Love & Other Disasters(27)

“You realized you didn’t want kids,” London said.

“I realized I was sad.”

With horror, London watched a tear fall down her cheek. They reached up to brush it off with their thumb without thinking. Dahlia didn’t react, and London let their hand fall back to the bench, feeling useless.

“And yeah, I didn’t want kids. Maybe I will, eventually, but David wanted them, then, before we were thirty. He came from this big family, and he wanted a big family too, and he was always real type A and had a plan and . . . We started fighting all the time. It was awful. I felt like shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I was the asshole, don’t you get it?” Dahlia turned toward them, eyes flashing, her voice getting louder, angrier. “I just changed my mind. Of course David was confused. Of course he was angry. He wanted kids before thirty, and we ended up with a divorce before thirty instead. I fucked up his whole life.”

“Dahlia.” London shook their head. They went to raise their hand to her cheek again, but then stopped themself. “It’s okay to change your mind. That kind of thing happens a lot, as people grow up. We change our minds. It’s okay.”

Dahlia squeezed her eyes shut. “People change their minds about their favorite vegetable, not a fundamental part of your goals in a relationship. And the fucked-up part is I still don’t even know what I want! We got divorced, and I still worked the same job I didn’t love, still lived in the same Maryland suburb that didn’t feel like home anymore. I’m not having the adventures I longed for when I was so unhappy with David. I broke a good person’s heart, and now I’m just boring and unhappy alone. Way to go, me.”

London had witnessed Dahlia’s shifts in moods, the way her eyes lost their joy, her mind scurrying away. They always knew it wasn’t to someplace good. But this was still hard for them to swallow, this frustration and self-deprecating anger. That hidden behind yellow tank tops and blinding smiles, Dahlia Woodson was sad. It wasn’t right.

“You got onto Chef’s Special,” London said after a moment. “You quit your job and hopped on a plane to Los Angeles to be on a TV show. If that’s not adventurous, I don’t know what is.”

Dahlia gave them a sad smile.

“You just crashed a wedding,” London added.

“It was your idea,” she rebutted.

“But you still did it. I—” London sighed, feeling irritated at the world. “I think you’re chock full of adventure, Dahlia Woodson.”

Dahlia’s smile grew a bit. She turned her face toward her lap, messing with the label on her wine bottle. London felt, for perhaps the first time all evening, like they had said the right thing.

They were quiet then, lest they ruin it.

The fountain bubbled pleasantly; the traffic behind the wall of the courtyard was a quiet, comforting whir. The sky was midnight blue, the horizon smudges of orange and gray haze.

London thought they could feel Dahlia lean her shoulder, just an inch or two more, into their own.

After many long minutes, she said, “Okay. Enough of that. Let’s talk about food.”

Dahlia put her bottle down on the ground and turned fully on the bench to face them.

London glanced at the bottle, which was almost empty. They still had at least half of theirs. Damn. That . . . was not good.

“Food?” London raised their eyebrows, trying to adjust to this abrupt change in topic, resisting the need the pull her and her secret sadness into their arms. “Isn’t talking about food all day enough?”

“No, because we don’t get to talk about the food we want to talk about! We just have to do what the judges tell us, and can I tell you, I don’t even really like fish?”

London laughed at that. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“What’s your favorite bad food to make when you’re sad? When you only want the most comforting thing you can think of ?”

“Barbecue,” London said immediately. “I love everything about barbecue.”

“What? No, that’s not a good answer.” Dahlia shook her head.

“Excuse me?” London lifted their head from the concrete wall, now also turning on the bench to face her, their knees bumping into each other. “What are you talking about, barbecue isn’t a good answer? It is literally America’s comfort food!”

“But it takes so long !” Dahlia said dramatically. “All that marinating, and getting the grill going, and cooking and smoking and then you have to have sides and—”

“The sides are the best part !” London exploded. “Wait, no, that’s not right. The meat is the best part! But it’s all good ! That’s why barbecuing is so good!”

“I know barbecuing is good, London; Christ, I’m not a fascist! It’s just a lot of work.”

“You know what else I love about barbecue?” London kept going, on a roll now. God, it felt good to talk about this, something they knew how to talk about, to be on common ground with Dahlia again. “I love that it’s different everywhere. I love that Carolina barbecue is different from Memphis, from Texas, from St. Louis. You know? So much of food in America is homogenized, the same from California to Virginia, but barbecue is the one thing where the places that care about it are like no, this is fucking ours.”