“No, I guess it’s not weird,” she said. “I just expected you to listen to like . . . a lot of hip indie rockers I’d never heard of, or something.”
London did listen to hip indie rockers Dahlia had probably never heard of. But when they were nervous, they retreated to their playlist of early-to-mid-2000s music they and Julie had grown up listening to when they were just kids: Tegan and Sara, The Shins, Modest Mouse, Death Cab, stuff they listened to before they could even understand the lyrics. Being twins, they and Julie fought constantly, especially in elementary school. But as the two of them grew into adolescence, music had started to tether them to each other. It likely always would. This playlist always made London feel grounded and calm.
“Okay. I’m ready.” London approached the door again, where Dahlia was still standing. She didn’t move, forcing London to stand there awkwardly, waiting. They tried for dear life to hold on to their Tegan-and-Sara calm.
Dahlia reached forward and straightened London’s bow tie. “You look cute.”
London was ready to crash this wedding, but they did not think they looked cute, and they certainly didn’t expect Dahlia to say they looked cute. A printed button-up accompanied by the bow tie and dark jeans was the fanciest thing they could conjure up. Even if London had accepted it more in the last few years, had worked to make it feel more comfortable, they still thought they had a weird body: lumpy in places it shouldn’t be, like their stomach and hips; too narrow in others, like their shoulders. They looked like an Oompa-Loompa compared to Dahlia.
She had put on makeup, too, her eyes even darker than normal, her lips redder than before. She was unequivocally gorgeous.
For a second, while getting ready, London had considered putting on some makeup, too. The desire to mess around with makeup was a pull they experienced maybe once or twice a year. They’d gone so far tonight as to pull out mascara from a bag stuffed in their closet. But then they’d remembered that the only person who could make makeup look semi-decent on them was Julie. And the few times they’d let Julie do it, they’d been drunk. They didn’t even know why they’d brought it here to LA.
Anyway, even if London did look cute, did they want Dahlia to think they were cute, specifically? Cute was for puppies. For babies.
London cleared their throat and walked forward, forcing Dahlia to back up so they could close the door.
It was time, clearly, for alcohol.
“I’ll take a rosé, please.” Dahlia flashed that bright white smile at the bartender five minutes later, after they had slunk into the ballroom like they belonged there. Or rather, London had watched Dahlia slink. She was into this now, London could tell, and she was a far better slinker. London mainly walked awkwardly with their hands in their pockets and tried not to look at Dahlia’s exposed torso.
“And . . . for you?” The bartender looked up at London, and London recognized it immediately—the pregnant pause, the way the bartender looked at them for a beat too long, trying to puzzle out whether they were a man or a woman. London hated that pause, but appreciated the bartender all the same for leaving out the sir or ma’am they’d heard him use with his previous customers.
“What kind of whiskey do you have?”
“Is whiskey all you drink?” Dahlia asked. Somewhat judgmentally, London thought.
“I happen to enjoy a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, thank you very much,” they replied. “Whiskey is simply . . . better than all the other things.”
Dahlia laughed as London approved a neat glass of Balcones.
“It’s certainly better than rosé,” London added as they stepped away from the bar. Dahlia rolled her eyes and tapped her glass against theirs before bringing it to her lips, taking a long sip and making a dramatic mmmmmmm noise for emphasis.
London knew Dahlia didn’t mean for this noise to sound absolutely filthy, but they had to take a long sip of their own drink and avert their eyes anyway.
“All right,” Dahlia said decisively. “Let’s dance.”
London looked over and realized her hips were already moving, her feet already shuffling, to what they believed were the sonorous tones of Usher. She was throwing back her rosé entirely too fast—although with rosé, London supposed, it didn’t matter whether one consumed it properly or not—and London barely had a moment to appreciate the way her neck bobbed when she swallowed before she was depositing the glass on an empty table and grabbing London’s hand.