Until Lizzie had cleared her throat, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and said, “I’m sorry, but what do you mean?”
And London’s stomach had clenched all over again. It was exhausting, on an ordinary day, having to constantly explain and defend your existence. And it had been a long plane ride here from Nashville, their nerves already frayed from embarking on this strange journey.
They decided to be direct, basic, repeating more slowly what they’d already fucking said. Nonbinary. They/them pronouns. The end.
Lizzie had squinted her eyes at them, like they were speaking in Klingon.
“But that doesn’t make any sense.”
Janet’s chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“You really want us to refer to you, a singular person, using they?”
“Yup.” London shoved their fists in their pockets, gritted the single syllable between clenched teeth. The rest of the table seemed frozen, staring determinedly at their plates, their sweating glasses of water.
Janet placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. Lizzie looked around the table. “Oh, come on,” she said, her voice turning derisive, “I can’t be the only one who thinks this is a bunch of malarkey. There’s no such—”
“Lizzie.” Janet’s voice was firm. Not even Lizzie could fight that voice.
Janet had led her swiftly away from the table, Lizzie muttering under her breath, and then they were out of the room, and the table descended into painfully awkward silence. It was likely only a few seconds until Cath said something that broke the tension, but London couldn’t hear what it was through the ringing in their ears. They had taken two bites of their food and departed shortly thereafter.
Making others uncomfortable by being honest about their identity was a skill London already had familiarity with. They just hadn’t experienced it on quite as grand a scale before.
“Yeah,” Dahlia said now, softly, and London’s mind returned to this dark hotel bar. “I know.”
Even though London had not actually described any of last night’s events out loud.
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do,” Dahlia added. “If Lizzie’s being a bitch to you, or anyone else.”
London frowned. “It’s fine. I just needed a day to process it. I don’t need to be . . .
” They waved their hand again. “Your queer charity case.”
“No, I’m not . . . ” Dahlia’s mouth opened and closed, color hitting her cheeks. She leaned back in her chair. “My older brother Hank is trans. He started transitioning a few years ago. So I know the things people can say. That’s all.”
She took a sip of bourbon.
London hadn’t expected that. They didn’t know how to respond.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Dahlia said after a moment, in that same quiet tone she’d used before. And then she stuffed two chips in her mouth. But London could tell she wasn’t enjoying them.
London was sorry she wasn’t there, too. A little pissed about it, actually.
Not because they thought Dahlia automatically understood them now, or that she could have magically saved the situation somehow. There were a million ways to be trans, and just because she loved her brother didn’t mean she knew London.
But now they knew she was at least an ally. And when London let go of even a shred of their irritation, they could picture it, suddenly, knowing how oddly honest Dahlia Woodson was. She probably would have cut Lizzie off even before Janet did. She would have said something weird and funny and it would have made things slightly better.
Maybe.
But she had been hiding in her room pretending to have cramps, so.
“Are you planning on being out on the show, too? Like to viewers?”
“Yeah.” London cleared their throat. “I was going to share my pronouns in my first solo interview, but then we ran out of time today filming, so I didn’t even get to do that right.”
They grabbed a chip. And of course Dahlia was correct. They were fantastic.
“That’s . . . that’s big. Hank will be so excited. He’ll cry, probably, when he watches it. But that loser cries about everything.” Dahlia smiled, but it was smaller than before, when she’d been laughing at them, when she’d tasted her first West Coast tortilla chip. It was a no-teeth smile now.
Something had flared in London’s chest when she said that about Hank, though. They knew it shouldn’t matter, that they should only be doing this for themself, but . . . it was reassuring. This confirmation that them being out on this thing could mean something.