Barbara looked up at London then. They blushed.
“No,” she told Dahlia. “Thank you for the offer, but that’s quite all right.”
“Are you making the scarf for one of your grandkids?” Dahlia leaned even closer still to Barbara, examining the handiwork in her lap. “Aileen maybe?”
Barbara smiled widely at Dahlia then. “Bishop, actually.”
London gaped at the two of them. Of course Dahlia knew the names of Barbara’s grandkids.
“That’s so nice.” Dahlia leaned her head on Barbara’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “Barbara, wouldn’t it be great if you could be my mom? I mean, I have one already, but you could be like, a secondary one, you know? One who actuallylikesme.”
Barbara froze before looking up at London quizzically. London shook their head, raising their eyebrows. Their heart pounded, quietly but persistently, behind their temples.
“I think it’s time for you to go to bed, sweetheart.” Barbara gently pushed Dahlia away from her shoulder. London swooped in to help Dahlia stand. She swayed into them, her head bobbing onto their chest. London was overwhelmed. They wanted to wrap their arms around her. They didn’t know how to act in front of Barbara. They needed to sleep.
“Take care of that one, okay?” Barbara nodded at London, her brows furrowed in concern.
London nodded back, hoping they looked sober, responsible, steady. “I will. Good night.”
Slowly, quietly, they slipped an arm around her waist. They navigated the elevator. They walked Dahlia to her door.
Dahlia paused, key card in hand. London waited, a step behind her, hands back in their pockets. They were unsure what was going to happen here. If she was about to be sick. If she was about to invite them inside. If she had just forgotten how to open a door.
She twirled toward them and poked them in the chest.
“I just want my life to bebig, you know?”
Dahlia’s brown eyes were unfocused.
“Like . . . like the way your favorite song feels, when you’re sixteen. I want my life to feel like that. I want to feelbig. I want to do messy, wild things, things I’ll remember, things that areinteresting.” She bit her lip. London wasn’t sure if they were breathing. “Maybe Hank will have kids one day, and I can be that kooky aunt with lots of stories, you know? I’ll wear chunky jewelry, like Janet, and say funny, inappropriate things. And they’ll be likeoh, that Aunt Dahlia.” She smiled. “I would like that.”
London’s throat felt tight, aching from things they wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.
Dahlia turned toward her door again. She put the key in the handle. Barely audible, she said, “I don’t want to be small.”
She walked inside without saying goodbye. London stared at the door helplessly as it started to close.
Suddenly, Dahlia turned and opened it again.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “You know what I like?”
“Rice Krispies treats?”
“Making you laugh. Your eyes disappear, and your face does this . . . thing.” She waved a hand over her own face, not helping with this description at all. London had no idea what she was talking about. But for perhaps the first time in their life, they were exceedingly grateful for their face. For making Dahlia’s own face look like it did right now. Like her previous monologue, like her divorce, had never happened.
“Can I see your phone?” London asked quietly.
Dahlia looked confused, but she handed it over. Quickly, they typed in their number, sent a text to themself. So they could check in on her tomorrow, make sure she was okay.
They handed it back and looked at her one last time.
“Good night, Dahlia,” they managed to say.
Dahlia smiled. The door clicked shut.
London stood in the quiet hallway for a long time. They wished they could see through that door, to make sure she was still breathing, that she wasn’t going to be sick in her sleep. That her chest was still rising and falling. That her bruised, so-far-from-small heart still beat safely inside her skin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
