She didn’t know why she had been so hurt by London’s rejection on the beach. She just thought . . . Barbara had said . . . but no. She felt the way London had kissed her back. She knew the way they looked at her. Or, the way they had looked at her before today. Dahlia knew she hadn’t made up the attraction between them, even if she had been slow on the uptake. Because apparently only ever dating one person for most of her life had made her inept at understanding flirtation.
Somehow, though, being slow on the uptake made it hurt worse. Because when it had hit her—how right it felt kissing London on that beach, how as soon as she did it, she understood she had wanted to do it for a long time—it was like a gut punch. All encompassing, shocking, air stealing.
It felt awful to know that London was right, that nothing about going beyond that kiss was a good idea, even if every cell in her body wanted to rebel against it. It was a bad idea because, like London said, they could get kicked off the show at any time.
As soon as tomorrow, in fact, Dahlia reminded herself. There was another Elimination Challenge tomorrow. No matter how comfortable she had started to feel here, nothing was guaranteed.
But even beyond elimination, beyond the show . . . the truth was that London was an exceedingly stable person. A good person with goals and talents. They loved Nashville, a place Dahlia had never been or even seriously contemplated visiting, and they had no desire to leave it. They had a cool-sounding job they enjoyed. They were going to start a nonprofit that could potentially change lives, really make a difference. They had family and friends. London had a future.
Dahlia had a boring apartment in a soulless building in an average suburban town, the rent on which she had no idea how she was going to pay next month if she didn’t win $100,000. She had credit cards with maxed-out balances and too-high APRs. Not only did Dahlia not have a job, but she had no idea what kind of job she wanted, or would start looking for, when she got back home. She had a dorky dad and a sweet brother who lived hundreds of miles away, who she didn’t visit enough. She had a mom who was disappointed in her, who Dahlia didn’t know how to talk to anymore. She wasn’t even sure if she had friends.
Dahlia was a mess, and London deserved so much better.
Dahlia looked down at Barbara’s hand in hers, tried to remember what Barbara had asked. Oh. Right. If she was okay.
“No,” she said quietly. Because she always felt safe telling Barbara the truth.
“That’s okay, love,” Barbara said after a minute. “It’s okay to not be okay sometimes.”
Dahlia didn’t let go of her hand until a PA gave the signal, and the cameras turned on once again.
London had never felt gratitude quite as pure as when Tanner Tavish announced the Elimination Challenge the next day.
Soufflés. One chocolate, one cheese. That was all they had to do. No embellishments or creative personalization. Just a couple of soufflés.
Soufflés made perfect sense to London. Egg yolks and egg whites. Melted chocolate; béchamel. Stiff peaks and folds. This might even be a short filming day. People were intimidated by soufflés, for some reason, but they were really quite simple. They were much simpler than, say, figuring out how to handle their heart around Dahlia Woodson.
On set yesterday, they focused harder on the challenges than they ever had before. They planned on doing the same today, and the next day, and the day after that. And maybe off set, when London stared at the ceiling of their hotel room for hours on end and thought about Dahlia, standing in front of them in her underwear on a lonely stretch of paradise, or Dahlia, dancing in that black dress on a sweaty dance floor, or Dahlia, cooing over godforsaken cows that she had named Margaret—well, maybe they would eventually drive themself mad.
But on set, that misery might just drive London to a focus so steadfast they would have to win the $100,000. Which was what they had flown to LA to do.
So all in all, an even trade.
Halfway through the cooking time today, though, that focus was interrupted by a panic-stricken whirl of dark hair.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” She was turned around to face them, her hands gripping the sides of London’s station, her face twisted. London felt a strange sort of relief that she was turning to them for advice at all. Even if she looked miserable. She had asked for their advice on set all the time, pre-Malibu, and this was the first moment since then that actually felt normal. “They’re hardly rising at all.”
“You didn’t mix the egg whites in too much, right? You just folded?”