“I’m not texting her,” London interjected. But they stuffed their phone in their pocket anyway.
Had they been obsessively staring at their phone ever since they received that package, waiting for a text, wondering whether they should send one first? Yes, yes they had. Maybe they were, in fact, being an asswipe.
Dahlia just felt so close now. All of Chef’s Special ’s former contestants, from current and previous seasons, were invited to attend the finale tomorrow. London had never felt certain, until they were chewing on Rice Krispies treats last night, that Dahlia would be there. And now . . . now Dahlia’s note with her big joyful handwriting was in their back pocket, and for all they knew, she could be back in LA right now, as they and their family ate dinner at this fancy Italian restaurant. Was she unloading her suitcase at the hotel? They could be breathing the same air again. London was practically vibrating with it.
“So you admit she’s your girlfriend, then,” Julie said, a satisfied smirk on her face.
“I hate you,” London said.
“My, how I have missed you two squabbling every second of the day,” their mom said, lifting a wineglass to her mouth. Which was curved up in a smile.
London’s own mouth couldn’t help but mirror hers. They had missed it, too.
Even if they had no idea if Dahlia Woodson was actually their girlfriend or not.
God, they wanted to talk to her. They wanted to kiss her, and talk about all the things they should have talked about before she left.
But first, selfishly, they wanted to go over their menu with her, for tomorrow. London had already gone over it in depth with Sai and Tanner and Audra; they knew they had done all they could at this point. But talking with Dahlia about food calmed their nerves. She would assure them they had made the right choices, that they could do this, that they’d be better than Lizzie, that—
“Okay, listen. I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut here, but I have a question now.”
London’s smile fell, whisked away by the gale force wind that was their dad, lumbering forward to rest his elbows on the white tablecloth.
Since their family had arrived at LAX that morning, London and their father had barely exchanged ten words. Tom Parker had simply sulked into the background all day, as moody and detached as a teenager. It felt . . . weird, and not like their dad, and there had been an underlying tension in their mother’s face all day that London was trying to ignore. Their sisters had helped. Julie, Sara, and Jackie had been babbling all day, clearly overcompensating for whatever the hell was happening with their family, and London had gone with it. The note in London’s back pocket had been helping, too, a silent comfort.
They just had to get through the finale, they told themself. And then they would summon the mental capacity to deal with whatever this Parker family cloud was.
But Tom Parker had been drinking tonight. Heavily. And apparently, he was ready for the thunder now.
“All right, Dad.” London sighed, leaning back in their chair. “Let’s do this.”
His dad’s eyes lasered onto theirs.
“Are you a lesbian now, or something?”
“Dad,” Julie said, but their dad held up a dismissive hand, silencing her.
London’s jaw clenched, but they didn’t move.
“I’m pansexual, Dad, like I told you in college. And—”
“You just always brought home boys, in high school,” their dad continued, waving another hand as he interrupted them. “But now, apparently you have a girlfriend.”
London had brought home exactly two boys in high school. One, they dated for five months. The other lasted two weeks.
London never knew their father had become so attached.
“I dated other people in college, Dad.” London took a sip of their water, in an attempt to show that they were calm and collected. “I just didn’t bring them home to meet you. I wonder why.”
London’s mother cleared her throat. London glanced at her, their heart dropping at the tortured look on her face as she folded and refolded the napkin in her lap.
“Tom,” she said, in a lethally quiet way.
But her husband ignored her.
“So you and this Dahlia person,” London’s dad said now. “You’re dating.”
“I . . .” London’s face flushed. I’d love to know the answer to that question, Dad. I’ll let you know if I figure it out.
But London’s dad didn’t seem too concerned with the actual answer here; he barreled on over London’s hesitation.