Having now spent nine hours watching movies, London’s own eyes felt dry and sore. The heat of her body next to theirs made them sleepy. They were fine with a simple night of movies and cuddling, they supposed. Mostly.
They ran their fingers through her hair.
“That could be you, you know,” they said, referencing Ali Wong’s celebrity chef character on the TV screen.
Dahlia shook her head against their chest.
“No. That should be you.”
London was quiet a moment, fingers still in her hair.
“I don’t want that,” they said.
“Me neither,” she murmured.
A few minutes later, she hugged London’s torso tighter.
“What am I going to do, London? After this.”
London tried to look down at her. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
They placed their lips on her forehead.
“I think . . . the dreams we have when we’re kids matter.”
London had been thinking about this, too, almost subconsciously, since they’d been out here. They were going to make more of an effort when they got back home to get into a music studio. There were a ton of people these days who were more passionate about podcasts than they were. London wanted to be around guitars, drums, pianos. They wanted to feel bass lines reverberating in their bones. They wanted to spend their days filling their guts with music.
“Maybe you should write.”
Dahlia released a breathy half laugh.
“About what? I hate to break it to you, London, but my dad was wrong; Camp Sunnywood was in fact not worthy of a Pulitzer.”
“Well, first of all, I doubt that.” London moved their hand to rub her back. “Write about what you know.” A moment later, they added, “You could write about food.”
“Writing about anything won’t pay my bills,” she said.
“You’re going to win $100,000, though,” London said. “You won’t have to worry about bills.”
She didn’t answer. But she gave their body another soft squeeze.
London was sad that Dahlia’s breath was already growing heavier, stretched out, by the time they got to the Keanu Reeves dinner scene. Dahlia would love this. But they were pretty sure she was already asleep.
Then they heard her mumble something into their side.
“What?”
“I’m going to disappoint you,” she said. Her eyes were closed.
“What?” London asked again.
“I disappoint everyone.”
“Dahlia,” London whispered, nudging her shoulder.
What did that mean, she disappointed everyone?
But she was already asleep.
London frowned, running their fingers through her hair a moment more.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, they reached for the side table, fingers fumbling for the remote. But before they could turn off the movie and follow Dahlia into slumber, before they could further analyze what Dahlia had just said, their phone buzzed.
London, srsly, was our dad always an asshole? And we just didn’t know?? Because he was our dad?? I can’t stop thinking about this
London blinked.
Before they could think of what to say in response to this, Julie kept typing.
But our mom is so baller
And she wouldn’t be married to such an asshole, right?
But sometimes people in relationships do weird things
Ugh
London finally found the remote and shut off the damn TV. They stared at their phone, the only sound in the room now the loud thud of their heart.
They had been waiting for these texts, at least subconsciously. For weeks, Julie had sounded off, dodging relatively normal questions from London like, Hey Jules, how was Sunday supper? And Julie wasn’t one to dodge, wasn’t the kind of person to give vague, one-word answers. Julie Parker usually told a person everything that was on her mind, whether they wanted to know or not.
Yet suddenly, everything back in Nashville, according to her, was fine. Fine fine fine. London was starting to hate the word.
But now that Julie was finally sounding like herself again, London felt queasy.
Julie, they typed, gathering their courage, What’s going on? What did Dad do?
And then, of course, she was silent.
They extricated themself from Dahlia, rolling her gently toward the other side of the bed. She went willingly, making a little humming sound.
London turned onto their side, took a few deep breaths.
Julie? They tried again.
Ugh, sorry London
Ben gave me tequila; he will be punished tomorrow
Ignore me
Everything is fine here