Love & Other Disasters(9)

“Yeah,” she said, half-heartedly.

“What would you do with the money if you won?” London asked.

If it was possible, Dahlia became even more still.

“I have a lot of debt,” she said finally, shrugging. “It turns out divorce is expensive. And I have student loans, and . . . ” She trailed off. “I don’t know. Some money would be nice.”

Wait. This woman was divorced? She couldn’t be much older than London, and they were only twenty-six.

Maybe London, in fact, knew very little about Dahlia Woodson.

“Anyway, I should probably go. Sorry for interrupting you.”

Dahlia stood abruptly, draining the last of her bourbon as she went, leaning down to grab her bag. She dropped some bills on the table and then paused, fiddling with the strap of the bag.

“So, this is embarrassing,” she said, not meeting their eye. “But I’m not one hundred percent sure. It’s London, right? There were so many new people to meet today, and I was nervous, and—”

“Yeah. It’s London.” And then they added, dumbly, like they were reciting roll call in school, “London Parker.”

She smiled, just a little.

“I’m Dahlia.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Oh. Right. Okay. Sorry again. See you tomorrow, London Parker.”

London felt strange after she left, a little lonely, maybe, even though they had come here to be alone. They chugged the rest of their bourbon before paying their tab, not caring to linger in this bar any longer, too close to the knowledge of how much they liked the sound of Dahlia’s voice saying their name.





CHAPTER THREE


Janet’s hand landed on Dahlia’s shoulder the next morning, five minutes after the cameras turned off for a break.

“Dahlia, honey,” she said. “Time for your first interview.”

The frames of Janet’s glasses were purple today. She smiled reassuringly.

Dahlia took a breath. She had just lived through her first Face-Off challenge, where each contestant squared off against another to complete a basic culinary task. The winners of each Face-Off gained advantages for later challenges.

Dahlia had lost her Face-Off. To Lizzie, of all people. Which sucked. It sucked real hard.

And she had a slight bourbon headache.

Still, she hadn’t fallen on her face so far today.

And she hadn’t made a further fool of herself in front of London Parker. Dahlia was determined to look like less of an idiot in front of them from this moment forward.

She was trying, in other words, to have a positive outlook.

But as Dahlia followed Janet toward the back corner of the set, Janet’s curly hair bouncing in a loose knot as she walked, Dahlia curled her fingers into the hem of her tank top. Her humiliations of the past twenty-four hours, including the California rolls Lizzie had just crafted faster and more artistically than Dahlia had, dropped away as a different anxiety settled in her gut.

Dahlia had been thinking about this moment since she’d learned she made the cut for the show a month ago.

When the contestants introduced themselves in their first solo interview, they only had to state a few basic facts about themselves. Where they were from, their jobs back home, what they hoped to get out of the show.

But even trying to think of answers for these simplest of questions made Dahlia feel inadequate and confused these days.

She was from New Bedford, an old whaling town in southern Massachusetts next door to Rhode Island. It was New England who had raised her.

But she lived in Maryland now. Her ex-husband David had commuted to DC and she commuted to Baltimore; they had lived between the two in suburbia for the six years of their marriage. She had contemplated moving to Baltimore proper when she moved out last year, but she ended up sticking to what she knew. Because everything, from getting up in the morning to feeding herself, had felt hard, and sticking to what she knew felt like the only option. She found a small apartment in their same dull town, even though she no longer felt any real allegiance to it, to its string of mini-malls and chain restaurants. She wondered, at times, if she ever had.

David had moved to Arlington.

So at least she didn’t have to worry about running into him at the Food Lion.

The small set where the Chef’s Special contestants would film their solo interviews was tucked in a back corner of the sound stage, beyond the wooden archway, next to craft services. A thick, marbled window lit from behind and made of stunning turquoise glass took up the entire back wall. It was beautiful, and it soothed Dahlia immediately when she walked in the room, even if it didn’t give her any better ideas of what to say.

She sat on a stool. She blinked while the camera focused on her, while PAs adjusted the lights. The young woman behind the camera with short, tightly curled hair peeked out at her and smiled, full of friendly vibes.

“Hey, Dahlia. I’m Maritza. Remember, we just need the basics here. Start with your name, age, location. Good to go?”

Dahlia nodded numbly. Wordlessly, Maritza counted off with her fingers and then gave the signal.

“My name is Dahlia. I’m twenty-eight and originally from Massachusetts.”

Her mind blanked.

Maritza bopped out from behind the camera again. “Okay. Something about your career, and why you’re here?”