Love & Other Disasters(41)

“Look at this,” Dahlia breathed. “This is the prettiest place I’ve ever been.”

London agreed in silence. The water went on forever. The crash of the waves, the cry of the seagulls overhead. It forced the present on them. They couldn’t ignore any of this.

They looked over at Dahlia to say something. To thank her for bringing them here. To thank her for what she said in the car. To tell her how wonderful she was.

But when their eyes landed on her, they puffed out a half-frustrated, half-amused burst of air instead.

“For crying out loud, Dahlia.”

And before they could stop themself, they reached out and stuck both of their hands in her hair. The wind had made it wild, and it whipped around in every direction like a dust storm, obscuring her face. “Can you even see anything right now with this?” London tried to tame the dark locks with their hands, smoothing it away from her face, but the ends kept flying back, refusing to settle. “Seriously.”

When London finally got enough of it in their fists to get a good look at her, they found her looking up at them, smiling, and everything crashed together inside of them, sharp and vivid: Their fingers tangled in the hair they’d been dreaming about for three weeks, their face inches from hers, the empty beach and the wind stealing their breath.

Dahlia leaned forward and kissed them.

London’s brain barely had time to process the feel of her lips, soft and pliant and sweet, their fingers automatically curling even tighter through her hair, silky and strong, the touch of their noses bumping together, before they started to cough.

London backed away involuntarily, their hands letting loose of their hold on her, choking on the tickle of a strand of her hair in their mouth.

Dahlia started to laugh. She pulled away too, yanking on the black elastic that perpetually encircled her right wrist. She dipped her chin, gathering the strands of her mane onto the top of her head. London stood still, heart pounding, fascinated at getting to watch this process up close, even closer than on set—stray pieces kept flying at their face as she worked on containing it—while disappointment dropped to their toes.

They were positive the moment had passed. They felt every inch of space between them. How could London have blown that so badly?

Although technically, it was her hair’s fault.

But when Dahlia finally finished thirty seconds later, the longest thirty seconds of London’s life, she closed the gap again. There wasn’t even a beat of hesitation. Which meant the first time hadn’t been merely a spontaneous fluke, the result of London rudely grabbing her hair in their hands. Their hands remained at their sides now, limp and useless, but Dahlia stepped toward them anyway. Close enough for London to smell coconuts.

Her hands cupped their face. Oh. Her hands were on their face. They were so soft. She was so soft.

London looked down at her for one second, saw the smile in her eyes before she closed them and leaned in. London didn’t waste it this time.

They pushed into her lips so fervently that she stumbled back a step, and London quickly wrapped their arms around her, steadying her with their palm on the small of her back. Their mouths opened to each other and there was her tongue, finally, hot and surprisingly determined, just like Dahlia, and the feel of it tugged at a string in their gut, a string that set everything else on fire.

The world felt right for once. They were anchored to the sand, to the earth, to the wind and sun and sky; there was no gender, no internet, no timelines—just skin and muscle and salt.

London could feel Dahlia folding herself into them, somehow, wrapping her hands around the back of their neck, her body inching as close as it was possible to be. It felt natural to hold her in this way, to become extensions of each other. Their body felt good, holding hers. God, Dahlia felt so good.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Dahlia’s tongue disappeared from their mouth and London exhaled, their head drooping as Dahlia planted kisses along their jawline, up, up, until she sucked their earlobe into her mouth.

A strangled sound escaped London’s lips.

Against every instinct, they broke away.

London and Dahlia stood staring at each other, cheeks flushed and mouths hanging slightly open, breathing heavily, while the waves crashed against the surf. London could feel the pulse of the sea in their chest, like they were connected, the force of the ocean pounding in an incessant rhythm against their rib cage, primal and wild.

They took another deep breath and wrung their hands through their hair.

The transcendent moment of peace and lust of mere seconds earlier began to shatter, reality smashing back into London’s brain. Was this a pity kiss? Dahlia had read the mean things people were saying on the internet and dragged them to this beautiful place to try to make them feel better? And plus—

“Dahlia, are you straight?”

They had been trying to puzzle it out for a while now, but this kiss, the way she’d touched them—it was too much.

All they knew about Dahlia was that she had been married. To a dude.

Which, of course, didn’t necessarily mean anything. But they also knew they were pretty masculine presenting, and . . . well, London didn’t know anything, really, just then. Except for the fact that they knew they couldn’t be some kind of experiment or fetish for her. They wouldn’t survive it.

London wanted to explain all this. But Dahlia had just kissed them, and they had lost the ability to form at least eighty-five percent of the words they knew were in their vocabulary somewhere.