Love & Other Disasters(49)

London’s frown matched hers. They leaned in to examine Dahlia’s face, to show her they weren’t being dismissive. There was some scarring. Maybe they had noticed it before. Maybe they didn’t care.

London shook their head. “Still looks pretty fucking perfect to me.”

Dahlia growled in frustration. She flopped back down on her back, smacked a closed fist against her hip.

“Don’t do that.”

London crawled farther onto the bed, resting at her side.

“Do what? I’m not lying. You really are perfect to me.”

“Perfect isn’t real,” Dahlia said, exasperated. She turned to face them. “I don’t want to be perfect, because I know I’m not. I want this”—she touched London’s chest—“to be real.”

London stared at her for a beat. They had never looked at Dahlia’s eyes this close up before. They tried to stop their brain from categorizing them as perfect. They failed.

London wondered what real meant for her, how it was even a question that this was.

They knew Dahlia hadn’t been with anyone other than David. That being with someone else was probably scary, or strange. Maybe . . . maybe she’d thought things were perfect with David, until they weren’t, so now she didn’t trust perfect anymore.

But Dahlia had to know this was real.

London needed to convince her, they decided, how real this was.

London stood up from the bed and removed, as rapidly as possible, every single item of their clothing.

Dahlia returned to her back, propped up on her elbows, and watched, a slightly amused yet attentive look overtaking the uncertainty that had been on her face.

“You are very not perfect,” she said when London was naked in front of her. “And I like you very much.”

London had been about to leap onto the bed and rip off Dahlia’s shorts—the removing of their own clothing was meant to be efficient, not a striptease—but suddenly they stopped. They comprehended Dahlia staring at them, studying them, what they had just done. They had been so focused on Dahlia, on what she was feeling and what she needed that it was like their brain went to another dimension, and now . . . oh. Now they froze, self-consciousness crashing back on them like a wave.

This was it. This was possibly why they had not slept with anyone since they came out. If Dahlia was scared to do this, she had no idea what scared was. They were baring their body to her, this body that had never felt quite right London’s entire life.

But it felt better now, due to time and education. Internet friends. Courage and testosterone.

And maybe, London realized, they hadn’t wanted to share that with anyone but themself.

They knew their clothes didn’t exactly hide the way they looked underneath, that Dahlia shouldn’t be surprised by anything she was seeing now. A binder only did so much. But there was still this fear, pounding in London’s temple, that things would be different now. That Dahlia would see them differently.

“Hey,” Dahlia said softly, moving to kneel at the edge of the bed, the amused look on her face gone. “You okay?”

London managed a nod, their throat dry.

Dahlia looked at them a moment longer, but she was only looking at their face this time.

“Is it okay if I tell you what I like most?” she asked quietly.

London met her eyes and attempted a small smile, trying to act normal. “All my imperfect things?”

She nodded seriously. “Yes.”

London swallowed. And eventually, they nodded back.

“These patches of freckles.” Dahlia reached out both hands to smooth over London’s shoulders. “To die for.” She ran her hands, flat and smooth, touching London from palm to fingertip, across their collarbone and down the middle of their chest. “And I like this.”

London glanced down to where her hands rested. They suppressed a grunt.

“You like my pudgy stomach? I call bullshit.”

“Yes. Although I don’t like the word pudgy.” She tickled her fingertips over it, and London sucked in a breath. “It’s soft and lovely. This whole area, really—” Dahlia grabbed London around the hips with surprising aggression, “it’s like, mmmph. Meaty and strong and I like it.”

London stared at her, not knowing how to respond to any of this.

“And then, of course, there’s your face.” Dahlia lifted her hands from London’s sides to gesture randomly in the air. “And I can hardly even talk about your forearms.” Dahlia flopped herself back onto the bed, flinging her arms out to the sides dramatically. “They are ridiculous.”

This broke the spell.

London knelt at the foot of the bed, blushing, and picked up one of Dahlia’s petite feet. “Meaty,” they repeated before bringing the foot to their mouth and kissing her arch, fingers kneading her heel.

“Is that not an acceptable descriptor? I said I liked it.”

Dahlia looked down at London caressing her feet for a moment before closing her eyes, her hands absently touching her stomach. She liked this. London liked that she liked this.

“It is . . . interesting,” London said. “Imperfect and meaty. There are better descriptors, probably.”

They brought her big toe into their mouth.

“Fine,” she said, breath hitching. “You are very much sexy, and I am incredibly attracted to you. Better?”