“Know what else is cheap? Ice cream. We definitely need ice cream before the next movie.” She stood. “Let’s do an AM/PM run.”
London looked down at themself again.
“I can’t go out like this.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes.
“To the gas station? Yes, London, you can.”
And just like that, she was dragging them out the door.
A half hour and a shared pint of Chunky Monkey later, Dahlia’s body was curled next to London again, and they were a quarter of the way throughAlways Be My Maybe. London had attempted to slide their hand under her shirt ten minutes ago and she had slapped it away, saying distractedly, “Stop it; I’ve never seen this before,” her eyes glued to the screen.
Having now spent nine hours watching movies, London’s own eyes felt dry and sore. The heat of her body next to theirs made them sleepy. They were fine with a simple night of movies and cuddling, they supposed. Mostly.
They ran their fingers through her hair.
“That could be you, you know,” they said, referencing Ali Wong’s celebrity chef character on the TV screen.
Dahlia shook her head against their chest.
“No. That should be you.”
London was quiet a moment, fingers still in her hair.
“I don’t want that,” they said.
“Me neither,” she murmured.
A few minutes later, she hugged London’s torso tighter.
“What am I going to do, London? After this.”
London tried to look down at her. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
They placed their lips on her forehead.
“I think . . . the dreams we have when we’re kids matter.”
London had been thinking about this, too, almost subconsciously, since they’d been out here. They were going to make more of an effort when they got back home to get into a music studio. There were a ton of people these days who were more passionate about podcasts than they were. London wanted to be around guitars, drums, pianos. They wanted to feel bass lines reverberating in their bones. They wanted to spend their days filling their guts with music.
“Maybe you should write.”
Dahlia released a breathy half laugh.
“About what? I hate to break it to you, London, but my dad was wrong; Camp Sunnywood was in fact not worthy of a Pulitzer.”
“Well, first of all, I doubt that.” London moved their hand to rub her back. “Write about what you know.” A moment later, they added, “You could write about food.”
“Writing about anything won’t pay my bills,” she said.
“You’re going to win $100,000, though,” London said. “You won’t have to worry about bills.”
She didn’t answer. But she gave their body another soft squeeze.
London was sad that Dahlia’s breath was already growing heavier, stretched out, by the time they got to the Keanu Reeves dinner scene. Dahlia would love this. But they were pretty sure she was already asleep.
