Even in the low light of the bus, Dahlia could see Lizzie’s face pale, her mouth scrunching into an ugly pucker in the middle of her skinny, wrinkled face. She reminded Dahlia of her elementary school nurse, Ms. Tucker, who never believed Dahlia when her stomach hurt.
“Misgendering,” Lizzie repeated back, voice sour.
“Yeah,” Dahlia replied tightly. “Google it.”
“Well!” Lizzie tittered, her voice rising now. Dahlia glanced around the half-sleeping bus, panic beginning to bubble in her veins. There. London was four rows ahead of them. If Lizzie made this into a scene with London four rows away, then Dahlia would . . . would . . . Dahlia would have to do something untoward. “Well,” Lizzie huffed again. “Here I was, just trying to talk. They call us the intolerant ones. I swear.”
Lizzie shook her head, muttering, and reached underneath her chair. Noisily, she grabbed her bag and stomped to her feet.
“Thanks for the chat, Dahlia,” she said testily, before making her way up the aisle and finding a new seat next to Khari.
London wasn’t the only one who swiveled around to look at Dahlia.
Ugh.
She slunk deep into her seat, knees propped up in front of her.
She could have handled that better. Hank wouldn’t have liked it. He was all about opening hearts and minds, the big soft dummy, and Dahlia had just ensured that Lizzie’s heart and mind were slammed shut to her now.
She wiped her palms on her jeans and took a deep breath. She was sleep deprived and disoriented, and feeling just a tad sick of people.
People like Lizzie, being disappointingly shitty.
People like David, sending disconcertingly nice emails.
She had stared at it for too long when it hit her inbox last night. Had it practically memorized by now.
Dahls,
Hi.
This is probably the most awkward email I’ve ever sent, but . . . I wanted you to know. I’ve started seeing Megan McCombs. She was a year ahead of us in school. Not sure if you remember her. I just wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else, or saw it on Facebook, or something awful like that. I don’t know why I felt like I should tell you, but . . . anyway. There it is.
Of course Dahlia remembered Megan McCombs. Megan had been part of student government in high school, helping lead pep rallies and Veteran’s Day assemblies. She was a star volleyball player. She had also always been genuinely nice. A naturally likable person.
Dahlia wanted this to be okay. David deserved someone like Megan. If anything, it surprised Dahlia that he had taken this long to get back out there again.
Dahlia, for her part, only let herself consider dating again on her darkest, loneliest nights. When she missed having someone to talk to, when she longed to be touched. Her mind wandered, especially, about the options that were open to her now. Dahlia had known since college that she was queer. But since she’d only ever been with David, she’d never truly been able to explore that part of her, at least not in the way she sometimes fantasized about. Dahlia considered, on those lonely nights, throwing on something slinky and driving into DC or Baltimore. Finding a queer bar. Kissing whoever she happened to find attractive up against dirty bathroom walls. Having one-night stands.
Or, even, signing up for the dating apps everyone in the world other than her knew how to use.
And then she’d wake up the next morning and remember that she still felt too guilty and sad to do even that. That she wanted to reassemble herself first, on her own, before she brought someone else into the mix of her confused heart.
And so she’d watch another YouTube cooking tutorial and practice her knife cuts instead.
It made sense, though, that not only would David be dating again now, but that he would have waited until he found someone solid. That he would stick with someone they knew in high school. Someone who was sensible and successful. Dahlia had no idea what Megan McCombs was up to these days, but she assumed she was successful.
Most of all, Dahlia knew in her gut that she would make very nice babies. That Megan McCombs would be a great mother.
I hope you’re doing well on Chef’s Special. I still can’t really believe that’s happening, but I’m happy for you. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll watch. I don’t know if it would be good for me. But I’m proud of you. I really do hope you’re doing well, Dahlia.
Okay. That’s all. Don’t feel like you have to respond to this.
David
Dahlia closed her eyes and leaned her temple against the cold glass of the window. The bus wheels rolling over cracked asphalt vibrated through her skin, rattled her brain inside her skull.