“Of things we want to do before we leave LA. Top ten.”
Something twisted inside of London’s gut when Dahlia said that phrase. Before we leave LA. She started scribbling something down, in that messy, loopy handwriting.
“I want to go to Hollywood and take a selfie with Dolly Parton’s star on the Walk of Fame, for Hank,” she said before looking back up at them. “What about you?”
London just stared at her. They couldn’t think of a single thing, other than simply being with her. Staying on Chef’s Special for as long as humanly possible. Sleeping next to her. They didn’t want to think about leaving LA.
“Maybe we could go to Universal Studios?” London said eventually, racking their brain for things that were in LA. “Or Disneyland?”
Dahlia smiled before she caught herself and shook her head.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Disney. But no, too expensive.”
“I could pay,” London offered. “I don’t mind.”
“No,” Dahlia said immediately, sharply. “No. Actually, pretty much everything on this list has to be . . . cheap. Or free. I sort of blew my budget already on rideshares, when I was sightseeing last weekend. Anyway, there are a ton of free things to do in LA,” she said, voice businesslike now, like she was a travel agent giving a PowerPoint presentation. “I want to go to the Last Bookstore. Oh, and there’s another one I read about that’s devoted completely to romance novels.”
She wrote Bookstores next to the number 2 on her list.
“Okay, what’s something else you want to do?” she asked. “You have to contribute at least one thing to the list. Please,” she added.
“There’s an art installation outside some museum,” they said after a moment of thought. They had seen pictures on Instagram. “A bunch of lampposts all together. It’s supposed to look cool at night.”
Dahlia nodded emphatically and wrote it down.
“Want to go tomorrow night?” She looked up at them, her eyes full of a cautious hope, almost like she was nervous.
Almost like she was . . . asking London on a date.
“Sure.” London’s stomach flipped.
“Cool.” She smiled, face relaxing, and looked back down at the list.
“And I want to go back to that beach with you,” London said, their mind racing now to what they truly still wanted to do in LA. “In Malibu. I want to make out with you for real there. Like, flat out on the sand, full-body making out. Like, you’ll-have-sand-stuck-in-your-hair-for-days level of making out.”
Dahlia laughed, and it was the most magnificent sound. Maybe it hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since they’d been apart, but London had missed it anyway.
“That sounds . . . rather unfair to my hair.”
London shrugged. “It’s what I want.”
Dahlia stuck her thumb between her teeth, grinning.
“I can’t see engaging in full-body making out with you that doesn’t result in full-body sex.”
“All right then,” London said. “Write it down.”
Dahlia wrote next to the number 4: Sex on the beach. And then, maybe.
“Excuse me!” London scoffed and reached over to grab the pen from her hand, scribbling out that last word. “You can’t maybe your own suggestions!”
“I just!” Dahlia sputtered. “All I’m picturing is sand in the vag, and doesn’t that seem uncomfortable?”
“We’ll bring a towel,” London growled, and Dahlia laughed again.
“Okay, okay. Oh, and I want to go to Koreatown,” she said smoothly, like this transition made sense, and London was tempted to check off number four right now, beach or no beach.
“Taco trucks,” they said, to get their mind out of the gutter. “Those are cheap,” they added.
Dahlia wrote it down.
They came up with four others—Santa Monica Pier, the Getty, Grand Central Market, Sunset Boulevard—and then Dahlia put down her pen, smiling.
“Know what else is cheap? Ice cream. We definitely need ice cream before the next movie.” She stood. “Let’s do an AM/PM run.”
London looked down at themself again.
“I can’t go out like this.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes.
“To the gas station? Yes, London, you can.”
And just like that, she was dragging them out the door.
A half hour and a shared pint of Chunky Monkey later, Dahlia’s body was curled next to London again, and they were a quarter of the way through Always Be My Maybe. London had attempted to slide their hand under her shirt ten minutes ago and she had slapped it away, saying distractedly, “Stop it; I’ve never seen this before,” her eyes glued to the screen.