[The Diner: Jess & Dahl] Who: Jessica & Dahlia What: A reunion. Where: The (good) diner. When: Recently. Warnings: Swears, suggestive content, but tame.
She hadn’t even been open a week, and already she was getting complaints about her shop. Concerned parents had stopped in her shop to complain about her location, but she’d calmly and patiently explained to them her store policies, and how none of their precious darlings would be allowed to enter her store. Most were satisfied with this, but some were still unconvinced, and vowed to force her to move, or even (one angry grandmother demanded) to leave town.
Jess just rolled with the punches as she always did. There wasn’t much of this when she was in New York, mostly because that store had been in a busy downtown area away from the nearby high school, but she was no stranger to protests against sex shops. Concerned parents or religious fanatics, both can be dealt with.
Since she hadn’t really had the time to fix up her kitchen at home yet, she was still having dinner at the local Diner each night after work. She’d spend her day off getting her place fixed up, but right now it was just easier to let someone else cook for her. So she breezed in the door after her shift, waved to the waitress who was starting to get to know her from her frequent visits, and found herself a table, promptly pouring over the menu for something that sounded like dinner.
There was a woman at one end of the diner counter, and she stood out like a bruise.
First impressions of her always said trouble—as did the second, and the third, and the tenth. Strangers saw the broad shoulders and scarred knuckles of a brawler, the inkwork peeking out from edges of clothing, the dark and sullen stare set in a face as pretty as a train wreck. There'd been a time, once, when she were much more small, made entirely out of skinned knees and thrown elbows. But that girl was long gone. Or so she tried to believe.
Surrounding small town, kitschy Americana gave somebody like her presence. Dressed ambiguously in layers of hoodie and denim and nearly six feet in her boots, she loomed even hunched over the counter, curled 'round a mug of coffee black as night and staring pensive at a plate of corned hash and scrambled eggs. And she looked—tired. Bone weary, or extremely hungover, still half asleep over a breakfast special.
Maybe it was dinnertime for normal people in this town, but Dahlia, well—she never really fit in 'round here, anyway.
Fork in hand, she pushed hashed potatoes 'round absently, smearing ketchup and cooling grease on the plate. The utensil shook slightly in her fingers. There was a kinda hunger to her thousand-yard stare, but she clearly weren't hungry for this. Which was making her more mad by the minute. This was such a fucking waste. A waste of food she couldn't really afford in the first fucking place. But she thought dragging her sorry ass to the diner for old comfort food would stir the appetite she ain't had in weeks. She just—she kept staring at that wiggle of perfectly-cooked bacon on the plate and wondering what it tasted like raw. And bloodier. Yeah, fresh from the pig, hot and steaming, something she could really tear into with her teeth and—
The fork in her hand rattled against the ceramic. Eat, she scowled, you incredible asshole. Dahlia glared at the counter. Just—eat the damn food, push past the sick feeling in stomach and the dying taste in her mouth, and try to convince herself she still liked this. Like a normal fucking person.
Heavy eyes flicked upward as someone brushed past. Just a passing glance. Make accidental eye contact 'round here and people always misread that as wanting a fucking conversation. The look was barely enough to take in somebody dark-haired and femininely shaped, and little else. Nothing immediately recognizable.
But as she looked back down again at breakfast coagulating on her plate, Dahlia felt her pulse start to drum, throbbing behind the sternum. Something buzzing at the tip of her thoughts, like this was an anxiety dream, and she ain't quite remembered that quiz in dream-school she forgot all 'bout. Frowning, Dahlia turned her head slight. A subtle double-take, but—damn, all she could see now was the back of the woman's head, over the booth.
Kinda familiar back of head, though. Dahlia squinted. Deja vu, man.
Jess decided on a chicken pot pie with a side salad and a coke, but when she looked up there was no helpful waitress helpfully hovering nearby. She sighed and thought about waiting, but knowing this place the waitress was probably in the back chatting up the cook or something and if she didn’t speak up she’d never get her dinner.
