Love & Other Disasters(42)

Dahlia looked at them, her eyes as clear and true as ever.

“Oh,” she said. “London, no. I’m queer.” She paused. “I . . . I guess I haven’t mentioned that before.”

London had to close their eyes. This was what they had wanted to hear, but irrationally, they felt like punching something. They wanted to grunt at Dahlia louder than they had ever grunted. “Nope.”

“I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, looking almost nervous now. “Although, I’ve only ever been with David. Before . . . ” She waved a hand between them. “You’re the only person I’ve ever even kissed other than David. Which . . . might be embarrassing. But I’ve known since college that . . . yeah, that I’m not straight.”

Dahlia took a breath before stepping toward them again. She reached for them, but then apparently thought better of it, sticking her hands in the back pockets of her shorts.

“London,” she said, at the same time that London said, “Dahlia.”

She looked up at them. “You first.”

“This isn’t a good idea.”

It was the worst sentence that had ever twisted out of their mouth, this sentence. They watched as it deflated Dahlia’s face, before she looked down and away from them, stubbing the top of her sandal into the sand. London’s skin wanted to physically repel the words, take them back. They wanted to throw her down on the beach and never let her go.

Instead, they said, “You haven’t been with anyone since your divorce; I haven’t been with anyone since I came out as nonbinary. That’s messy enough. But more than that, Dahlia . . . one of us could go home next week. And I can’t . . .”

Now London looked down at the sand.

“Yeah,” they heard Dahlia say, just barely, over the wind, her voice sounding so small that London could disintegrate into dust, right here. Disappear with the tide.

I can’t, they wanted to say, because even after that one kiss, I don’t know if I can stand to be around you anymore. Because if you kiss me again, I will literally never be able to stop. I will take you right on this beach, I will consume you until I know every inch of you. Once I start with you, I won’t be able to stop. I need you in a way that can’t be temporary.

Dahlia turned away from them, and she stared out at the sea.

London watched her profile, barely breathing.

They noticed, after a minute, that her hands had clamped into fists at her sides.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I didn’t mean to make things complicated for us.”

“No, Dahlia—” London scratched at the back of their neck. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She swallowed and glanced over at them.

“We can still be friends, right? I don’t know how to be on Chef’s Special without you being my friend.”

God, London really wanted to disappear.

“Of course,” they said, and it felt like their throat was made of sandpaper.

Dahlia looked back out at the water. At length, she said, “I want to do something now.”

London straightened. “Okay.” Obviously, they should get the hell off this beach. If they didn’t get off this beach soon, in fact, London’s lungs might collapse. “We can—”

“You might not like it,” Dahlia interrupted. “You can close your eyes if you want.”

London blinked. “What?”

And then Dahlia Woodson took off her shirt.

London gaped at her as she quickly shed her shorts, too. She kicked off her sandals.

Dahlia didn’t look back as she ran, full speed, toward the ocean, her heels kicking up sand as she went.

“Fucking hell,” London said to no one.

Dahlia made a loud yip as the water hit her ankles, her knees, her thighs. London watched in a daze, unmoving, as she threw her body into the waves. Her head disappeared under the water, which was violently blue. They saw her gasp as she resurfaced, and then smile, the whites of her teeth unmistakable even from where London stood on shore.

She splashed around a while more, never going far enough as to make London truly nervous. The sun shone down on her head, on London’s face. They could feel their skin burning. They would have to stop somewhere to buy aloe vera. Oh god. Dahlia and London had to drive all the way back to Burbank together after this.

Eventually, Dahlia made her way back to shore. She stepped slowly toward them, squeezing salt water out of her hair. London wondered, distantly, if they were perhaps having a panic attack, if they were hallucinating this whole thing. Dahlia’s bra and underwear were a matching set, smooth, clinging, dark purple silk. Her bare stomach was liquefying London’s insides.

She reached them, and she smiled, looking shy. London couldn’t recall Dahlia ever looking shy. But then again, London had never stood in front of a Dahlia who was half naked and dripping wet. And London, try as they might, could not stop staring.

“The Pacific is fucking cold,” Dahlia said, trying to sound breezy. Even as she blushed, her skin, her smile, were glowing, everything looking more relaxed than before, the edges that had been there soothed by the sea. She had legitimately never looked so kissable, and Dahlia looked pretty kissable most of the time.

“Okay, now actually close your eyes.”

“What?” London asked again.