Love & Other Disasters(47)

After a moment, Cath said, “That hug she gave you the other day was so sweet it just about broke my goddamn heart.”

London looked away then.

“She’s never been with anyone like me before. And . . . ” All the words fell away in their head, the reasoning that had seemed so solid on the beach. Or maybe it hadn’t seemed solid then, either, but they knew it was at least rational. To not fall in love with someone on the set of a reality TV show. “Fuck, I don’t know.”

They could see Cath nod, out of the corner of their eye. “Yeah.” Another quiet beat. “She seems like a good one, though. It was a tough day today. She and that old broad seemed close.”

God, all London could think about was Dahlia, but of course Dahlia was going to be devastated about Barbara.

Cath clapped London roughly on the shoulder as she pushed herself away from the wall and ground her cigarette under her sneaker.

“Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do. But listen . . . take care of yourself, all right?” She gave another nod and started to walk away.

London stood for a few moments longer, outside of the surprisingly boring fa?ade of the studio, watching Cath go, breathing in and out as the daylight bled out of the sky.

And then they ran until they reached Dahlia’s door.





CHAPTER TWELVE


Dahlia opened the door immediately, sighing a little. She said, “I was waiting for you.”

“Dahlia.” London took a step inside. Distantly, they heard the door click shut behind them. Dahlia’s room was messier than theirs. They tried not to look at the discarded clothes, the books, the crumpled receipts. Tried not to imagine Dahlia stuffing everything back into her suitcase. “When I saw you up there today—”

London was out of breath from running over here, and they didn’t know how to end this sentence. They paused, gaping like a fish, while Dahlia stood three feet away, hands in the back pockets of her shorts. Her eyes were soft and sad, and she wouldn’t stop . . . looking at them. Like she was waiting for something. The air felt heavy in London’s lungs, their hair prickling at the back of their neck.

“London,” she said simply.

Their feet took a step closer to her of their own accord, as if pulled there by her voice, by her stare, and the rest of London was helpless to stop it.

They took one step more, closing the gap between them.

Dahlia looked up at them, imploring. London had gotten their breath back, but now it felt trapped in their throat. Was this what they had wanted to happen, when they ran over here? They no longer knew. Or maybe there had never been a plan. There had only been panic, and now there was only Dahlia’s face.

“Please,” she whispered.

London cupped her face in their hands, ran a thumb down her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into their palm, and released a sigh that was so small and vulnerable it cracked whatever defenses London still possessed.

They kissed her.

There was no roar of the ocean here, no wind whipping at their faces, no salt in the air. There was nothing to detract from the realness of her, the taste of her, the noises of relief and want in her mouth.

After a precious moment of tenderness, Dahlia kissed London back with an intensity that surprised them, that almost knocked them over, and they steeled themself against her. She pushed her tongue into their mouth at the same time that she brought her hands to their neck, squeezing against their throat.

London’s heart roared, but their mind quieted.

Dahlia’s body leaned fully into theirs with another little sigh of heat and need, and London dropped their arms to sneak around her back, to press into the base of her spine, to press her closer, closer, until there was nowhere else to go. The coconut smell of her hair filled their senses; they could not imagine breathing air without it.

Then, suddenly, that irritating, instinctual alarm in London’s brain went off again, forcing them to step back, disentangling limbs, inhaling fresh air into their lungs, whipping their hands away from Dahlia to rub their own temples instead.

“Wait,” they said.

London was so very tired of breaking away from kisses with Dahlia. It was starting to feel like a horrible habit.

“You’re upset. It was an upsetting day. We need to talk, to—”

“London.” Dahlia stepped toward them again. “No. This isn’t just about today. Don’t tell me how I feel. Okay?”

She brushed the back of her hand against their cheek, and it reverberated down to London’s fingertips. She bit her lip, looking like she wanted to say more. London wanted to trust her, more than anything else they’d ever wanted. They wanted to give in.

Dahlia stepped back and took off her shirt.

“God, Dahlia.” London curled their fingernails into their palms. “You keep doing that.”

She was wearing a necklace, a thin chain attached to a solid gold bar. London blinked at it, resting above her lavender bra. It heaved slightly, in rhythm with her breathing. She was staring at them with determination now. God, she was gorgeous.

“Wait,” London said again, but their blood was thrumming so loudly in their ears they could hardly hear themself. They desperately thought of the notes on their phone. They had made a list, on Sunday night when they couldn’t sleep, of things they didn’t know about her. It had felt like a particularly sad exercise at the time, but it seemed important now. They didn’t want whatever was going to happen to be impulsive and fleeting. They wanted to be grounded in her.