She stood, heading to the stool lined counter, planting her hands on the polished surface and craning her neck to see into the kitchen. “Hello?” she asked, hoping someone would spot a poor hungry shop owner. A few seconds later the waitress appeared with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that, what can I get you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling out a notepad for her order. Jess rattled off her order, insisting on pickles on the side, even though it didn’t come with them, and ranch dressing for her salad. The waitress nodded and jotted the information down, and then glanced over at Dahlia, catching her attention and eyeing her plate. “Anything I can get for you, honey?” she asked.
Shit, fuck. The woman was getting—shit, coming over to the counter. Quick, be cool. By the time the woman brushed past again, Dahlia had already whipped her head back 'round, hiding in her jacket and pretending to be extremely invested in her scrambled eggs.
Picking up her mug of coffee, eyes the color of a pond peered over the rim at the woman as she leaned over the counter. Still couldn't get a good look at her face without being fucking obvious 'bout it. Damn. Well, whatever. Dahlia, subtle as a bulldozer, dropped her gaze, sipping as she took in the view. Pretty, she decided, and so fucking familiar. The more she thought 'bout it, the more she felt like she knew this girl. From—somewhere. But didn't get why something 'bout that was making her heart race. Maybe it was the coffee? What did they spike this shit with here? Christ.
Frowning into her mug, Dahlia blinked, distracted, when the waitress appeared and the woman spoke. It was at that moment something clicked in her rattled head and Dahlia remembered—
Heat. The warmth of summer. Fresh cut grass. Cicadas. Sun slatted through metal bleachers overhead. Laughter, a girl's contrasting with her own sniggering laugh. Her fingers in dark hair. That voice, the same one, murmuring something to her. Something kind, something safe.
Unthinking, Dahlia sucked in a sharp, shaking breath. And coffee. A whole mouthful of it. Scalding liquid burned its way down the back of her throat and she started coughing, rough, into her arm 'til her eyes watered.
The startled waitress asked if she was okay—Dahlia managed to croak I'm fine between hacking her lungs up—and took this as her cue to fetch a glass of water. The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, and in that moment, Dahlia caught her breath. Breathed, with damp eyes that only accented that deer-in-headlights look as her stared at the girl she weren't sure how she could ever forget.
No way. No fucking way. "Jess?" Disbelief.
Jess hadn’t really paid attention to the girl at the counter until she started choking on her coffee, drawing a concerned look from her. She shifted her stance, watching to see if there was anything she could do to help, and that was when the feeling hit her.
She’d heard a long time ago that the word ‘nostalgia’ implied pain. The root words spoke of a painful longing, a need to return home to what was familiar and safe and what one no longer had and could never get back. She knew it, but hadn’t truly experienced it until this moment. She caught a glimpse of the other woman’s face and, after the initial spike of recognition, excitement mingled with surprise, other emotions surfaced she hadn’t been expecting. The loss, the anger, almost as fresh as the day she’d had to say goodbye to her. Anger at the people who had forced them apart, who had destroyed her heart so long ago. And right behind it was love - not the hot passionate burn of teenagers finding it for the first time, but the low slow warmth of familiarity and longing that she had been sure had long since burned itself out.
Apparently not.
“Dahl…” she murmured, breathless from having experienced so much in just a few seconds. But once reality set in, and her brain caught up with her senses and confirmed that yes, she was really here, she was able to take in breath again. “My god...you’re here...how are you here?” she asked. The way they’d left things...she’d been positive she would never see her again. That Dahl would never want to see this town, and everyone in it, again.
Dahlia's voice was always low, like summer thunder, but throw in a decade of whiskey and blows to the head, and it had rasp and rumble. "Jess," she repeated, wide-eyed, 'cause it was the only thing she could think of to say as her brain tripped over itself. "Holy—shit. Uh. Hey.” Lamely. “You, uh. You look good."
