Love & Other Disasters(22)

London peeked over her shoulder. Her handwriting was big and loopy, messy. It fit her perfectly.

“Margaret?” they asked skeptically.

“I mean, look at her.” Dahlia gestured to the cow behind Randy, freshly milked. “She is clearly a Margaret.”

“You know, I agree, love,” Barbara piped up.

Dahlia beamed back at London. “See?”

It disturbed London, how close Dahlia’s pure delight in this moment pushed them toward feeling almost glad to be in this barn.

Which, for the record, they still were not.

Which was confirmed when their name was called in the first lineup of milkers. While Graham Family Farm had more than enough cows for each contestant, Chef’s Special did not have enough crew onsite to film them all at once. Which meant that when London approached the black-and-white beast assigned to them, Dahlia was right behind, watching, waiting for her own turn.

Swell.

“Dahlia, you’ll have to back up a bit to get out of the shot.” Maritza motioned from behind her camera.

London sat on the stool outside the stanchion. They put on gloves. It was cold in the barn, and flies buzzed around their head. They tried to pretend this wasn’t happening.

And they were pretty successful at it, for the first minute of filming. They washed down those teats like a champ. Arranged their thumb and forefinger around the base of one, as Randy had shown, ready to squeeze.

And then the damn cow moved.

As London’s hands were jostled, panic caused them to squeeze wildly, and the beast emitted a loud, annoyed moo.

“Oh my god,” Dahlia breathed.

London felt it before they saw it. The surprising hit of warmth. The earthy smell of dirty cow juice.

With dread, they looked down.

At where they had just squirted milk. All over their crotch.

For a moment, they were speechless.

And then they said, “I fucking hate cows.”

Dahlia exploded into giggles.

“London, try not to curse on-screen,” Maritza said, and they could hear it in her voice, too, how hard she was trying to hold in her own laughter.

“Huh,” Randy said, because of course Randy was there, and of course he wasn’t laughing. “Interesting one, there. Remember, you’re not actually pulling on the teat. That’s a misconception. You’re just gathering up the milk and then squeezing. Downward. Away from you. Into the bucket.”

“I—I wasn’t pulling; it just—” But Randy was already walking away.

“Oh my god, London, if you hurt Maisie, I will never talk to you again.”

London turned to Dahlia. “Maisie.”

“How did that even happen—” Dahlia covered her mouth, flapping her other hand around, tears in her eyes.

Maisie flicked her tail.

It swung and smacked London right in the head.

“Fucking—”

Dahlia and Maritza couldn’t even make coherent sounds now, they were both giggling so hard.

London rubbed their ear. “I suppose you don’t care that that actually hurt,” they muttered to themself.

“Okay, London.” Maritza’s voice was high-pitched from wheezing as she stood up. “You actually have to finish the milking now.”

Of course they did. London took a deep breath and refocused, which was hard to do, what with a wet, weirdly warm crotch. Maybe they could bribe Maritza somehow, to make sure Sai Patel never saw this footage. By some small blessing, the three judges were all busy watching over other contestants.

“Wait,” Dahlia said suddenly. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“What?” London gritted out, exasperated, turning to look at her when they heard a soft plop. This time, they smelled it before they saw it.

“London,” Dahlia breathed. “Maisie just took a gigantic dump.”

London closed their eyes and counted to ten. “I can see that, Dahlia.”

They heard rustling on their other side. Opening their eyes, they watched Maritza sink onto her haunches, hand on her mouth, face red.

Until Tanner Tavish appeared out of nowhere and asked, “How are things going over here?”

Maritza straightened. Dahlia choked on a snort.

“Fine. Things are going just fine,” London said between gritted teeth. They shoved their hands around Maisie’s teats, squeezing her blasted milk into the goddamn bucket.





CHAPTER SEVEN


It took twenty-four hours and two showers to get the cow smell off London’s skin.

And during those showers, they found themself humming the inane song Dahlia had made up while she milked her own cow, which of course she had handled flawlessly.

This should have been irritating, Dahlia’s cow song being stuck in their head. But instead, throughout that whole blessed Saturday off, London kept catching themself smiling.

While catching up on social media, when her laughter randomly burst into their frontal lobe, how she couldn’t stop giggling the whole bus ride home.

After they decided to take a dip in the hotel pool, lying on a chaise underneath the bright sun to dry off, when they closed their eyes and all they could see was Dahlia’s face, shining and open, when she found the perfect artichoke in the fields of Graham Family Farm.

All of which made it especially confusing hours later, when London ran into Dahlia in the lobby of the hotel and her face was pinched and closed off, her eyes red and blurry, like she’d been crying. London had a hard time remembering the cow song then.