“Do you wanna go in?” Dahlia pointed her chin toward the ocean. “I won’t look. It clears your head.”
London could only meet her eyes for a second. “No, thank you.”
Dahlia stuck her hands in the back pockets of her shorts, biting her lip.
“You’re not mad at me?”
London shook their head. Even though they were unsure. If they were mad, and who they were mad at.
“Do you want to stay on the beach longer or do something else?” she asked.
The truth was that London both wanted to magically transport the hell off this beach at the same time that they wanted to stay here with Dahlia forever, away from TV sets and hotel rooms and responsibilities. There was still no one else around, like it had been meant for them, like Dahlia had known exactly where to go when she pulled off the highway. It could be their kingdom. They could live in a cave in the cliffs. They would cook over firelight. They would make love on the sand. They would come back to society occasionally, to text those who loved them to let them know they were okay. Julie and Hank would understand.
“Something else,” London said.
“Okay.” Dahlia took a deep breath and smiled, willing them both courage. She snatched her bra out of London’s hands. Finally. She picked up her sandals. She looked at London, a sad corner of her mouth quirking upward, and said, “I know you won’t do this. But. Race you to the car?”
And then she took off. London watched after her for a few long seconds before they moved their feet, slowly following her back toward the staircase up the cliff. She was right, of course. London would never try to race her. Dahlia Woodson was a firefly in the darkness, a hummingbird at your window. Maybe you got to see her brightness for a fleeting moment, but you couldn’t chase her. She didn’t deserve to be caught.
Back at the top of the cliff, she tossed London the keys.
“Do you mind? I’m feeling a little tired, all of a sudden.”
As London navigated down the PCH, they wanted to rewind back to the drive up here, when Dahlia was incandescent with joy about LA traffic, when the atmosphere between them still made sense, as opposed to the stuffy, clunky movements of the air around them now.
Or maybe London should rewind all the way back. They never should have rammed past Jacob to sit next to her on that bus to the bar mitzvah; they should have made their rugelach alone at a different table. They never should have invited her to crash a wedding. They should have stayed in their hotel room today. They should have focused on their cooking, kept their head down.
Sure, they would have wanted her regardless, but they could have done it quietly. Unexpressed longing was a skill they were good at. It would have been easier than knowing what she tasted like. Most importantly, she wouldn’t have been hurt.
London glanced over at her to maybe say some of this, to apologize. But then they stopped. Because Dahlia was asleep. Her sandals were on the floor of their rental car, her feet tucked up underneath the tan skin of her legs, inches from the gear shift, her head resting against the passenger side window, her underwear balled up in her hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dahlia had jumped in the ocean, raced up a rickety set of stairs alongside a sandstone cliff, and spent far too much money on ridesharing apps to solo sightsee around Los Angeles the rest of the weekend, all to get away from the feeling of London Parker’s arms around her.
And then Tanner Tavish appeared first thing Monday morning and slapped them together again, because he was a bitter bastard, and Dahlia wanted to spit in his handsome face.
Their Face-Off was about tarts. So of course London was going to win it anyway. They excelled at dessert.
Two trays of individual, prebaked tart shells sat in front of each of them, along with an array of custards, fruit, and random flourishes. They had five measly minutes to fill as many tarts as beautifully as they could.
“This is so dumb,” Dahlia heard London mutter next to her. “They already made all of the most important parts for us. Who can’t fill a premade tart?”
Dahlia, apparently.
The first time she filled a pastry bag, she squeezed a bit too enthusiastically, and the gloopy custard exploded all over the rim of her first shell. Then she wasted a minute cleaning it up, because she didn’t want London to see it. Even though she knew, because she kept glancing at them, that London wasn’t even looking at her side of the table.
Dahlia felt more bitter than she expected that London was so cool and collected. Because she could feel them, their presence, crowding the space around them. It made the hair rise on her arms, prickled all the way up her spine, made her lungs feel tight.