She focused instead on how sweet Barbara was in these challenges, how often she giggled at herself while she was cooking, how often she patted her tablemate Ayesha reassuringly on the shoulder. Dahlia missed her too.
Dahlia had been intimidated by so many of these people when she first arrived on set. But by the time she’d left, only a few actually left a bad taste in her mouth. Jeffrey. Khari. Lizzie. The rest were just people.
The camera inevitably scanned back to London, their forehead wrinkled in concentration.
Dahlia wondered if Julie got a similar look on her face, whenever she and London played board games, or wrestled in the backyard, or whatever it was competitive twins occupied themselves with.
She longed to see a photo album of the two of them growing up, all gangly limbs and freckled faces in Southern sunshine. Were London’s eyes always so serious, even as a child?
It was silly, of course. Wondering these things. If she and London did meet again, would London even want to talk to her? She was the one who’d pushed them away. She didn’t get to wish for childhood photographs now.
Watching these episodes at all was clearly a bad idea. But she told herself that wallowing was part of the grief process. She’d been so good these last few days, trying to forget everything.
So she let it bleed back, for just a little while. She forgot that she was surrounded by boxes containing all of her worldly belongings. She forgot that her back ached. Instead, she seeped back into this Chef’s Special world, the life she had been so fortunate to live for a few weeks.
Dahlia was fascinated by the postproduction work, how all those hours on set were condensed into a neat sixty minutes, how the music and cuts made it all feel so much more dramatic. And it already felt pretty dramatic, honestly, during filming.
But mostly, Dahlia couldn’t stop staring at herself. At how much joy was in her eyes. At London, how handsome and good they were. It made her body feel overly full.
And then someone knocked at her door.
Dahlia jumped, heart thrown into her throat. She pressed Pause on the remote and took a second to calm herself. Who would be knocking at her door anyway?
She stood frozen in shock a minute later, her hand clenched on the doorknob.
The person on the other side of the door cleared their throat, adjusting an overnight bag on their shoulder.
“Hello, Dahlia.”
“Mom?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dahlia wrapped yet another bowl in newspaper and placed it in the open box in front of her.
She glanced over at her mother, wrapping up mugs on the opposite counter.
Why had Dahlia decided to pack the kitchen last?
Everything was heavy and awkwardly shaped, and there was simply too much of it, and Dahlia was cranky.
She was going to have to get more boxes.
Dahlia hated boxes.
She especially hated boxes when packing them in uncomfortable silence next to her mother.
Guilt chipped away at her as she moved on to the plates. It had been late when her mom arrived last night. Dahlia had found extra sheets from a previously packed box and made up the couch for her. They hadn’t talked much.
But when her mom first stepped into the apartment, she’d said this: “Your dad told me you’re moving home. Since it sounds like you’re staying with him, I thought I’d help you pack. I’d like to be useful somehow.”
And Dahlia had immediately felt like shit.
She hadn’t even thought to ask her mom.
Not that every parent’s dream was to have their grown daughter move back in with them. But she hadn’t even sent a text telling her mom she was coming.
Horrible wife, horrible girlfriend, horrible daughter. Mediocre chef.
They had gone out to breakfast this morning, and Dahlia had attempted to make up for it. She’d prattled on about the show, which challenges had been her favorite, breaking her NDA left and right in an attempt to make her mother smile. Her mom, in turn, filled Dahlia in about changes in New Bedford, the latest updates about family acquaintances. It had been perfectly pleasant.
And then they returned to Dahlia’s apartment, and awkward silence had descended once again.
They were an efficient team, though. With her mother’s help, Dahlia might be ready to move back to Massachusetts within a day.
And she still wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it.
But, Dahlia reminded herself, life wasn’t simply about feelings. Sometimes, being an adult meant accepting facts. And the fact was that Dahlia had lost Chef ’s Special and couldn’t afford to live here anymore, and taking a breather back in New Bedford was the only real option. She’d look for copyediting jobs in Boston. There was a lot of publishing work there, and her old boss from the paper would write her a stellar recommendation. It would be nice to be close to Hank. Maybe she’d sleep on his couch for a while as she rebuilt her savings, paid down some of the scariest bills.