Love & Other Disasters(75)

“It’s ugly,” Sai Patel said, bluntly. “It tastes okay, but it’s an ugly dish.”

“This soup is fine,” Tanner Tavish said. “But we’re not looking for fine. This is a dish for moms on Pinterest, not contestants on Chef’s Special.”

Dahlia had no idea what she said in reaction to these judgments, if she said anything at all, or how she got back to her station. But she was there, staring at the stainless steel countertop, during the interminable amount of time it took to judge the other contestants’ dishes. She focused all of her energy on not looking at London.

She didn’t hear what the judges said about their galette, but she was sure they liked it. It was beautiful. Everything London made was beautiful.

She kept thinking about that trip on her first day on set. How her tacos had flown through the air. How mortifying that had felt.

But that was silly, a meme. She hadn’t known how much worse this would feel.

Dahlia thought she’d get kicked off after she truly messed up on something, when she floundered in a set of skills she didn’t possess. Like how to make a great soufflé.

She didn’t think she’d get kicked off on something she loved. When she stepped into the Golden Circle for her final judgment, something funny tickled the back of her throat when she realized the other contestant in the bottom with her was Lizzie.

Had Janet orchestrated this? She could picture the headlines: London’s Enemy versus London’s Lover. The cameras must be laser-focused on London right now, editors itching behind the scenes to soon splice in their reaction shot.

Lizzie stood next to her, chin raised, proud, while Dahlia barely held it together. Lizzie knew she was getting into the next round. She’d get into the next round, with London, and Dahlia was sick with jealousy and anger.

She felt like she was outside her body, watching it play on her own TV screen back on the East Coast, when Lizzie dropped away back to her station and Dahlia heard Tanner Tavish say her name with a sigh. She felt herself nodding and handing her apron to Audra Carnegie, who smiled sadly at her and squeezed her hand. Audra’s hands were slightly rough—calloused, working hands—and something about that felt reassuring to Dahlia’s skin. Maybe one day she could have hands like that, too.

She turned, eyes focused on the archway at the back of the set. Made her feet walk underneath it for the last time. She did not turn to look back at her station.

Team Dahlia was done.

Janet caught her lightly by the arm at the back of the set for the last time. They exchanged a wordless, curt nod. Right. Time for her last interview.

“It’s okay that I’m going home,” Dahlia said into the camera, trying to keep her voice steady, feeling numb. Because it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all. “I’ve learned so much from the judges and the other contestants, and I feel so grateful. I’ve met the most amazing people.”

She stopped. Maritza tilted her head, wondering if Dahlia would continue.

“I’m sorry,” Dahlia said. “That’s all I’ve got.”

Maritza nodded, eyes kind.

Dahlia looked behind her, at the thick turquoise glass she’d sat in front of so many times for these solo interviews. She knew everyone sat in this same exact set for these things, but it almost felt personal, a safe haven where she’d somehow become comfortable sharing thoughts in front of a camera. The turquoise glass was so pretty. She wondered how she could replicate something like it in her apartment, and knew she couldn’t. It looked expensive.

“Keep your phone on,” Maritza said gently. “I’m sure Janet will let you know your flight info back home when the PAs get it to her. It’ll probably be in the morning sometime. And hey, Dahlia? You did a great job here. Get some rest. You should feel proud.”

Dahlia nodded and stood. Part of her wanted to give Maritza a hug—she had really enjoyed the time she spent with her—but her body didn’t quite know what to do, like it was functioning on low battery. She hesitated behind the closed door, dread pooling in her stomach about what she would find outside of it. Would London be right there, waiting, their eyes full of pity and disappointment? Why hadn’t she planned what she wanted to say to them?

What did she want to say to them?

A tiny sliver of luck must have been granted to her by a sympathetic god, because when she finally opened the door—or when Maritza eventually opened the door—London was clear on the other side of the room, talking to Cath. Their hands were stuffed in the pockets of the loose army-green chinos they wore so much. They were the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.

She turned on her heel and fled out of the studio, not taking another second to look back.

Her luck did not last long.

“Dahlia. Dahlia, what are you doing?”

London wrapped their hands around Dahlia’s wrists.

Dahlia closed her eyes at the contact. Her sprint here had afforded her a few extra moments to herself, to unearth her suitcase from the closet, to breathe. But she hadn’t been able to ignore the knock on her door she knew would come. Now, inevitably, London was in front of her, eyes panicked and pleading. And her mind remained as foggy as it had been in the solo interview set. This was going to be the worst.

“What it looks like, London.” Dahlia swallowed, trying to keep her voice calm. “I’m packing. My flight leaves tomorrow morning.”