Love & Other Disasters(13)

“Careful with this one,” the crew member who had flopped it onto London’s station had said. “Its scales are tiny and hidden in the skin.” And then he had smiled and floated away.

Fantastic.

It was also rather . . . flat. And had strange fin things on the top and bottom. Were they called fins?

London should have tried harder with their California rolls.

“And your time begins . . . ” Tanner leaned forward, drawing out the pause. “Now!”

The red numbers at the judges’ table clicked from 60 to 59.

London picked up a knife.

Things went smoothly for a while, or as smoothly as a slippery, unwieldy piece of protein could go. Scales were indeed sons of bitches, but once London had sliced their first fillet from the spine, they started to breathe easier.

And then they made the mistake of looking up.

Dahlia’s swordfish was already done, somehow, and her fillets looked flawless. She was currently helping Jacob, with Tanner Tavish observing, likely to make sure Dahlia didn’t help too much. She was gesturing with one hand, holding Jacob’s knife along his catfish with the other. Her body looked fully relaxed, so different from how she had looked yesterday and the day before. London could tell by the way her shoulders were no longer bunched, by the smile on her face, by the way she leaned her hip casually against the station.

“Yes,” Tavish was saying. “Exactly. Excellent technique, Dahlia.”

Before Dahlia returned to her swordfish, she pointed to the now semi-mangled head of the catfish on Jacob’s station. She motioned to her own chin, surely saying something about the horrifying, slimy whiskers on the fish, although London couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying over Ahmed’s frustrated cursing next to them.

London flipped their first fillet over—slightly hacked, but intact, not bad for their first try, they thought—and started on the halibut’s other side.

From the corner of their eye, they saw Dahlia hold Jacob’s catfish up to her face, bug out her eyes, and make a loud sound to the effect of “Bleeuuurrrrgh.”

London started to laugh.

Their hand slipped. And then everything happened very fast.

Somehow Dahlia was there in a flash, reaching out to grab London’s hand, bunching up a corner of her apron and wrapping it around their thumb. She was applying pressure to the wound before Ahmed even looked over or Tanner Tavish had time to hustle around to their station.

“Medic!” she yelled, eyes laser focused on London’s thumb, which was currently leaching blood through her yellow apron.

“Miss Woodson, what are you doing ?” Tavish hissed, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Get back to your station. Seriously, you’re ruining your apron.”

“Oh, whatever, it’ll come out with some hydrogen peroxide. Which I’m sure the medics have. Hey, guys.” Dahlia smiled at the two EMTs who had hustled over, only stepping away when they took over.

London felt it acutely, the moment her fingers left theirs.

Ten minutes later, London sliced a lemon. They had no idea if this was the next logical step in their carefully formulated plan, but the lemon was there, so they sliced it.

Their thumb ached, pulsing behind the lumpy gauze the medics had applied. Good god, London could not believe they had done that. After Audra had cautioned the contestants no less than ten times to keep their hands behind their filleting knives. London deserved to get eliminated for this, probably. In the very first week. Mortifying.

This was why London was upset. Because they were a competitive person who wanted to win this thing, and they’d made a truly dumb mistake. Because cooking with a huge wad of gauze around your hand was a real pain in the ass.

It had nothing to do with Dahlia Woodson’s fingers squeezing theirs. Or the way she had said oh, whatever to Tanner Tavish, who was, by all accounts, the scariest person on set.

London picked up another lemon.

It matched the color of the tank top Dahlia had worn yesterday perfectly.

She was wearing a raspberry-colored sweatshirt and floral-patterned shorts today. The sleeves of her sweatshirt had been pushed up her forearms when she reached back to grab London’s hand, but the fabric had still brushed their arm for a second, soft and comforting. Her hair was up in that ridiculous bun. She’d put it up right before she started taking notes during Audra’s demonstration. An escaped ribbon of it had fallen over her eyes when she’d leaned over to examine London’s thumb. London had wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

Oh god.

London wanted Dahlia Woodson.

They sliced a third lemon, for no good reason at all.

They had wanted her, probably, from the moment they first saw her, but the last twenty minutes had really slapped them across the face with it, and this was dumb. London couldn’t remember the last time they had wanted someone real, someone beyond thirst traps on the internet, and now they were in lust with this woman who stood less than ten feet away from them, who they might not ever see again if they were kicked off today anyway, who was recently divorced, from a dude probably, who was a distraction they did not need.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

London hadn’t dated since they first came out as nonbinary three years ago. Dating while nonbinary felt confusing and intimidating, even though they knew there had to be some dating apps out there with trans-friendly options available. Right? Right. But they still felt so messy inside, most of the time, and on a related note, London hated halibut.