Love & Other Disasters(70)

She wrote Bookstores next to the number 2 on her list.

“Okay, what’s something else you want to do?” she asked. “You have to contribute at least one thing to the list. Please,” she added.

“There’s an art installation outside some museum,” they said after a moment of thought. They had seen pictures on Instagram. “A bunch of lampposts all together. It’s supposed to look cool at night.”

Dahlia nodded emphatically and wrote it down.

“Want to go tomorrow night?” She looked up at them, her eyes full of a cautious hope, almost like she was nervous.

Almost like she was . . . asking London on a date.

“Sure.” London’s stomach flipped.

“Cool.” She smiled, face relaxing, and looked back down at the list.

“And I want to go back to that beach with you,” London said, their mind racing now to what they truly still wanted to do in LA. “In Malibu. I want to make out with you for real there. Like, flat out on the sand, full-body making out. Like, you’ll-have-sand-stuck-in-your-hair-for-days level of making out.”

Dahlia laughed, and it was the most magnificent sound. Maybe it hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since they’d been apart, but London had missed it anyway.

“That sounds . . . rather unfair to my hair.”

London shrugged. “It’s what I want.”

Dahlia stuck her thumb between her teeth, grinning.

“I can’t see engaging in full-body making out with you that doesn’t result in full-body sex.”

“All right then,” London said. “Write it down.”

Dahlia wrote next to the number 4: Sex on the beach. And then, maybe.

“Excuse me!” London scoffed and reached over to grab the pen from her hand, scribbling out that last word. “You can’t maybe your own suggestions!”

“I just!” Dahlia sputtered. “All I’m picturing is sand in the vag, and doesn’t that seem uncomfortable?”

“We’ll bring a towel,” London growled, and Dahlia laughed again.

“Okay, okay. Oh, and I want to go to Koreatown,” she said smoothly, like this transition made sense, and London was tempted to check off number four right now, beach or no beach.

“Taco trucks,” they said, to get their mind out of the gutter. “Those are cheap,” they added.

Dahlia wrote it down.

They came up with four others—Santa Monica Pier, the Getty, Grand Central Market, Sunset Boulevard—and then Dahlia put down her pen, smiling.

“Know what else is cheap? Ice cream. We definitely need ice cream before the next movie.” She stood. “Let’s do an AM/PM run.”

London looked down at themself again.

“I can’t go out like this.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes.

“To the gas station? Yes, London, you can.”

And just like that, she was dragging them out the door.

A half hour and a shared pint of Chunky Monkey later, Dahlia’s body was curled next to London again, and they were a quarter of the way through Always Be My Maybe. London had attempted to slide their hand under her shirt ten minutes ago and she had slapped it away, saying distractedly, “Stop it; I’ve never seen this before,” her eyes glued to the screen.

Having now spent nine hours watching movies, London’s own eyes felt dry and sore. The heat of her body next to theirs made them sleepy. They were fine with a simple night of movies and cuddling, they supposed. Mostly.

They ran their fingers through her hair.

“That could be you, you know,” they said, referencing Ali Wong’s celebrity chef character on the TV screen.

Dahlia shook her head against their chest.

“No. That should be you.”

London was quiet a moment, fingers still in her hair.

“I don’t want that,” they said.

“Me neither,” she murmured.

A few minutes later, she hugged London’s torso tighter.

“What am I going to do, London? After this.”

London tried to look down at her. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

They placed their lips on her forehead.

“I think . . . the dreams we have when we’re kids matter.”

London had been thinking about this, too, almost subconsciously, since they’d been out here. They were going to make more of an effort when they got back home to get into a music studio. There were a ton of people these days who were more passionate about podcasts than they were. London wanted to be around guitars, drums, pianos. They wanted to feel bass lines reverberating in their bones. They wanted to spend their days filling their guts with music.

“Maybe you should write.”

Dahlia released a breathy half laugh.

“About what? I hate to break it to you, London, but my dad was wrong; Camp Sunnywood was in fact not worthy of a Pulitzer.”

“Well, first of all, I doubt that.” London moved their hand to rub her back. “Write about what you know.” A moment later, they added, “You could write about food.”

“Writing about anything won’t pay my bills,” she said.

“You’re going to win $100,000, though,” London said. “You won’t have to worry about bills.”