Love & Other Disasters(82)

After the things Dahlia had said Tuesday night, though, it didn’t feel that easy.

In the universe London previously understood, where they truly meant something to each other, Dahlia would have fallen into their arms when they opened the door. She wouldn’t have brought up Lizzie, in any capacity. London would have known what to do, been equipped with the right things to say.

They wouldn’t have broken apart from each other at the first roadblock.

The shadow of the palm’s heavy fronds gave London shelter while they rested, watching for a silver Toyota, ready to escape the unforgiving heat, the harsh brightness of the August sky, and the unanswered questions taking up too much space in their tired mind.

At the end of her third full day back in Maryland, Dahlia realized the last person she had talked to was the cashier at Food Lion two days ago. The apartment was already three-quarters packed. Maybe she’d be ready to drive to Massachusetts as early as this weekend.

And there wasn’t a soul, other than her dad, who knew it was happening.

She poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat on her couch. She was exhausted from packing, couldn’t concentrate on any book she cracked open. Only one thing left to do.

With a sigh, she turned on her TV and opened up her DVR.

Chef’s Special: 3 New Episodes

Dahlia prepared her psyche for seeing London.

But the first thing that threw her after she pressed Play, funnily enough, was herself.

It was strange. Dahlia looked at herself every day in the mirror. But she had never seen this much of herself, from a perspective like this. Once the cooking actually started, she looked . . . good. Competent. Strong.

The camera panned behind her to London.

The screen cut away to their introduction in the solo interview set. Dahlia catalogued every detail of their face, highlighted so perfectly by the studio lights: the freckles, the intriguing flecks of rich colors in their hazel eyes. How their smile tilted slightly up to the left.

Her chest ached.

It was fascinating, watching London work, now that she knew them. That first episode, when they had seemed so grumpy to her, she now recognized the tension at the corner of their eyes, in the set of their jaw. They were stressed. She wanted to reach through the screen, across space and time, and retroactively caress that jaw, press a reassuring hand into the small of their back.

London’s stressed face was two shades away from their hyper-focused game face, which Dahlia was delighted to discover when she moved on to the second episode. It prickled at senses that had been asleep since Dahlia had landed in Maryland.

So serious. So talented. But Dahlia knew all the softness hidden underneath. What it felt like to have that game face focused on her.

She wanted to feel their mouth on her skin.

Dahlia blinked, shifting on the couch. She lay on her side and tried to quiet the vivid memories, the heating of her blood.

She focused instead on how sweet Barbara was in these challenges, how often she giggled at herself while she was cooking, how often she patted her tablemate Ayesha reassuringly on the shoulder. Dahlia missed her too.

Dahlia had been intimidated by so many of these people when she first arrived on set. But by the time she’d left, only a few actually left a bad taste in her mouth. Jeffrey. Khari. Lizzie. The rest were just people.

The camera inevitably scanned back to London, their forehead wrinkled in concentration.

Dahlia wondered if Julie got a similar look on her face, whenever she and London played board games, or wrestled in the backyard, or whatever it was competitive twins occupied themselves with.

She longed to see a photo album of the two of them growing up, all gangly limbs and freckled faces in Southern sunshine. Were London’s eyes always so serious, even as a child?

It was silly, of course. Wondering these things. If she and London did meet again, would London even want to talk to her? She was the one who’d pushed them away. She didn’t get to wish for childhood photographs now.

Watching these episodes at all was clearly a bad idea. But she told herself that wallowing was part of the grief process. She’d been so good these last few days, trying to forget everything.

So she let it bleed back, for just a little while. She forgot that she was surrounded by boxes containing all of her worldly belongings. She forgot that her back ached. Instead, she seeped back into this Chef’s Special world, the life she had been so fortunate to live for a few weeks.

Dahlia was fascinated by the postproduction work, how all those hours on set were condensed into a neat sixty minutes, how the music and cuts made it all feel so much more dramatic. And it already felt pretty dramatic, honestly, during filming.

But mostly, Dahlia couldn’t stop staring at herself. At how much joy was in her eyes. At London, how handsome and good they were. It made her body feel overly full.

And then someone knocked at her door.

Dahlia jumped, heart thrown into her throat. She pressed Pause on the remote and took a second to calm herself. Who would be knocking at her door anyway?

She stood frozen in shock a minute later, her hand clenched on the doorknob.

The person on the other side of the door cleared their throat, adjusting an overnight bag on their shoulder.

“Hello, Dahlia.”

“Mom?”





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Dahlia wrapped yet another bowl in newspaper and placed it in the open box in front of her.