She was happiness personified, and London could barely look at her. After a poor guy named Mason was the first contestant eliminated, after the cameras turned off, after they confirmed with Janet they weren’t needed for any more solo interviews, London slipped away into the smoggy midsummer air of Los Angeles. It was still surprisingly warm out, even as the sun slipped away at the horizon. They got their phone out of their pocket.
Why the fuck didn’t you make me learn how to gut a fish, they texted Julie as they walked back toward their hotel room, a space that was cold and soulless and safe, completely lacking in any charm whatsoever.
CHAPTER FIVE
London did not body-slam Jacob out of the way, exactly. It just happened that Jacob was slow and lazy and London was impatient to get on the bus. It just happened that pushing past Jacob ensured London’s butt ended up in the empty seat next to Dahlia Woodson.
Complete coincidence.
“Oh, hey.” She smiled at them, and London cursed themself. They had spent all of last night texting everyone they knew in Nashville, followed by reading Twitter for hours, to distract themself from any thoughts of blinding smiles or shoulders exposed by yellow tank tops or fingers wrapped around their thumb. They hadn’t even left their room, for fear of running into her. They had discovered two nights ago, when they’d both been returning from a late-night snack run, that her room was only a few doors down from theirs.
And yet. One glance of that hair this morning, and they were back on their bullshit already.
“Hey. Congratulations on the win yesterday.”
Dahlia blushed. “Thanks. How’s your thumb?”
“It’s good. Healing already.”
As London wiggled their thumb at her, they were aware of how ridiculous this was, their desire to be next to this woman, to see her smile. Even aside from Dahlia being way out of their league, they’d heard her tell Barbara she lived in Maryland. Which was, the last time London checked, pretty far from Nashville. Either of them could get kicked off at any time. And London still knew barely anything about her.
“Where do you think we’re going?”
“I hope somewhere exciting.” Dahlia looked out the window, but London could see the smile in her profile.
London had been surprised Chef’s Special was throwing a Real World Challenge at them so early on. These off-set challenges were normally interesting, even if they were almost always group challenges, and group challenges were the worst. Whichever group lost today would return to the set on Monday for another Elimination Challenge, while the winning team got immunity and a day off. You really wanted to be on a winning team for a Real World Challenge.
“Hey.” Dahlia turned back toward them. “Did you ever get to record your first solo interview? Introduce your pronouns?”
London nodded. It had been surprisingly easy, talking to a camera instead of a table full of strangers. They were choosing, consciously, to not think about the fact that that camera would be broadcasting their words to millions of people. Because that still seemed surreal. “You get to do yours?”
Dahlia shrugged. “Yeah. It was boring.” The warmth in her eyes dimmed. The bus lurched suddenly out of the studio parking lot. And as the silence between them stretched, just as in the hotel bar, London again felt that desire to bring her back.
“So I’ve been thinking,” they started, scratching at their neck. “Whistle. It’s a pretty hard word to spell.”
She blinked at them.
“I keep thinking about it, and it’s like when you stare at a word too long and it starts to look weird, you know? I’ve started questioning whether I know how to spell it, now, let alone in fourth grade.”
Dahlia laughed, loud and bright, and London’s body began to relax.
“I know! But”—she bit her lip—“I was a TAG kid. I should have known how to spell it.”
“TAG?”
“Talented and gifted.” She rolled her eyes. “And I did know how to spell it. I did!” She smacked London in the arm, as if they had implied she didn’t, and it shocked a laugh out of them. Women kept hitting them in Los Angeles, and they felt strangely okay with it.
“W-H-I-S-T-L-E,” Dahlia spelled now.
“Good job,” London said, smiling.
“Shut up,” she said immediately. And then, sounding serious, “My mom was so disappointed.”
“About a fourth grade spelling bee?”
She looked out the window again. “Yeah.”
And before London could say anything else, the bus stopped.