Instead she just walked until her feet hurt, and she knew she had to go back.
Dahlia got out her phone while she waited for the bus. She bit her lip, staring at her messages, and then she finally typed it.
Hey, she wrote.Sorry if I was weird last night.
London’s response came back immediately.You weren’t.
And then,You doing okay?
Yeah. Thanks.
Dahlia stared at her phone for another minute, her head feeling dangerously empty and chaotic all at once. She wondered if she should say more. If London was going to say something else. What should she say? What did she want them to say?
Her bus came.
Dahlia stuffed her phone back in her bag and stared out the window on the ride back to Burbank. Her headache had reappeared, and soon she closed her eyes to block out the bright sunlight, the rhythm of the bus lolling her mind in and out of consciousness. Each time she jolted herself awake, she told herself to buck up. She was determined to not miss her stop. To be competent in this new, dazzling, overwhelming place. The land of palm trees and clean cars and blue sky.
And each time she drifted back into a half slumber, Dahlia allowed herself to think about London’s face, annoying and cocky, telling her that her choice of wine was shit. London, fist to their mouth during the bar mitzvah challenge, shaking their head, because she had made them laugh. London’s hands on her shoulders, a funny, surprising glint in their eye, inviting her to crash a wedding. London, listening to Tegan and Sara in their room, wearing a crooked pink bow tie. London’s body next to hers on a sweaty dance floor, awkward but still full of joy, irrepressible even if they tried to hide it. London, trying to make her feel better about her fourth grade spelling bee.
London, who was an audio engineer. Dahlia didn’t even really know what that meant, but she was pretty sure you could win an Oscar for it, which was more interesting than anything she had ever done. London from Nashville.
London, who was a better cook than her.
London, who had the realest chance of all of them, probably, of winning. London, who wanted to do good in this world, who volunteered their time doing farm labor just because, who wanted to make things better for queer kids. London, who came out to an entire table of strangers on their very first night in town.
London Parker was talented and brave and just irritatingly cute, and Dahlia could envision it now, crystal clear even as her head swam with blurry regrets. London, a few weeks from now, holding one of those ginormous replica checks in their hands. They were smiling for the cameras while confetti rained down on their strawberry hair. Sai Patel handed them a trophy, sparkling under the studio lights, and shook their hand with pride.
And Dahlia . . . She couldn’t see herself. Was she there? Somewhere on the sidelines? Or was she in Maryland, begging for her old job back, figuring out which bills she could pay that month?
Or maybe she was simply a blank space, an empty canvas, atoms floating aimlessly across the landscape, each one trying to forget that foolish time she went to LA on a hope and a prayer, each one hopelessly trying to erase the memories of a person who wanted her to believe she could have it all.
CHAPTER NINE
London knew it. They’d screwed it up. They never should have invited Dahlia to crash that wedding.
She was being super weird today, in a way that was different from her other subdued moods. When they saw her in the morning at craft services before filming started, they’d asked how the rest of her weekend had gone, and she’d said, “Oh, good. Fine. Good. Yeah, you know, totally fine.” And then she had forced a smile that looked like she had just tasted something gross but was trying to be polite about it.
She didn’t ask how London’s Sunday was. Which was fine, because their only answer would have beenstaring at my phone wondering if I could text you again.
Throughout the entire day of filming, through another Face-Off—London had been paired with Jacob, and they’d kicked that guy’s ass—and another Ingredient Innovation, Dahlia kept looking at them. And then looking quickly away when London made eye contact. And then she’d look at them again, until the feel of Dahlia’s eyeballs made London paranoid there was something on their face. She was . . . twitchy.
London should have let it go. But for some reason, they found themself waiting for her to get out of the solo interview set at the end of the day. They didn’t know if another attempt at normal conversation would work at this point, so they got desperate.
“Ay, mate.” They jumped into step with her as she exited the set and walked toward the studio door. “Jammy day, eh?”
Dahlia stopped, so London did, too. She turned and stared at them.
“Uh . . .” London scratched at their neck. “How no yeez and me go, uh—”
“London,” Dahlia interrupted. “What the hell are you doing?”
London frowned. “My finest Tanner Tavish impression, obviously.”
Dahlia stared at them a moment more. And then, finally,hallelujah, she started laughing.
London pushed open the studio door.
“Tanner Tavish does not use whatever words you were just saying,” Dahlia said, following.
