London had been assigned summer, and was making a blueberry lavender galette with a lemon meringue topping. It was pretty and light, the opposite of Dahlia’s, but she liked working on different things together: London confirming she’d used the right amount of chili powder, her assuring them the blueberry filling wasn’t too sweet.
Dahlia wished, later, that it hadn’t been such a lovely day. That she hadn’t been so pleased with herself.
It would have made the fact that the judges hated her dish far less crushing.
“It’s not that it’s bad, Dahlia,” Audra Carnegie said. “But we’re getting closer and closer to having to decide who’s going to be in the finale. You really have to step up your sophistication level at this point, and I’m not sure if this soup does that.”
“It’s ugly,” Sai Patel said, bluntly. “It tastes okay, but it’s an ugly dish.”
“This soup is fine,” Tanner Tavish said. “But we’re not looking for fine. This is a dish for moms on Pinterest, not contestants on Chef’s Special.”
Dahlia had no idea what she said in reaction to these judgments, if she said anything at all, or how she got back to her station. But she was there, staring at the stainless steel countertop, during the interminable amount of time it took to judge the other contestants’ dishes. She focused all of her energy on not looking at London.
She didn’t hear what the judges said about their galette, but she was sure they liked it. It was beautiful. Everything London made was beautiful.
She kept thinking about that trip on her first day on set. How her tacos had flown through the air. How mortifying that had felt.
But that was silly, a meme. She hadn’t known how much worse this would feel.
Dahlia thought she’d get kicked off after she truly messed up on something, when she floundered in a set of skills she didn’t possess. Like how to make a great soufflé.
She didn’t think she’d get kicked off on something she loved. When she stepped into the Golden Circle for her final judgment, something funny tickled the back of her throat when she realized the other contestant in the bottom with her was Lizzie.
Had Janet orchestrated this? She could picture the headlines: London’s Enemy versus London’s Lover. The cameras must be laser-focused on London right now, editors itching behind the scenes to soon splice in their reaction shot.
Lizzie stood next to her, chin raised, proud, while Dahlia barely held it together. Lizzie knew she was getting into the next round. She’d get into the next round, with London, and Dahlia was sick with jealousy and anger.
She felt like she was outside her body, watching it play on her own TV screen back on the East Coast, when Lizzie dropped away back to her station and Dahlia heard Tanner Tavish say her name with a sigh. She felt herself nodding and handing her apron to Audra Carnegie, who smiled sadly at her and squeezed her hand. Audra’s hands were slightly rough—calloused, working hands—and something about that felt reassuring to Dahlia’s skin. Maybe one day she could have hands like that, too.
She turned, eyes focused on the archway at the back of the set. Made her feet walk underneath it for the last time. She did not turn to look back at her station.
Team Dahlia was done.
Janet caught her lightly by the arm at the back of the set for the last time. They exchanged a wordless, curt nod. Right. Time for her last interview.
“It’s okay that I’m going home,” Dahlia said into the camera, trying to keep her voice steady, feeling numb. Because it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all. “I’ve learned so much from the judges and the other contestants, and I feel so grateful. I’ve met the most amazing people.”
She stopped. Maritza tilted her head, wondering if Dahlia would continue.
“I’m sorry,” Dahlia said. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Maritza nodded, eyes kind.
Dahlia looked behind her, at the thick turquoise glass she’d sat in front of so many times for these solo interviews. She knew everyone sat in this same exact set for these things, but it almost felt personal, a safe haven where she’d somehow become comfortable sharing thoughts in front of a camera. The turquoise glass was so pretty. She wondered how she could replicate something like it in her apartment, and knew she couldn’t. It looked expensive.
“Keep your phone on,” Maritza said gently. “I’m sure Janet will let you know your flight info back home when the PAs get it to her. It’ll probably be in the morning sometime. And hey, Dahlia? You did a great job here. Get some rest. You should feel proud.”