Love & Other Disasters(43)

She leaned over and picked up her dry clothes from the sand.

“I’m going to change now. I can’t wear this wet stuff in the car the whole way back. I’ll chafe.”

London closed their eyes, cursing silently over and over and over.

A minute later, they felt something cold and wet slap their hand. They almost screamed.

“I am so, so sorry, but can you hold this for me? I don’t want it to get all sandy.” London closed their fingers around the soaked underwire of Dahlia’s discarded bra. The silent cursing in their head increased exponentially.

“All right, I’m decent. Well. Relatively, I guess.”

When London dared to crack their eyelids back open to the world, Dahlia was in her shorts and T-shirt again, underwear in her hand. She was doing a weird little dance, squatting up and down.

“Huh,” she said. “Unsurprisingly, this might chafe too, but it’s not too bad.”

“Dahlia,” London said, pained. “Can you stop moving around, please?”

Their brain had been short circuiting for long minutes now, but watching Dahlia squat around the beach, testing out how her jean shorts felt against her labia, all while they still held her wet bra, was going to actually terminate the functionality of London’s existence.

But when Dahlia did as they said and stood straight and still in front of them, hands on her hips, London knew they were wrong. They were ruined either way. Her soaked hair dripped from its melting bun onto her shoulders. Through her T-shirt, London could easily see her peaked nipples, the dark pink outline of her areolas. She was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. London was head over heels for her, and they had just instructed her to not kiss them anymore, although they were having a hard time remembering why.

“Do you wanna go in?” Dahlia pointed her chin toward the ocean. “I won’t look. It clears your head.”

London could only meet her eyes for a second. “No, thank you.”

Dahlia stuck her hands in the back pockets of her shorts, biting her lip.

“You’re not mad at me?”

London shook their head. Even though they were unsure. If they were mad, and who they were mad at.

“Do you want to stay on the beach longer or do something else?” she asked.

The truth was that London both wanted to magically transport the hell off this beach at the same time that they wanted to stay here with Dahlia forever, away from TV sets and hotel rooms and responsibilities. There was still no one else around, like it had been meant for them, like Dahlia had known exactly where to go when she pulled off the highway. It could be their kingdom. They could live in a cave in the cliffs. They would cook over firelight. They would make love on the sand. They would come back to society occasionally, to text those who loved them to let them know they were okay. Julie and Hank would understand.

“Something else,” London said.

“Okay.” Dahlia took a deep breath and smiled, willing them both courage. She snatched her bra out of London’s hands. Finally. She picked up her sandals. She looked at London, a sad corner of her mouth quirking upward, and said, “I know you won’t do this. But. Race you to the car?”

And then she took off. London watched after her for a few long seconds before they moved their feet, slowly following her back toward the staircase up the cliff. She was right, of course. London would never try to race her. Dahlia Woodson was a firefly in the darkness, a hummingbird at your window. Maybe you got to see her brightness for a fleeting moment, but you couldn’t chase her. She didn’t deserve to be caught.

Back at the top of the cliff, she tossed London the keys.

“Do you mind? I’m feeling a little tired, all of a sudden.”

As London navigated down the PCH, they wanted to rewind back to the drive up here, when Dahlia was incandescent with joy about LA traffic, when the atmosphere between them still made sense, as opposed to the stuffy, clunky movements of the air around them now.

Or maybe London should rewind all the way back. They never should have rammed past Jacob to sit next to her on that bus to the bar mitzvah; they should have made their rugelach alone at a different table. They never should have invited her to crash a wedding. They should have stayed in their hotel room today. They should have focused on their cooking, kept their head down.

Sure, they would have wanted her regardless, but they could have done it quietly. Unexpressed longing was a skill they were good at. It would have been easier than knowing what she tasted like. Most importantly, she wouldn’t have been hurt.

London glanced over at her to maybe say some of this, to apologize. But then they stopped. Because Dahlia was asleep. Her sandals were on the floor of their rental car, her feet tucked up underneath the tan skin of her legs, inches from the gear shift, her head resting against the passenger side window, her underwear balled up in her hands.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Dahlia had jumped in the ocean, raced up a rickety set of stairs alongside a sandstone cliff, and spent far too much money on ridesharing apps to solo sightsee around Los Angeles the rest of the weekend, all to get away from the feeling of London Parker’s arms around her.

And then Tanner Tavish appeared first thing Monday morning and slapped them together again, because he was a bitter bastard, and Dahlia wanted to spit in his handsome face.

Their Face-Off was about tarts. So of course London was going to win it anyway. They excelled at dessert.