London hadn’t expected that. They didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Dahlia said after a moment, in that same quiet tone she’d used before. And then she stuffed two chips in her mouth. But London could tell she wasn’t enjoying them.
London was sorry she wasn’t there, too. A little pissed about it, actually.
Not because they thought Dahlia automatically understood them now, or that she could have magically saved the situation somehow. There were a million ways to be trans, and just because she loved her brother didn’t mean she knew London.
But now they knew she was at least an ally. And when London let go of even a shred of their irritation, they could picture it, suddenly, knowing how oddly honest Dahlia Woodson was. She probably would have cut Lizzie off even before Janet did. She would have said something weird and funny and it would have made things slightly better.
Maybe.
But she had been hiding in her room pretending to have cramps, so.
“Are you planning on being out on the show, too? Like to viewers?”
“Yeah.” London cleared their throat. “I was going to share my pronouns in my first solo interview, but then we ran out of time today filming, so I didn’t even get to do that right.”
They grabbed a chip. And of course Dahlia was correct. They were fantastic.
“That’s . . . that’s big. Hank will be so excited. He’ll cry, probably, when he watches it. But that loser cries about everything.” Dahlia smiled, but it was smaller than before, when she’d been laughing at them, when she’d tasted her first West Coast tortilla chip. It was a no-teeth smile now.
Something had flared in London’s chest when she said that about Hank, though. They knew it shouldn’t matter, that they should only be doing this for themself, but . . . it was reassuring. This confirmation that them being out on this thing could mean something.
They felt they should say something, give something in return for this small gift.
“The chips are very good.”
Although they couldn’t stop themself from adding: “The guac is just fine, though. I could make better.”
Dahlia’s smile grew, just a fraction. “I bet you could.”
London glanced at her, unsure whether she was making fun of them or giving them a compliment. Her eyes looked genuine. They were a shade of brown that was right smack in between the darkness of her hair and the tan of her skin, making her face, in general, a perfect palette.
Just a pure bourbon observation.
“Can I ask what you would do?” Dahlia asked, looking at them. “If you won?”
Finally, an easy question.
“I would use the money to start a nonprofit. For LGBTQ kids, back in Tennessee.”
“You’re from Tennessee?”
London nodded. “Nashville.”
Dahlia smiled again, but she looked down at the table as she did it. She readjusted her dress, dragged the purple material back up over her shoulder. London ignored the tiny spark of loss that dragged under their skin.
“Hank has always wanted to go to Nashville. He loves country music. Named himself after Hank Williams.”
London watched her pick up a chip, place it on its edge on the tabletop. She held it there with her fingertips, making no move to bring it to her mouth.
“That’s really noble,” she said. “The nonprofit thing.”
“I mean, I have no idea how to actually start a nonprofit,” London said automatically, embarrassed. Because Jesus, they didn’t want to be seen asnoble. That felt gross. “But . . . yeah, I’d like to try.”
“That’s great.”
London had never seen a sadder tableau than Dahlia Woodson staring at that chip, unmoving.