Huge fucking understatement, really. Jess had always been gorgeous, and Dahlia had—well, she had intrigue, anyway. Age hadn't changed that. But under all the ink and surliness and brawn, she kinda looked like she'd been sick lately, or drinking a lot, or real restless. Or all of the above. There was hollowness to her cheekbones, a darkness 'round her eyes, hands that shook slightly against the mug. Like a fire gone out in her, hunger permeated her everything—from her lean body hunched over the counter like dog over food dish, to the way she sought out this ghost of childhood past before her. And weren't that all nostalgia was? Hunger. Craving a life she never got to live. Friends she wouldn't ever have. Relationships that didn't burn out before it even got to start. Shit to fill the void. But even so, she restrained herself, like she kept her hands purposely occupied, so she weren't tempted to touch the girl.
Even if she wanted to. Just to check if she was really real.
"I—I, uh. Look, it's—" She started, and stopped. "S'a long story." And it was, to be fair. Looking down, Dahlia ran her tongue over her lips as she tried to work the headache outta her forehead with her fingers, and parse words. Find something to say that didn't involve the words prison, or burnout, or broke, or massively fucked up. She weren't 'bout to let the first (re-)impression of her go straight to hell. Not immediately, anyway.
Fidgeting with a drawstring on her hoodie, Dahlia glanced back up again. "I oughta be askin' you the same. When the hell you get in town?" ‘Cause—Jess had left town, right? Or had she just been so wrapped up in her own bullshit for the three or whatever years she'd been back, and just—missed the girl entirely? "I mean, I uh. I been 'round for a minute now," she admitted, vaguely. Paused. Glanced away. “I—looked for you. When I got back.”
Yeah, that? Was a lie. Likely the first of many. No, Dahlia assumed. Jess was always been bigger than this bullshit place, and its small town ways. So she assumed Jess moved on—past Repose, past childhood, past them. That was easier, anyway. Didn’t have to face the reality she dreaded confronting ever since that shit with Connie—the one where nothing weren’t the same no more, never would be, and nobody seemed to much like this person Dahlia had become.
Least of all herself. Yeah. No running now.
“I like long stories,” Jess blurted out before she could check her reaction. She suddenly wanted - needed - to know what happened after Dahl had left, in the years between them, and why she looked so unwell. She took a second to look her over, noting new tattoos, new scars, new lines on her face. But underneath that armoured shell, she was still the same girl Jess had fallen for when they were kids. She knew she had to be in there somewhere.
“Uhhm...well,” she paused, glancing around them. They were kind of out in the open at the counter, and she glanced over at her table which offered a little more privacy. “Why don’t we…” she said, tilting her head towards her table, and then leading her over to it, sitting down, the words ‘I looked for you’ bouncing around in her head. So Dahl had missed her. She still thought about her. Just like she did. She bit her lip, glancing over at the counter where the server was absent, and then back over at Dahl.
“I left...for college,” she said after a beat. “I just couldn’t stand living with my mother anymore. I took off for New York and never looked back...until I did. I did well out there, but...I did. I missed home. I missed this small strange town, even if I knew you wouldn’t be in it.
“But you are…” she finished, catching Dahlia’s eyes with hers, trying very hard not to show all of the emotions tumbling over themselves in her gut when she looked at her. “You came back. I didn’t think you’d ever come back here.” She hadn’t, even in her wildest dreams, imagined Dahlia ever setting foot back in Repose. She’d thought once in a while that they might bump into each other in the wide world away from it, the sort of serendipitous meeting that only seems to happen in the movies. But here they were, a scene out of a rom-com.
No, this was definitely a drama. At least it wasn’t a horror movie.
Dahlia followed. Left the incredibly confused waitress standing at the counter with a glass of water and her untouched meal, taking her mug with her as she fell into the booth, across from Jess. Face-to-face, everything 'bout them laid out, it felt strange. Like running in slow motion, senses capturing even the most minute of details 'round her. Dahlia found herself studying the curve of the girl's neck, the way the light caught in her hair, the shape of her mouth as she spoke—and ignoring the bubble of emotion in her gut she couldn't quite place. Or didn't want to.
