She was still working on that part. Finding herself again.
Because other than being really good at chopping vegetables and making homemade pasta, other than knowing she wanted to get the hell out of Maryland suburbia, Dahlia understood who she was less and less with each passing year. Like she was growing up wrong.
But she couldn’t say any of that to the camera. She couldn’t talk about her student loans.
So Dahlia swallowed, tried to smile, and said the most generic thing she could think of.
“I only started cooking seriously a few years ago, so I’m really excited for all I can learn here.”
Maritza nodded. “Good.” Her head swiveled to another PA as she checked notes on her phone. “AJ, can you go get Khari next?”
Dahlia left the room, worried, with a mortifying rush of shame, that she might cry.
She had never wanted to be a generic person.
She walked to craft services and shoveled down ten grapes without tasting a single one.
Dahlia was acting differently today, and London didn’t like it.
Maybe they didn’t have the right to judge how Dahlia Woodson did or did not act, considering they had barely known her for twenty-four hours. But they had spent at least eight of those hours yesterday staring at the set of her shoulders, the angle of her neck as she leaned forward in concentration at her station, the way she unconsciously shuffled her weight from one foot to the other when she was anxious. The way her cheeks swelled when she smiled.
They knew the way her face looked when she laughed, how her eyes beamed out joy when she tasted something she loved.
She was wearing a cheerfully bright yellow tank top today. But the Dahlia Woodson on set now seemed diminished. Quiet.
Most likely, it had nothing to do with London, or their conversation last night. Even if London had spent more minutes than they cared to admit contemplating whether they actually had been a jerk yesterday. Or thinking about the look on her face when she talked about money, her debt, how they wished, somehow, that they could erase it.
Not that, again, it was any of their business.
Dahlia was probably just quieter today because her nerves were settling down, because she was getting focused. Like London should be doing.
They were wandering through the pantry, waiting for the Ingredient Innovation to finally start, while Janet pulled contestants aside for solo interviews and the judges shot cheesy B-roll for the show’s corporate sponsors. The Ingredient Innovation was the most creatively demanding segment of the show, and London was antsy about it. The judges presented an oddball or lesser-used ingredient, and the contestants had to produce a small plate—usually a side dish or a simple dessert—that featured the ingredient and didn’t taste like garbage. London had always been good at following recipes with precision, at improvising with ingredients they were familiar with, but the element of surprise stressed them out. They knew the Elimination Challenges were the big cooks that really counted, but the judges took into account the skill and creativity shown during the Ingredient Innovations, too, before they made their final decision at the end of each episode. London had to get their head in the game, if they wanted to keep landing on the right side of those final decisions.
And yet—as if the universe was determined to put Dahlia Woodson in the way of London’s focus—there she was, standing stock still in front of the card catalog of spices in the pantry, clutching a tiny notebook to her chest. London watched her for a moment, intently inspecting the card catalog, which had been painted seafoam green before being repurposed to spice storage. It was pretty cool. But there was a lot of cool stuff on this set.
Dahlia was transfixed.
And for some reason, instead of turning and walking the other way, London stepped closer. “Hey,” they said. “You okay?”
Dahlia’s eyes didn’t stray from the card catalog, but she nodded.
“I just,” she whispered, “I just love it so much.”
Something about the way she whispered this was so cute that London knew, with a twinge of helplessness, that they were no longer mad at her, really, for faking cramps.
“Yeah,” they agreed. “Me too.”
They stared together at the card catalog in silence for a minute more.
“I really wanted to beat her,” Dahlia said suddenly.
“Lizzie?” London had felt bad when they saw Dahlia hadn’t won her Face-Off this morning. But the Face-Offs weren’t even that big a deal. Sometimes the advantages were pretty helpful, especially later on in the competition, but they were mainly just dramatics.