She could hear his smile. “I never get tired of hearing you say that.”
“Okay, go back to work before you get fired.”
“They would never fire me. I send all the best memes. Place would be a total killjoy without me.”
“I love you, loser.”
“Love you too, baby sister.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
London, as a certified pushover when it came to all things Dahlia Woodson, really thought they’d be the first to break. They felt a little proud of themself, actually, that they had gone a full twenty hours without texting her or, alternatively, knocking down her door.
It had been easier than London might have expected. Because anytime the pining got close to being too much, London would simply picture Dahlia sitting in Tanner Tavish’s chair, saying Lizzie’s name.
And London would deflate, just a tiny bit.
But when this text came through at four o’clock on Friday afternoon— hi i miss you
—London’s chest filled all the way up anyway. Just like it had when they’d kissed her last night.
London probably needed to get their head checked.
They probably also should not have spent the last eight hours lying in bed and watching rom-coms. Now they really had no perspective on reality.
London picked up their phone.
London: Are you breathing better now?
Dahlia: much
Dahlia: what are you up to?
London paused. They glanced at the TV.
They could lie. They should probably lie.
London: I . . . . . . . . . am possibly watching Mamma Mia Dahlia: OH
Dahlia: MY
Dahlia: GOD
Dahlia: ONE OR TWO LONDON
London: . . . . . . . . . two
Dahlia: OH MY GODDDDDDDDDD
Dahlia: ARE YOU IN YOUR ROOM
London: Yes.
Dahlia: HERE WE GO AGAIN!!
London’s phone was still backlit from this last text when a fast, hard knock on their door cracked through the room thirty seconds later. Jesus. London glanced down at themself. They were wearing their flannel pajama pants, their binder thrown on the floor, and their T-shirt still had a stain from the burrito they’d eaten for lunch. And their hair was probably— Another impatient knock.
Grumbling, London crawled out of bed.
“Oh no,” Dahlia said when they opened the door.
She was wearing her raspberry sweatshirt and shorts. Her hair was down, slightly wet, like she’d just taken a shower. Which meant now London was picturing her in the shower. She bit at the sleeve of her sweatshirt, bunched up over her hands.
“What?” London asked, hand still on the door handle, confused about the oh no.
“I forgot how cute you are,” she said.
And then she was in their arms, her mouth on theirs, tasting fresh and clean and soft, and London had to bite back a moan. A rush of warmth filled their system, having her solid against their chest again, the door clicking shut as they pushed their fingers into her back, their head light and fuzzy and— “Okay.” Dahlia pushed back, walking into the room. “Where are we at?” She gasped, looking at the TV. “Oh my god, it’s almost over! Cher’s almost there!”
She leaped onto London’s bed and got under the covers. When London joined her, she immediately cuddled up next to them, shoving her head under their arm like a puppy and resting her head on their chest.
This was what London wanted. Every goddamn day of their life.
A laugh burst from Dahlia’s throat when Cher came on-screen.
“Have you ever seen anything so over-the-top? God. This must have been so fun to film.”
London turned their head to nuzzle their nose in her hair. They breathed in deep. God, it felt good, having her next to them like this. It felt good, letting the weirdness of yesterday slip away.
“Want to watch something else?” London extracted themself from Dahlia once the credits started rolling, digging around in the sheets for the remote.
“Sure.” Dahlia sat up.
As London scrolled through the Netflix menu, they felt her shift next to them, draw up her knees to her chin.
“London?”
They looked over at her.
“Yeah?”
But she just bit her lip, not saying anything. London pressed Mute on the remote.
It was peak Dahlia Thoughtful Face. London could practically feel the thoughts swirling underneath her skin. But she only sat there, silent.
She jumped up suddenly, opening the drawer on London’s bedside table, pulling out the generic hotel pad of paper inside.
“Let’s make a list.” She sat back down, crisscross applesauce, on the bed.
“A list?”