ballroom like they belonged there. Or rather, London had watched Dahlia slink. She was into this now, London could tell, and she was a far better slinker. London mainly walked awkwardly with their hands in their pockets and tried not to look at Dahlia’s exposed torso.
“And . . . for you?” The bartender looked up at London, and London recognized it immediately—the pregnant pause, the way the bartender looked at them for a beat too long, trying to puzzle out whether they were a man or a woman. London hated that pause, but appreciated the bartender all the same for leaving out thesirorma’amthey’d heard him use with his previous customers.
“What kind of whiskey do you have?”
“Is whiskey all you drink?” Dahlia asked. Somewhat judgmentally, London thought.
“I happen to enjoy a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, thank you very much,” they replied. “Whiskey is simply . . . better than all the other things.”
Dahlia laughed as London approved a neat glass of Balcones.
“It’s certainly better thanrosé,” London added as they stepped away from the bar. Dahlia rolled her eyes and tapped her glass against theirs before bringing it to her lips, taking a long sip and making a dramaticmmmmmmmnoise for emphasis.
London knew Dahlia didn’t mean for this noise to sound absolutely filthy, but they had to take a long sip of their own drink and avert their eyes anyway.
“All right,” Dahlia said decisively. “Let’s dance.”
London looked over and realized her hips were already moving, her feet already shuffling, to what they believed were the sonorous tones of Usher. She was throwing back her rosé entirely too fast—although with rosé, London supposed, it didn’t matter whether one consumed it properly or not—and London barely had a moment to appreciate the way her neck bobbed when she swallowed before she was depositing the glass on an empty table and grabbing London’s hand.
“Oh,” they said, clearing their throat again. “Right. I don’t really dance.”
“London Parker.” Dahlia put her hands on her hips, squinting at them. “You invite me to a wedding, and then you tell me you don’t dance?”
“Well, I—” London sputtered. “I was mainly thinking of the free alcohol.”And I wanted to make you happy.“Speaking of, I’m going to get another drink.” They clanked their empty glass down on the table next to hers, not wanting to be outdone.
And by the time London had acquired their second glass of whiskey, Dahlia had jumped headlong onto the dance floor by herself, throwing her hands in the air and smiling at everyone around her.
She fit right in. As expected.
London drank this whiskey slower, tracking Dahlia with their eyes around the room. Each shake of her hips and bounce of her shoulders seeped into their system, vivid and dangerous. She was so . . . fluid.
The DJ was making a few decent selections, the beats pounding the air harder and harder in London’s ears as the whiskey hit. Eventually, for better or worse, London couldn’t help but want to join in.
Dahlia beamed at them as they made their way to her, her smile so bright it lit something on fire in London’s chest. Or maybe it was just the whiskey that created the small, shiny ball of light suddenly taking up residence in their rib cage.
Light that faded two minutes later, when Dahlia started laughing at them.
“London,” she breathed between giggles. “Oh mygod.”
“I know,” London said with a frown before she could continue. “I told you I don’t dance.”
“Listen. Just . . . bounce on your feet less. Use your hips more. And whatever you are doing with your hands, oh my god, just stop.” Her hands curled over theirs, which had been balled into fists. Fists that London had aimlessly been flailing in front of their chest.
“What am I supposed to do with them, then?” they asked helplessly, both needing Dahlia to move her hands from theirs and dreading the moment she did. Which was two seconds later.
“I don’t know! Just . . . relax your fingers and move them around your body more. Or in the air.” Dahlia demonstrated, her palms pushing toward the ceiling in rhythm to the music as she danced in a circle.
When she turned to face London again, they attempted to replicate the move, their hands rocking around above them as they spun. Dahlia laughed when they faced each other again, the effort dipping her forward toward them, her hands suddenly on London’s sides. “Yes! That’s better. That’s an improvement.”
London’s arms stayed frozen above their head. They looked down at Dahlia, their chest already heaving slightly from the exertion, a light sweat permeating their neck. It would be impossible to lower their arms without wrapping them around her. Dahlia seemed to realize this at the same moment and stepped away, removing her hands.
“Sorry,” she said quickly, with a small smile, and London wished she wasn’t.
After fifteen more minutes of dancing that proceeded without any further touching, a slow song started, introduced as the second-to-last song of the night. Before London could panic fully about the horrifying, synthesizer-filled love song blaring through the sound system, Dahlia nodded her head toward the corner of the room.
“Bartenders have abandoned their posts. Come on!”
London waited, catching their breath, as Dahlia peered behind the counter.
