Love & Other Disasters(53)

She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to take a yoga breath.

Sex with David had been exciting back in high school and college. Or at least, she was sure it must have been. But ever since they got married, started jobs, jumped headlong into their adult lives . . . she couldn’t remember exactly when it had stopped being good. They were just so tired most of the time, after long days at work and long commutes. They still had sex, sometimes, although increasingly less as time went on.

For the last year especially, when their fighting was at its worst, sex almost made Dahlia cry. Because the sex wasn’t giving David what he wanted. She wondered if he even wanted it anymore, or if the act only reinforced his disappointment. It was all she could think about the last few times. I am sorry I can’t let your sperm penetrate one of my eggs and implant on my uterine wall. She began to think of her body as a vessel, full of emptiness and pain, one she had chosen to hijack from the world. It might be an empty vessel, but it was hers.

Surely she hadn’t completely forgotten that sex could simply be about pleasure, right?

There had certainly been no toe sucking with David. Or nipple pinching, or neck licking. Every second that London was touching her clit, or slipping their finger in and out of her, they were touching something else, kissing her somewhere else, and it made everything feel so much more intense, like firecrackers going off all over the place until her body lost track, and all she could think was Oh yeah, this is why people like sex and God, how can one solitary digit feel so good in there and Why is this person being so nice to me and I think I forgot I have so much skin and Fuck fuck fucking fuck.

And when London had held on to her hand while they got off, holding her to them . . . it was surprisingly sexy. David always pulled away when he came; she liked how London had leaned into her instead, pressed their foreheads together, so that she witnessed every emotion on their face, inhaled their breath. She wanted them to guide her hand all over their body so she could learn every funny spot that felt good.

Every single thing about last night had been different from anything she’d ever experienced: softer, hotter, more tender. It wasn’t just pleasure; it was . . . closeness.

Of course, it was when Dahlia was ruminating on this that London woke up.

Which they did with a throaty groan. And if Dahlia wasn’t already wet, well.

“Hello,” Dahlia said, hoping this sounded like a normal hello, and not a you-have-fucked-me-all-the-way-up hello.

London rubbed their eyes before looking at her.

“Have you been awake for a while? You look awake.”

“Maybe.”

They stretched their arms above their head. “You are totally a morning person, aren’t you.”

“Maybe.”

She totally was. Even though that wasn’t why she’d woken up so early today.

London groaned again. “Of course you are.” And they sounded so irritated that it delighted her right down to her toes, breaking her reverie, and she couldn’t help it. She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.

“What time is it?”

Dahlia glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “Ten to six.”

London sat up. “Are you serious? Dahlia, we have to be on set at six fifteen! Dammit. I have to do my hair!”

London rolled out of bed, furiously tossing on clothes.

“You have to do your hair?” Dahlia repeated, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice.

“Yes.”

“That’s what they have hair and makeup for, on set.”

“They don’t do it right!” London shouted.

Now Dahlia did laugh.

“I hate you,” London said, stepping into their pants.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Are you going to get dressed now, or what?”

Dahlia got dressed while London ran to their room so they could throw on fresh clothes too. When she stepped into the hall, London was waiting for her, looking harried and adorable, and they hustled to set, London holding Dahlia’s hand the whole way.

Except that wasn’t exactly right. London wasn’t holding Dahlia’s hand; they were gripping it, holding on for dear life. Like they were trying to tell her something.

They only dropped it when they opened the door to the studio. The moment Dahlia and London walked inside, Janet appeared in front of them.

“Dahlia Woodson, did you walk through a tornado on the way here?” She patted the top of the lumpy bun on Dahlia’s head, frowning. “Hair and makeup, stat. And both of you”—she pointed at them in turn, giving a look over the rims of her glasses, tortoiseshell today—“if you make it a habit showing up late and disheveled like this, get ready for a PA to be stationed outside your doors with an airhorn at five o’clock sharp. Seriously. I have airhorns. I will use them.”

Janet shook her head and turned around to stalk away, muttering, “I swear, nasty business, every single season,” under her breath.

Dahlia had never felt more grateful to be scolded by Janet. It made her feel calm, somehow. She had to fight the urge to chase after her. Ask her to yell at her some more. Maybe, if she could arrange it, Janet could be a dear and dump some ice water over Dahlia’s head.

Of course, Janet didn’t do that, because life was cruel, but Dahlia still had a moment of peace at hair and makeup, away from the lust-and-feelings cloud of London Parker. It was only as Mack was yanking on her hair that she comprehended the last thing Janet had said as she’d walked away.