Love & Other Disasters(38)

She told London, during a break, how her mom’s side of the family was Italian. Her great-grandparents had immigrated to the US from a small town in the south of the country near Salerno. She said, with a small laugh, something about how getting pasta right was probably the only thing she’d ever truly done right by her mom’s side of the family, and later, London would wish they had asked more questions about that. But at the time they could only think about how much of her skin was exposed in that dress, how much they wanted to touch it.

By the time judging started, London felt a riotous combination of frustrated, aroused, and disappointed in themself. They had failed today, and they knew it.

They were going to leave this competition without knowing what Dahlia Woodson’s lips tasted like, and it killed them inside.

Dahlia’s judging went very well, as London knew it would. She smiled at London as she walked back to her station, like she always did when things went well. London simply stared at her, thinking of all the things they wanted to say that they might not ever get to.

London was not surprised to be in the bottom three.

They did not look at Dahlia as their name was called to the Golden Circle. But they could feel her eyes, how they never left them once. Their neck flamed with heat. They stood in that dumb circle next to Eric and Ayesha, and all they could think about were those two letters:

Ok

For a brief moment, London almost wished for Sai Patel to put them out of their misery. They pictured him looking at them, and just saying:

Ok

And London would know, and they would try to leave with dignity.

But Sai Patel didn’t say that.

He and the other judges hated Eric’s pasta more.

London’s was bad, but apparently not the worst. Audra Carnegie called it “a shame.”

“We were all surprised at your performance today, London,” Sai said. “We expect more from you at this point. From here on out, you’d better step up your game.”

London nodded, looked appropriately contrite, and walked back to their station.

They were going to make it to that three-day weekend after all. They would get another chance next week, to be better. They were grateful, and a bit in shock.

But, they remembered a second later, the first episode was still airing tonight. And London didn’t know what would come after that for them, off set, back in the real world. It was like London’s brain was a radio signal stuck between frequencies, constantly cutting out between LA and Nashville, and all they wanted was for the radio to shut off.

London hardly registered, moments later, that the cameras had stopped rolling, lost in their own head.

Until suddenly, stunning their brain into complete silence and snapping the radio dial clean off, Dahlia’s arms wrapped themselves around their body.

“Oh my god,” she breathed into London’s neck, squeezing them tight. “I knew your dish wasn’t the worst, but still. London, you can’t go yet.”

Amazingly, she kept holding on. London blinked, slowly comprehending Dahlia’s body pressed completely against theirs, her hair brushing against their cheek.

All the other contestants had paused at their stations, staring at them.

Fuck it.

London moved their hands to Dahlia’s back, touching lightly, cautiously. They shifted their head just an inch, allowed themself to breathe in her hair. It smelled like coconuts, rich and warm. Combined with the contrasting sharpness of her peppermint ChapStick, London’s senses were overwhelmed. They only ever wanted to smell exactly this, coolness and warmth, all at once.

“Dahlia,” they said, and then realized they had no other words.

She stepped back, took a steadying breath, and even though London knew, objectively, that that hug had been too long, too close, it didn’t feel like enough. London’s hands fell back to their sides. Their body felt cold without her.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They walked back to the hotel.

Today, they were silent. Halfway there, on an impulse they didn’t overthink for once, London reached over and took Dahlia’s hand.

Her fingers threaded through theirs immediately. London gave them a squeeze. Their head felt fuzzy. They meant to drop Dahlia’s hand, after the squeeze, but Dahlia kept holding on, so they did, too. Her hand was soft and hot, and London swore they could feel her pulse beating in her pinky.

They both let go when they entered the lobby, as if the whoosh of air-conditioning broke a spell. When they got to London’s door, London stuffed their hands in their pockets, looking past Dahlia’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” they said roughly, and cleared their throat. “For not wanting me to go. I don’t want you to go, either. For the record.”

Dahlia smiled. But it was small, close lipped. Not even a peek of those blinding teeth. “Yeah. I figured.” She breathed out slowly. “Okay. Well. Good night.”

London wanted to lean over and kiss her forehead. No, that wasn’t right. They wanted to kiss her lips, feel her tongue on theirs. They wanted to kiss her neck, her shoulders. They wanted all of her.

And then they wanted to rest their head on her lap and tell her about their dad. How he really had been a good dad, before. How London didn’t understand why he couldn’t just get over it. How they didn’t understand why they couldn’t get over his not getting over it. How frustrated they were with themself.