Rubbing a temple, Dahlia shrugged half heartedly, something complicated playing out just beneath her expression. "I mean, s'been a long time," she said. Lotta ground to cover. Lotta shit she had to decide whether she was gonna talk 'bout—or just edit out of the highlights reel. "What do you, uh, wanna know?" She tucked hair behind an ear, looking into her mug. Her hair was in need of a trim, but in all her years, she kept gravitating to the same basic, choppy cut—short and wild, prone to doing whatever the hell it wanted. Been that way since she was young, when she brutalized then-long hair with kid scissors and single-minded fury 'cause fuck knew, even at six years old, she would rather be monstrously ugly with a bad haircut before anybody dared call her cute.
But then Jess talked about missing the town, and Dahlia just stared at her for a dumbstruck minute. "Are—" she started, then stopped. "Are you shittin' me?" Nothing 'bout any of what she just said made sense. Like, if anybody was supposed to escape small town life? It was Jess. Dahlia remembered her smart, and ambitious, and talented (and charming, and earnest, and hotter than hell—)
Look, just—girl had potential. Way bigger than this fucking town. Dahlia, on the other hand—she scrubbed tattooed hands through her thick, dark hair. "But—just—why, though?" she said. "You seriously tellin' me you wanted t'come back? Christ, like—I don't even wish this fuckin' town on my worst fuckin' enemy." A flash of her temper and teeth in her words, projection truly in full force. But unless something drastic changed while they were separated, she knew there was no love lost between Jess and her family. And that's the only reason, as Dahlia understood it, why people chose this special kinda purgatory. That, or they were just fucking crazy.
Sucking pensively on the inside of a cheek, Dahlia frowned at Jess's surprise that she'd come back. Like she had a fucking choice. Not now, not three years ago, not ever. "I weren't gonna stay long," she admitted, quiet. "Maybe a year, max. Just 'til I made some money t'get the fuck outta dodge." And then her dumb ass went and put down roots, instead. Started a gym, got a dog, and began to wonder if there was maybe shit worth sticking 'round for every time she looked at her best friend. Ex-best friend. Whatever. Glancing out the diner window, her expression shifted. "Shit—ain't worked out, yet," she said, real careful, and clung to that yet like a life raft in a storm. "So m'just—stuck here. For a while." Man, that weren't even half of it. She mumbled, offhand, "I dunno why I ever thought this place was gonna lemme catch a fuckin' break." Yeah, the bitter resentment was clear. The loneliness shoved well beneath that? Less so. But this town sucked, had always sucked, and would never stop sucking. Maybe they'd both changed, for better or worse, but this town had stayed exactly the same.
What did she want to know? Everything, she almost blurted out. She wanted to know what had happened the second Dahl had left Repose. Where she’d gone, how she’d survived, what she’d done. She wanted to know the story behind each one of those tattoos...the ones that she could see, and the ones she wanted to see. To examine on bare damp skin in her loft apartment over her shop with exhausted fingers. Even now, just looking at her made colour rise in her cheeks. Even before they’d been together, some part of her had never been able to resist her. And now there were no parents around to tell them ‘no’.
But the questions were soon turned on her. And the biggest one of all was the first. Why? Her eyes fell to the table between them, sucking her lower lip gently between her teeth. “I just…” she glanced up, then away, looking for the waitress and not seeing her. “I couldn’t do it, Dahl,” she admitted finally. Finally meeting her eyes again, a wry smile on her lips. “I was out there, I was doing it. Living that life, away from here. I had friends, a good job, girlfriends...but no one I really cared about. And the noise...that’s one thing they don’t warn you about, moving to the big city. The constant noise. It never stops.” She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “The first six months there, I barely slept.” There were other reasons that she left, but for now that was the easiest one to say.
“I just...couldn’t do it. After a while...I was just so tired.” She never would have guessed that about herself. In high school, she had been the popular girl with all the friends, all the attention. But she grew up, and things happened, and suddenly all she wanted to do was hide from the world, go back to what she knew. At least here, she could maybe find herself again, who she had been before New York.
And Dahlia was ‘stuck’ here too. And Jessica selfishly thought that maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Honest, she figured Jess was gonna say she just grew up. Settled down, bought a house, had two-point-five kids, lived that statistically average American dream. Or trade the kids for cats and a U-Haul, per the standard lesbian version. Whatever.
