She asked about all of them, but London knew instinctively that Janet wanted to see their reaction to Dahlia. And then London knew that Janet knew. Maritza gave them a sad smile from behind the camera. They all knew.
London deserved an extra prize from Chef’s Special, no matter when they ended up getting kicked off. They were making for some excellent TV, and they wanted to throw up.
London said a few words that were hopefully part of the English language, and then they ran out of the studio. They looked around wildly once the cool night air hit their lungs, like they were a detective in a TV show ready to jump over moving cars to find the criminal.
“Your girl took off a few minutes ago.”
The voice was unmistakable. London twirled around to look at Cath, leaning against the building, dragging on a cigarette.
London hadn’t smoked since they were a dumb teenager in high school, but suddenly nothing had ever looked so appealing.
“She’s not my girl,” London managed to say, willing their heart to beat less frantically, to look less pathetic in front of Cath, who was undeniably cool. They stared at the smoke curling expertly from her lips, trying to not think about Dahlia walking home alone. Without them.
Cath just raised her eyebrows and took another deep drag. She had on the backward baseball cap that always appeared as soon as filming was done, and the brim tapped against the concrete wall of the studio.
“All right,” she said, not judgmental, necessarily, but kindly dubious.
London kept standing there like an idiot, suddenly desiring some wise butch lesbian advice from Cath. Or for her to smack them and tell them to stop being such an emotional basket case, or something.
After a moment, Cath said, “That hug she gave you the other day was so sweet it just about broke my goddamn heart.”
London looked away then.
“She’s never been with anyone like me before. And . . . ” All the words fell away in their head, the reasoning that had seemed so solid on the beach. Or maybe it hadn’t seemed solid then, either, but they knew it was at least rational. To not fall in love with someone on the set of a reality TV show. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
They could see Cath nod, out of the corner of their eye. “Yeah.” Another quiet beat. “She seems like a good one, though. It was a tough day today. She and that old broad seemed close.”
God, all London could think about was Dahlia, but of course Dahlia was going to be devastated about Barbara.
Cath clapped London roughly on the shoulder as she pushed herself away from the wall and ground her cigarette under her sneaker.
“Sometimes, you just gotta do what you gotta do. But listen . . . take care of yourself, all right?” She gave another nod and started to walk away.
London stood for a few moments longer, outside of the surprisingly boring fa?ade of the studio, watching Cath go, breathing in and out as the daylight bled out of the sky.
And then they ran until they reached Dahlia’s door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dahlia opened the door immediately, sighing a little. She said, “I was waiting for you.”
“Dahlia.” London took a step inside. Distantly, they heard the door click shut behind them. Dahlia’s room was messier than theirs. They tried not to look at the discarded clothes, the books, the crumpled receipts. Tried not to imagine Dahlia stuffing everything back into her suitcase. “When I saw you up there today—”
London was out of breath from running over here, and they didn’t know how to end this sentence. They paused, gaping like a fish, while Dahlia stood three feet away, hands in the back pockets of her shorts. Her eyes were soft and sad, and she wouldn’t stop . . . looking at them. Like she was waiting for something. The air felt heavy in London’s lungs, their hair prickling at the back of their neck.
“London,” she said simply.
Their feet took a step closer to her of their own accord, as if pulled there by her voice, by her stare, and the rest of London was helpless to stop it.
They took one step more, closing the gap between them.
Dahlia looked up at them, imploring. London had gotten their breath back, but now it felt trapped in their throat. Was this what they had wanted to happen, when they ran over here? They no longer knew. Or maybe there had never been a plan. There had only been panic, and now there was only Dahlia’s face.
“Please,” she whispered.
London cupped her face in their hands, ran a thumb down her cheek. She closed her eyes, leaning into their palm, and released a sigh that was so small and vulnerable it cracked whatever defenses London still possessed.