Love & Other Disasters(30)

She twirled toward them and poked them in the chest.

“I just want my life to be big, you know?”

Dahlia’s brown eyes were unfocused.

“Like . . . like the way your favorite song feels, when you’re sixteen. I want my life to feel like that. I want to feel big. I want to do messy, wild things, things I’ll remember, things that are interesting.” She bit her lip. London wasn’t sure if they were breathing. “Maybe Hank will have kids one day, and I can be that kooky aunt with lots of stories, you know? I’ll wear chunky jewelry, like Janet, and say funny, inappropriate things. And they’ll be like oh, that Aunt Dahlia.” She smiled. “I would like that.”

London’s throat felt tight, aching from things they wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for.

Dahlia turned toward her door again. She put the key in the handle. Barely audible, she said, “I don’t want to be small.”

She walked inside without saying goodbye. London stared at the door helplessly as it started to close.

Suddenly, Dahlia turned and opened it again.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “You know what I like?”

“Rice Krispies treats?”

“Making you laugh. Your eyes disappear, and your face does this . . . thing.” She waved a hand over her own face, not helping with this description at all. London had no idea what she was talking about. But for perhaps the first time in their life, they were exceedingly grateful for their face. For making Dahlia’s own face look like it did right now. Like her previous monologue, like her divorce, had never happened.

“Can I see your phone?” London asked quietly.

Dahlia looked confused, but she handed it over. Quickly, they typed in their number, sent a text to themself. So they could check in on her tomorrow, make sure she was okay.

They handed it back and looked at her one last time.

“Good night, Dahlia,” they managed to say.

Dahlia smiled. The door clicked shut.

London stood in the quiet hallway for a long time. They wished they could see through that door, to make sure she was still breathing, that she wasn’t going to be sick in her sleep. That her chest was still rising and falling. That her bruised, so-far-from-small heart still beat safely inside her skin.





CHAPTER EIGHT


Dahlia awoke on Sunday morning with a deep case of the alcohol dooms.

She lay in bed, head pounding, as bits and pieces of the previous night came back to her.

She remembered dancing with London at the wedding.

She remembered talking to them about David, about her spectacular failure as a wife. God, why had she done that? Although she vaguely remembered London saying nice things. She remembered them being a good listener.

Maybe she had talked it out of her system, then. Maybe she’d stop thinking about the email now. Which she still hadn’t responded to.

Maybe, too, Dahlia would be able to ignore all the birth announcements, all the ridiculous gender reveals, the proposals that seemed to pop up practically every day on her social media feeds. Maybe it would stop hurting, each reminder of how easily everyone she knew was navigating the path David wanted so badly, the path Dahlia couldn’t give him. The path Dahlia just knew, in her gut, was one she couldn’t walk.

And maybe, one day, she’d be able to ignore the way her mom looked at her, ever since Dahlia had told her.

Dahlia shook her head. And then groaned.

She couldn’t even remember getting to her room. Jesus, she was a mess.

Her cheek pressed against something cold next to her pillow. It took her longer than it should have to realize it was her phone. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. There was a message from London from three hours ago.

Hey Dahlia, it’s London . . . I made you give me your phone number last night so I could make sure you were okay today. So, are you okay today?

Yep, definitely didn’t remember that.

Dahlia texted back a quick reply and then stood, stretching. While she wanted to stay snuggled under the covers, it was already ten thirty, later than she had slept in years. She felt godawful, and she knew from experience that wasting away the day in bed would only make her feel worse. She needed to get out, explore at least a small piece of LA while she had the chance.

After a hot shower and a detailed tooth brushing. With a side of ibuprofen.

Thirty minutes later Dahlia walked through the hotel lobby, feeling as refreshed as it was probably possible for her to feel. She was almost out the door when she saw Barbara sitting on a couch to the right, eating a blueberry muffin.

“Hey, Barbara.” Dahlia swung her bag down and sat on a loveseat across from her. “How are you?”

“Dahlia, sweetheart.” Barbara smiled. “You’re looking better than I thought you would. I swear I don’t actually live on this couch, by the way. You just have funny timing.”

“Um. What?” Dahlia blinked at Barbara while something fuzzy scratched at her memory. “Hold up. Did I talk to you last night?”

“Yes.” Barbara nodded. “But I’m gathering you don’t remember.”

“Oh my god.” Dahlia rubbed her forehead. “I haven’t been that drunk in a long time. Was I embarrassing? Did I do something dumb?”

“No, you were sweet.” Barbara smiled reassuringly at her. Barbara probably would have smiled reassuringly at her even if Dahlia had vomited on her shoes, though. Oh god. “And you looked hot.” Barbara grinned before taking a bite of her muffin.