“Yeah. I bought it as a bit of retail therapy one day, before I flew out. I had visions of maybe making a new friend in LA who might want to go out on the town one night.” She smiled. “Turns out I got you.”
London finally made a selection and placed their phone on the ground.
Dahlia moved to put her hands around their waist but paused at the deep frown on their face.
“What? You don’t even want to slow dance with me when we are literally the only people here?”
“No, no, not that. It’s just . . . ” London waved their hand in the air angrily. “The sound quality of this phone speaker is atrocious. It’s an insult to Sam Cooke, honestly.”
Dahlia reached around their waist and squeezed, shoving her face into their chest. “I’ll take it.”
“Wait,” London said. “Aren’t I supposed to have my arms around your waist? I don’t know what to do with my arms now.”
She pulled back to look at them. “Isn’t that pretty gender role-y?”
“No. I’m taller than you. You put your hands around my neck, I put mine on your back. That’s how it works.”
Dahlia settled her face back into their chest, squeezing their torso even tighter.
“Too bad. I’m comfy here.”
She felt them shake their head, but their arms wrapped around her shoulders, their fingers brushing the back of her neck.
It was more of a slightly swaying hug than it was a dance, but that was how she liked it. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead against their shoulder.
“London,” she said quietly after a minute of listening to the lyrics. “I think this is a sad song.”
She felt them kiss her hair. “All the best love songs are.”
Dahlia didn’t know what to say to that. So she just held London Parker through another sweet, sad song.
In the middle of the third song, London trailed their fingers up the nape of her neck, reaching into her hairline, massaging her scalp. Her eyes fell closed.
“My dad has never used my pronouns,” London said.
Dahlia’s eyes popped open.
She tilted her head back to look at them, every other thought dropping out of her brain.
“What?”
London’s eyes were unreadable.
“I don’t know why I wanted to tell you that just now. But . . . there it is.”
“So he doesn’t . . .”
“Yeah. He thinks I’m going through a phase, or something. A three-year-slash-lifelong phase.”
Dahlia extracted an arm from their back, ran a finger down their cheek.
“London. I’m so sorry.”
“Julie has texted me some vague things about him recently. I think . . . ” London’s forehead creased. “I think me being out on the show has caused some drama, maybe.”
“And you hate drama,” Dahlia supplied.
“I really do.”
“The rest of your family . . . ?”
London nodded. “Yeah. They’re okay.”
“Good,” Dahlia whispered.
“Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about it. I just wanted you to know.”
“Okay.” She rubbed their neck.
“Will you talk to me more about . . . stuff that’s ever bothering you, too? Family stuff or life stuff or anything.”
London’s eyes were searching, serious.
Dahlia swallowed.
“Yes,” she said. Although feeling mopey about never being able to please her mother seemed like a small thing, just then.
“Okay.” London took a shivery breath. And then, “Enough of that.”
They leaned down and picked up their phone. “Let’s get some air.”
Dahlia followed them through the ballroom, toward the door that led to the courtyard.
It felt like she was walking through jelly.
Rage seeped through her system with each step, with each second that London’s words tumbled through her brain. He hadn’t used London’s pronouns once in three years? She had turned from a purring cat inside London’s arms to a hulking lioness. She wanted to roar, to sink her talons into London’s dad’s chest, watch him writhe in pain.
Dahlia and London stepped out into the early evening, into the courtyard with the lit-up, shimmery fountain under a purple sky.
“It’s weird no one else is ever out here,” London said. “It’s beautiful.”
Dahlia nodded, barely hearing them, feeling weirdly short of breath.
London turned to look at her, their mouth turned up in a half smile.