But Jess talked, and looked at her, and entirely apropos of nothing, of course—Dahlia reminded herself she didn't do relationships. Like, man, she didn't even have friends. Shit with Jack was rocky, awkward now with Cat, everything between her and Pat a casuality after his sister, and Connie—well. So, no. Nobody wanted her 'round. Historically, nobody wanted her, period, for longer than a night or two. Anything that strayed beyond that, well, she usually just skipped ahead to the inevitable make-up-before-you-break-up fuck—that one last hurrah before the girl realized she was sick of her entirely, stopped talking to her, and left. 'Cause allure, that she got. Lust? Yeah, sure. Wire that shit together with a fight, anger, some pain—even better. But Dahlia couldn't even begin to parse the way Jess went pink when she looked at her—or worse yet, the gentle burning of her own ears.
Look, this kinda shit just didn't happen. Not to her. Which—whatever. She got it. Dahlia knew everybody looked at her and thought—oh, she's strong. Tough. She'll be fine. She can shoulder her shit alone, like she's always done. And after all these years, if she couldn't no more—well, that was her fucking problem to solve, right? She weren't about to be a burden. Somebody else's damaged goods.
But her expression softened slight at Jess saying how tired she got. There was shit she weren't saying, that much was clear, but—queen of dodging the question, Dahlia did plenty of that herself. So she didn't push. "Don't call it a mid-life crisis for nothin', girl," she murmured, dryly. "I get it. Not the small town shit. But I get it, just—givin' up." Dahlia's giving up involved more self-immolation. Burning all her shit down and vanishing from the still-smouldering scene of the crime. Even now, her gaze periodically darted to the door the diner, like she was calculating how quick she could bolt outta here—outta the diner, 'cross the street, into the woods, running, running, 'til all four feet hit the ground and nothing else fucking mattered no more and—
Dahlia glanced down at her hands curled 'round mug. Tired. She, too, was tired. Tired of this fucking town, her dumpster fire of a life, the tug-of-war of don't—do—don't going on in her head, her runaway anxiety, being afraid of fucking everything. Including this lull in the conversation where she didn't know what to do, what to say.
"I'm—sorry," she fumbled out in a croak, and it felt like ripping off a bandaid before the wound was healed. Dahlia licked her lips, thoughtless. Weren't sure what she was apologizing for, honestly. Leaving? Not saying goodbye? 'Cause she hadn't. She had just—left. Didn't tell nobody, didn't reach out afterward, didn't seek out Jess one last time. Just disappeared into the city and let the nasty kinda rumors that circulated high school halls fill in the blanks.
Was it an apology for being this now, fifteen years later? Probably all of the above. "M'sorry, Jess. I—I just—a lotta shit happened. Lotta shit—changed. Everythin' is—sorta fucked up now, an' I don't know how to talk 'bout it." At least, not in a way that made her look even more like a fucking disaster. But it was still mostly true. Dahlia didn't look up while she spoke. Just clutched her mug and stared at Jess's hands, like an animal starved for touch.
Jess watched her carefully, spotting tells she probably wasn’t even aware of, speaking of pain and loneliness and misery. She couldn’t help herself from frowning in sympathy, wishing she could do something - anything - to make it better. It had been a long time, yes, but that just meant she had a lot of idealised feelings about Dahlia, about what they’d had as kids, about what had been ripped away from them because of her fucking parents. Now that she was here sitting in front of her, damaged, but still Dahl, she wanted nothing more than to say ‘fuck them’ and pick up where they left off. Or, if not that, at least wait and see what might happen now that they’d finally found each other again.
“I understand,” she said finally, her voice soft as velvet, her dark eyes tracing over Dahlia’s face. “It’s been a long time, and we’re both different people,” she continued. “And...we’ve both been through a lot.” As much as Dahlia wasn’t able to talk about it, neither was she. And her bullshit story about why she left the city seemed to satisfy Dahlia’s curiosity, at least for now. But she wasn’t ready to stir that particular pot just yet, especially not out here in the open.
