London waved their hands in frustration. “No, there’s Chicago style and New York style and then everyone else trying to imitate one or the other. That’s it. And it’s just one dish. It’s not a whole experience. It’s different.”
Dahlia shook her head, unconvinced, but she was smiling. London loved that she was smiling now. They had no idea why they had ever brought up divorce. Clearly, they should have been talking about food all night. They were an asshole.
“Okay, let’s refocus,” Dahlia said. “Barbecue is delicious, I concede, but I’m looking for one thing, one simple thing you can whip up in thirty minutes or less, when you’re so sad you can hardly leave the couch.”
London stopped again at that. At the thought that Dahlia apparently got so sad sometimes she could hardly leave the couch.
London was frustrated and confused and angry a lot, about a lot of things, but they didn’t know if they ever got that sad.
But Dahlia was still smiling right now, even as she talked about her sadness. So London played along.
“Brussels sprouts,” they said eventually.
Dahlia lost her damn mind.
“Are you serious ?” she boomed, shoving London in the chest. It hurt a little. “You eat Brussels sprouts when you’re sad?”
“Yes,” London said indignantly, rubbing at their chest. “You roast them with garlic and butter until the leaves turn brown, and then they’re so crispy and—”
“Rice Krispies treats!” Dahlia shouted, so loudly they stared at each other in shock for a second. And then they both started laughing. “Rice Krispies treats,” Dahlia repeated between laughs. “I make Rice Krispies treats when I’m sad. That is an acceptable answer.”
London smiled. “I’m sticking with Brussels sprouts. They’re good.”
“You are the worst.” She smiled back at them until London’s heart started beating too emphatically and they had to look away. “Or muddy buddies,” Dahlia said after a minute. “Muddy buddies are also good in a pinch.”
“Please don’t push me again when I ask this, but what the hell are muddy buddies?”
“Oh, you know. Maybe you call them something different. When you take melted chocolate and peanut butter and powdered sugar and mix it all together with cereal in a bag? I don’t make them as much because I literally can’t stop eating them until I’ve eaten the whole bag and then I feel sick.”
London squinted in thought. “Maybe my nanny made those once or twice when I was a kid.”
Dahlia looked at them. “You had a nanny?”
Shit.
“Uh, yeah.” London scratched at their neck. “She’s the one who taught me how to cook, actually.” In fact, other than Julie, their nanny had been London’s best friend for a majority of their childhood. Her death London’s sophomore year of college was still the greatest loss they’d ever experienced.
“Oh.” Dahlia nodded. “That’s cool.”
London felt, with slight panic, something slipping away from them again in Dahlia’s face. Fucking money. “How did you learn to cook?” they asked, desperate to divert the conversation back to her.
She shrugged. “I started getting really into it a couple of years ago, when my marriage was starting to crumble. It was a good distraction, you know? It calmed me down. Made me focus on something I could understand. I watched a lot of YouTube videos.”
“Wait.” London stared at her as this sank in. “So you only really started cooking a couple of years ago? And you just taught yourself ?”
Dahlia frowned. “Yeah? Is that bad?”
“No, Dahlia, that’s amazing. You are so good. Most of the people on this show have been cooking since they were kids. Some of them have had professional training. Jesus. You’re really talented.”
Dahlia looked over her shoulder toward the fountain. “I don’t know about that. We’ve only done a few challenges, London. I mean, remember last week? I was assigned hummus. Anyone can make hummus.”
“Come on, that was just because Jeffrey was an asshole. And I should add that you made really good hummus. And you’ve been in the top three and won and—”
“Ugh, London, I don’t want to talk about the show right now, okay?”
“Okay.” London bit their lip, looked at her looking across the courtyard. The light from the fountain was still casting faint blue shapes across her face, strangely pretty and ethereal. Her hair was up, and her neck was right there, long and elegant, and London ached for it. To touch it. To taste it. To reach out their fingertips to her arm, mere inches away, and—