“And you’re comfortable calling her your girlfriend. But what, pray tell, does Dahlia call you?”
London’s heart started to thump, insistent, pounding against their rib cage.
“What do you mean?”
“If you’re not Dahlia’s girlfriend? Are you her partner ?”
“Dad, stop it,” Julie said.
London glanced over and, with horror, saw that Julie was crying.
“Hey.” They took her hand and squeezed. “It’s okay, Jules.”
Even though it wasn’t.
They looked back at their dad.
“I don’t fucking know, Dad. Okay?” Out of the corner of their eye, they saw their mom flinch. They swallowed and kept moving. “We haven’t talked about it yet. But yes, I would be damn grateful to be Dahlia Woodson’s partner. I think being partners with the person you love is a pretty reasonable goal to strive for.”
Julie released a small gasp, her fingers still clenched in theirs.
“London,” she breathed, and London ripped their eyes away from their dad’s to look at her. “You love her.”
“Yeah,” London said, blood rushing in their ears, making them light-headed. “I do.”
Julie’s eyes were still wet, but she grinned. “Good.”
“Are you quite done now, Tom?” London’s mother asked, and when London looked up, they saw her eyes were like daggers, pointed at their dad’s throat. “It had been such a nice evening until you decided to open your mouth.”
And it had been, was the thing. Even with the weirdness clearly surrounding their family, being around them had still been grounding today. Familiar.
London sat back in their seat, taking another sip of water. Godspeed to anyone who had to suffer the wrath of Charlotte Parker when she looked like that.
London’s dad was undisturbed. He brought his wineglass to his mouth once more. After a big slug, he shook his head.
“Of course. I’m always the bad guy. Fine. Someone has to be. I’m just trying to look out for you, London. You’ve always been so flighty. If it’s not one thing, it’s the other, and you’re far past the age of finding yourself. You need to grow up one of these days.”
“That’s rich,” Charlotte muttered.
London looked at their dad one last time. Part of them wanted to feel sorry for this man, drunk and childish, so deeply thrown by the slightest deviation from societal norms. And they would have, if they were sitting across from Lizzie, or Khari, or someone else who didn’t matter. But this man had held London in his arms when they were a baby. This was the man who had gleefully kicked London’s ass at Trivial Pursuit during family game nights, year after year, ruffling their hair and smiling with his whole face when he said “Better luck next time.” This man had shared late-night hot chocolates with London on nights when neither of them could sleep. They had watched rom-coms together in the den; their dad always pretended they didn’t make him cry, that his allergies were just flaring up. This man had come to every major event of London’s life.
And he wasn’t going to ruin this one.
“Okay,” London released Julie’s hand to push themself back from the table. “Time to go.” They drained their wineglass before they stood but left their half-eaten tagliatelle on the table. It wasn’t as good as Dahlia’s pappardelle, anyway.
“London, honey”—London’s mom reached over to grab their hand—“please. Don’t go like this.”
“Can I come with you?” Julie asked, throwing her napkin on the table.
“No, no.” London attempted to give her a reassuring smile, attempted to pass it around to everyone else at the table, to Sara and Jackie, who were both staring at London, frowning, concern etched into their brows. London couldn’t make themself look at their mom. “It’s okay. I promise. I just have a big day tomorrow.”
London patted the top of Julie’s head, a gesture that had always pissed her off ever since sixth grade, when London went through a growth spurt that officially left them two inches taller.
“I’ll see you soon. Thanks for dinner.”
They took a deep breath once they were back in the driver’s seat of the Nissan, allowing themself one forehead thump against the steering wheel. They wished Dahlia were here. They weren’t much in the mood for driving.
They pulled their phone out of their pocket. Sixty new Twitter notifications since the last time they’d checked. Thirty-nine from Instagram.