And then a thought popped into her head, making her previous serious expression melt into a playful smirk that she couldn’t suppress no matter how hard she tried to hold it in. “We could fuck,” she offered, a little playful, a little serious. “That always got you talking…” She was definitely not above one-night or two-night or two-week flings. God knew she’d had plenty in New York. She’d always been very liberal in that department, and considering what she did for a living, she definitely believed in the healing power of sex.
The image of Jess, now, didn't quite match up with the memory of Jess, then. Like seeing somebody in four dimensions, one vision stacked on top of the other. She was similar but different, and remembered this disconnect initially with Connie, with Pat. In response, her wants, her needs, her own sense of self kept oscillating between now and being fifteen years old—which was disorientating, to say the least.
As she stared hungrily at Jess's hands, Dahlia's nose twitched. Over the thick patina of grease and diner coffee, she couldn't smell for shit. She could hear it, though—the rapid thump of a heartbeat, Jess's, nearly in time with her own. Fuck. Why now? Why not, like—last year, when she had her shit remotely together? If Jess had gotten back into town then, mouths would already be locked. Clothing optional. Not a fucking doubt. But everything that happened with her ex-best friend was merely a cautionary tale of picking up where a relationship left off and just hoping for the fucking best. And Dahlia had the affection of a feral cat, the kinda trust you had to coax out from hiding under your porch. It's there, even if you don't see it. Give it time, kindness, patience (and a bit of food), and she might come 'round. Not a lotta people wanted to put up with that. Who could fucking blame them?
Dahlia didn't wanna admit that the number of times she'd even been touched in, what, the last year? She could count on one hand. Which included being smacked 'bout in a ring, or getting handcuffs slapped 'round her wrists—and no, not in the fun way. It gave her as much restraint as a dog pulling on her leash. Jess would recognize it—the guarded longing she'd shown as a kid, under watchful eyes, stealing a heated glance, a hungry touch, a heady grin whenever she could in public. And Jess knew precisely how quick she turned once they got behind closed doors. Though, gone was the nervous and eager fumbling of a teenager, replaced by the lazy, hungry confidence that came with practice and scarcity. The selfish, aloof, mean kind that took and took and took—'cause who the fuck knew when she'd see it again?
She also liked to believe she weren't totally predictable. Flirting was easy. Fucking was easy. Any pretense Dahlia might've had 'bout conflating sex with something deeper went with the baby fat—which, admittedly, didn't happen 'til she was like, twenty. Back when she was old enough to know better, but still looked young enough to get in trouble. And trouble she was real good at. But man, apparently all somebody had to do was offer and her thoughts immediately went south.
God. This was driving her crazy.
Luckily, she had a moment to compose herself. Right then, the waitress rounded the corner with Jess's order, and a box with Dahlia's untouched meal. If the waitress had overheard anything, her face was a perfectly composed mask of minding my business. She asked if they needed anything else, and Dahlia managed a slight shake of head before the waitress left them alone again. As her attention focused back on the girl—woman seated 'cross from her, her expression shifted to something with heat. Squaring her shoulders slightly, she leaned forward. "You can sure fuckin' try," she rumbled low. Her heavy gaze dropped, like she was sizing up an opponent in the ring, then flicked back to her face. "Like, damn, girl. Ain't even bought me a drink yet." Didn't quite smile as she sat back, draping her arms on the back of the booth like an invitation. Just crooked one corner of her mouth, flashing a smug hint of teeth. "I ain't that weedy li'l kid no more. If you ain’t careful, m'gonna just break you in half."
Was it the truth? Probably. Jess ain't even seen the muscle 'neath all those cold weather layers yet. But was it a challenge? Oh, totally.
Jess smirked just a little, her teeth unconsciously nipping at her lower lip at the very clear reaction playing itself out on Dahl’s face. Ohh, but she could read her like a book. Wide open and full of raunchy and brightly coloured pictures. She had to struggle to keep her lips from stretching into a wide grin of triumph, and was grateful when the waitress appeared with her order, giving her a perfectly reasonable excuse to smile wider, thank her profusely for the food, and perhaps smile a little more than was necessary. If there was a slight hint of warmth dusting her cheekbones, well...it was warm in here, right?
