Love & Other Disasters(7)

She really just . . . did that. She drank London’s bourbon.

Dahlia Woodson was a real piece of work.

The chips and guacamole arrived before London could think of what to say, along with Dahlia’s second bourbon on the rocks. She crunched into a chip the moment the waitress placed them on the table, and her eyes went wide. “Oh man. Oh wow. They do not have chips like these on the East Coast. You should have some.”

London did not reach for a chip, but they finally took a sip of their own bourbon again. They felt harried, like they were constantly one step behind in this conversation, like they never knew what Dahlia was going to say or do next, and they had no idea how to extricate themself from this sad, poorly lit bar.

“So, your bad day. I’m all ears.” Dahlia prompted again as she dug into the guacamole, chomping on another chip, smiling now, like she was suddenly having the time of her life.

“Why weren’t you at the meet and greet yesterday?” London asked instead.

Her smile drooped, and she looked slightly shamed. “Oh. The whole idea of that gave me supreme social anxiety. I told a PA I was having bad cramps.”

“Are you serious?” London burst out, incredulous, their mouth suddenly working again. “It gave all of us social anxiety! This entire show is like, an exercise in surviving social anxiety! And you used cramps as an excuse?”

“Hey!” Dahlia frowned. “My menstrual cramps are really bad, okay! When I have them! Don’t judge me.”

But London was judging her. In fact, they were pretty angry at her now, irrationally or not. Because they were going to have to come out to her now, to get it over with, and if she had just shown up for the dumb meet and greet, they wouldn’t have to do this again. If she just had some control over her fucking hair, London would have said good luck back hours earlier, or reacted in whatever way Dahlia found acceptable, and she wouldn’t be here, right now, ruining London’s moment of peace.

They took a breath.

“Last night, at dinner, I came out to everyone as nonbinary, so everyone would know my pronouns, which are they/them. I thought it would be good for everyone to know right away, so there wouldn’t be awkward misgendering, and I could actually just be me on this thing. But some people didn’t take it great, which I should have expected, but it still threw me off a little, because I had been too optimistic, so I was a little off today. There. Okay? Are you satisfied?”

London motioned to the waitress for another drink. Dahlia was quiet now, which made London feel smug, but smug in a way that didn’t actually feel good at all.

“Who didn’t take it great?”

London glanced at her. Her face looked different, but they couldn’t read it.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, it really does. I want to make sure I don’t accidentally befriend someone who’s actually an asshole.”

London sighed. They were so tired that they wouldn’t truly contemplate Dahlia’s reaction until later, how steely her voice had turned. “It was mainly Lizzie.”

“Remind me, which one is Lizzie again?”

“Frizzy blond hair. White woman, fifty-ish, maybe.”

Dahlia’s brow furrowed in concentration. She looked so serious all of a sudden. “Glasses?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “What did she do?”

“Oh, you know . . . ” London waved a hand, not wanting to rehash it. Coming out to so many strangers like that, all at once—it had been terrifying, but they figured it was the most efficient way. It had been one of the tensest moments of London’s entire life, attempting to announce it to the table quickly and casually.

But they thought they’d gotten away with it. A white woman with dark hair hidden underneath a backward baseball cap named Cath had leaned forward, her voice deep and comforting when she said, “That’s cool with me. Thanks for telling us, London.” And then she’d given this little nod, which London had immediately accepted as a Fellow Queer Nod of Approval, and they had let out some of the breath that had been pent up in their lungs. Others at the table nodded too, smiled at them.

Until Lizzie had cleared her throat, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and said, “I’m sorry, but what do you mean?”

And London’s stomach had clenched all over again. It was exhausting, on an ordinary day, having to constantly explain and defend your existence. And it had been a long plane ride here from Nashville, their nerves already frayed from embarking on this strange journey.

They decided to be direct, basic, repeating more slowly what they’d already fucking said. Nonbinary. They/them pronouns. The end.

Lizzie had squinted her eyes at them, like they were speaking in Klingon.

“But that doesn’t make any sense.”

Janet’s chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“You really want us to refer to you, a singular person, using they?”

“Yup.” London shoved their fists in their pockets, gritted the single syllable between clenched teeth. The rest of the table seemed frozen, staring determinedly at their plates, their sweating glasses of water.

Janet placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. Lizzie looked around the table. “Oh, come on,” she said, her voice turning derisive, “I can’t be the only one who thinks this is a bunch of malarkey. There’s no such—”