Love & Other Disasters(84)

Dahlia might not have a car or an apartment soon, but as she grabbed the few ingredients she needed at the store, she knew she had those two notebooks. Those notebooks were her, sloppy and real and full of failures and successes. A testament that Dahlia Woodson could learn new things, by herself, just because she wanted to.

Handing that Moleskine over to her mother to look through had been another attempt to make up for things. It had felt like handing over her heart.

Dahlia laid the ingredients out on the counter when she got back. On the show, she’d gutted and pureed an actual sugar pumpkin, but she didn’t need to be that fancy now. She would have soaked her own black beans overnight too, if she was a proper chef, but oh well. Dahlia had no shame in the canned food before her.

Her mom helped her find the things she’d already packed that she needed: her good pot, spices, some olive oil.

“Can I help?” her mom asked, almost hopefully.

Dahlia studied her ingredients and shook her head, but she smiled.

“No, I’m good. You can just relax. It won’t take long.”

Dahlia put on some music, and she got to work.

The movement of her hands, the smell of spices filling the air. The rhythm of stirring, the patience of waiting, the magic of ingredients melding themselves together all on their own.

For the first time in days, Dahlia felt right in her body. She almost cried at the relief of it.

Once the flavors had simmered enough, she brought two steaming bowls over to the couch.

Her mom smiled after she took her first sip. Dahlia did, too. It was both sweet and spicy, warm and comforting in her belly, full of the promises of turning leaves and golden light. It would be September soon, and Dahlia was glad. It would be easier, somehow, she thought, to be sad in the fall.

“This is delicious, Dahlia,” her mom said.

Dahlia stared into her bowl, still smiling.

“This was the dish that got me kicked off the show,” she said.

Her mom’s spoon rattled against the side of her bowl.

“What?”

“I made this soup. And I guess it was too boring and ugly,” Dahlia said, swallowing another spoonful. “But I like it.”

Her mom put her bowl down on the coffee table with a loud clatter.

“Is it okay?” Dahlia looked over at her, smile faltering. “Too hot?”

And then, with confusion, she realized her mom’s eyes were wet.

“I’m not mad that you divorced David,” her mom said.

Dahlia froze with another spoonful halfway to her mouth.

“Uh,” she said, lowering her spoon. “Okay.”

When her mom simply worried her lip, not adding to this odd and shocking statement, Dahlia joined her bowl of soup with her mom’s on the table.

Dahlia turned, propping an elbow on the back of the couch.

“Mom,” she prompted.

“Hank might have said something vague to me, about something you told him.”

“Ugh.” Dahlia smacked her forehead with her palm. Hank! What a big mouth. Dahlia should have known.

“Dahlia, I know you think I was mad at you. Or upset, or something. And I was upset. You have no idea how hard it is to see your child in pain.” Her mom frowned. “And yes, I was excited about grandkids. Okay?” She flashed a quick eye roll. “So sue me.”

Even though so far this conversation was confirming Dahlia’s fears, something about her mom’s eye roll, this splash of open honesty, so unusual for her mom, made Dahlia want to laugh.

“But I was never mad at you,” her mom continued quickly. “I was . . . jealous, maybe.”

“Jealous,” Dahlia repeated dumbly.

“Yes. I was jealous when I understood that the divorce had been your idea. That it was what you wanted. But I also wasn’t surprised. You’ve always known what you wanted, Dahlia.”

Dahlia opened her mouth to interrupt, but her mom kept going.

“And even more than that, you follow through on getting what you want. It’s a quality not many people have, you know. Definitely not one I’ve ever possessed, as much as I wish I did.”

Dahlia’s brain was working on overdrive to process all of these . . . feelings from a woman who rarely talked about feelings. Her mom looked downright wistful right now.

None of this made sense.

“You think . . . I know what I want?” Dahlia asked incredulously.

Dahlia threw her arm out, gesturing at the room full of boxes.

“Mother. This is not the apartment of a woman who knows what she wants. This is the apartment of a woman who’s almost thirty and moving back in with a parent.”

“Exactly,” her mom said passionately. “Please, Dahlia, if you truly wanted to stay in this apartment, you would make it happen. As someone who has known you for all of those almost thirty years, trust me, you would. But you know you need a fresh start, and so that’s what you’re making happen instead. Do you think I would have been able to tuck my tail between my legs and ask my parents for help when I was in my twenties? No, because that’s not how I was raised.”

Her mom’s eyes flashed with something akin to . . . anger? Regret?

“I would have found a job I hated and been absolutely miserable, as long as I was keeping up appearances.”

Dahlia sank back into the couch, not knowing what to say.