Dahlia nodded and stood. Part of her wanted to give Maritza a hug—she had really enjoyed the time she spent with her—but her body didn’t quite know what to do, like it was functioning on low battery. She hesitated behind the closed door, dread pooling in her stomach about what she would find outside of it. Would London be right there, waiting, their eyes full of pity and disappointment? Why hadn’t she planned what she wanted to say to them?
What did she want to say to them?
A tiny sliver of luck must have been granted to her by a sympathetic god, because when she finally opened the door—or when Maritza eventually opened the door—London was clear on the other side of the room, talking to Cath. Their hands were stuffed in the pockets of the loose army-green chinos they wore so much. They were the prettiest thing she’d ever seen.
She turned on her heel and fled out of the studio, not taking another second to look back.
Her luck did not last long.
“Dahlia. Dahlia, what are you doing?”
London wrapped their hands around Dahlia’s wrists.
Dahlia closed her eyes at the contact. Her sprint here had afforded her a few extra moments to herself, to unearth her suitcase from the closet, to breathe. But she hadn’t been able to ignore the knock on her door she knew would come. Now, inevitably, London was in front of her, eyes panicked and pleading. And her mind remained as foggy as it had been in the solo interview set. This was going to be the worst.
“What it looks like, London.” Dahlia swallowed, trying to keep her voice calm. “I’m packing. My flight leaves tomorrow morning.”
“But you—” London sputtered. Their face was pale, dotted with splotches of red. They looked unhinged. “You can’t leave, Dahlia.”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Sure you do!” London released her wrists and threw their hands in the air. “Say you don’t need the ticket. Just wait with me. Wait until I go, too. Then we can—”
London stopped. Understanding that they had never talked about it, how to end that sentence.
“You’re not going to go, London,” Dahlia said, trying to sound proud, not sad, but she knew she was failing. “Not until the end.”
“Then stay until the end!” London begged, eyes wide. “Please. Please, Dahlia. Don’t leave me. I . . . I can’t do this without you.”
Dahlia felt a chill advancing down her spine. Sadness morphing into a touch of anger.
She didn’t want to be angry at them. She wanted to hug them and have them squeeze her tight for the next eight hours, and then kiss her sweetly before she left. She wanted them to soothe her, tell her it would be all right. And then they could both look back at all of this with fondness.
But their desperate panic was causing all of her frayed, embarrassed nerves to snap, to seethe, angry and hot, under her skin.
They were missing the point. They didn’t get to be upset here. They were going to win; didn’t they see? They were going to get the $100,000. They were going to accomplish their mission.
And she was happy for them. She was.
But right now all she was capable of understanding was that she had lost.
Just like Janet always knew. Just like everyone watching at home probably always knew.
She had lost it all.
“God. You’ll be fine.”
Dahlia huffed out a breath, waved a hand in the air. The anger bloomed like a virus in her chest, unwanted but thriving anyway.
She turned and continued flinging clothes into her suitcase. If she kept moving, then maybe she wouldn’t cry. Silence ticked away as she worked, London unmoving behind her.
She could feel them, though, even without seeing them. The tension in their body, the pinched stress in their face weighed down on her shoulders, a load she didn’t know how to handle.
“I quit my job, London,” she said eventually, twirling back around to face them. Dahlia knew her failures weren’t London’s fault. But she needed them to at least bear witness to them here. To acknowledge the difference between them and her. “I don’t know if I’ll even be able to make rent next month. Fuck. Fuck. I am a fucking idiot.”
“Come to Nashville.” London stepped toward her, reaching for her hands. “Dahlia. You don’t belong in Maryland. You’re not happy there. Come to Nashville. You’ll love it, I promise.”
Dahlia stepped away, an icy feeling filling her chest.
“London. No. You don’t get to tell me where I do or don’t belong, okay? This is my life. I’m in charge of it. The whole reason I tried out for this thing was to see if I could be good at something, on my own. To follow you home like a lost puppy . . . ” Dahlia shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “It would be even more of a failure than getting kicked off Chef’s Special.”