And as she picked up her fork, Dahl mentioned a drink. The little social niceties before tearing the clothes off each other must be respected, after all. Without missing a beat, she smirked and grabbed at the menu beside them on the table, quickly flipping through it and then clucking her tongue in mock disappointment. “No booze...but I do have a bottle of rum at home,” she mused, tossing the menu back on the table and stabbing her fork into the crust of her chicken pie.
“Well,” she said, as if she hadn’t just interrupted the thought, “I’m not the same little girl either,” she replied, her voice taking on a bit of a low purr, her smile shifting smoothly into something a little suggestive, maybe a little dangerous. “I’ve learned an awful lot since you…” she paused, suddenly unsure of what word to use. Nothing seemed to fit. ‘Left’ implied blame, which definitely did not belong to Dahl. ‘Moved’ sounded like it had been voluntary, and ‘went away’ was too benign. Instead she just briefly pursed her lips and shrugged. “Let’s just say I could probably teach you a thing or two,” she said, eyes dancing with mirth as she took a bite of her dinner.
Look, there weren't a fucking thing 'bout Dahlia that was subtle. That heat 'bout her that simmered just 'neath the surface, but her intent was real clear. She gave the girl a look that said, quite plainly—try me. "Rum, huh? Kinda a throwback, ain't it?" Dahlia snorted softly, and abruptly broke out into one of those uncontrolled grins—lopsided and toothy, her first genuine one all fucking night. Instantly looked fifteen years young. "Shit, you remember that time at, uh—we crashed that girl's beach party? Abby, or—what's-her-fuck. Whatever. We ran off with a bottle of rum and that shoppin' cart fr—" Mid-syllable, her phone buzzed on the tabletop, and she glanced distractedly at it.
need a fill in on card tonite u in? said the text. Her expression dropped. Rapidly, almost comically so, veering straight into flat irritation. Like she was trying to transmit pure murder through the phone.
"Motherfucker," Dahlia swore to herself, low under her breath. Of course. That fucking asshole couldn't have put her on the roster yesterday, or last week. But right now, he could. Fucking figured. She'd been trying to get a spot in the usual Second City ring ever since she—well, got out. If they needed filler this late in the game, then the owner was desperate. Maybe she could negotiate better pay this time. With business at the gym as lively as a corpse right now, she really needed the money. Fuck. Fuck.
Dahlia hesitated slight before swiping a brief response—fine but you fuckin owe me asshole—and hit send. Her mouth pressed into a frown. "Listen," she started, out loud, gazing back to Jess as her expression evened out, "some, uh, shit came up. Work. I—I gotta go." Not that she sounded like she wanted to go. The sigh that followed was positively wretched. Man, she was gonna have to hustle ass to get out to the Capital in time before the figurative curtain call. Not even time for a quick mouth-to-mouth in the—christ, Dahlia, focus.
Drumming fingers on the tabletop with sudden, jittering energy, her attention flicked over to the napkin dispenser nestled between the hot sauce and salt. Leaning, she grabbed a paper napkin, and dug a cheap pen outta her jacket pocket. Scratched down those digits, right? If they were even legible with her shitty penmanship. But she wrote, and Dahlia added, "You know the old roadhouse, yeah? The one on the way outta town. Come by 'round nine tomorrow." Closing time at the gym. Right. Pick up where they left off then. 'Cause they could just—do that. Jess was here. Like, here here. Sticking 'round, for now. Neither of them weren't gonna disappear in a day, anyway.
Probably.
Pocketing her belongings, Dahlia picked up her box of takeout as she rose, sliding the napkin 'cross the table toward Jess. Paused at her side, fingers steepled on the napkin. "Save your rum. I got plenty of whiskey, girl. Trade you for some takeout." That half-grin—not a sneer, not a smile, but all smug—crept 'cross her mouth again. "Unless, uh. You just wanna eat out," she rumbled. With a pleased show of teeth.
Lifting her hand from the table, fingertips brushed 'cross Jess's wrist, arm. Stealing a touch, one she so badly craved. But just one. For now. Dahlia mouthed see you before she turned, started away. Gave one last glance over her shoulder at the door and then, with a jingle of the bell, the girl in ink was gone.