I flop down on the far end of the couch, grabbing a pillow to hug to my chest. “Part of it is kind of a sleepover, if you think about it. All of us strangers will be living in a house together.”
Mom hums a noise from the back of her throat, nodding her head in partial agreement.
“I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to wear. I know I need the judges to take me seriously, but I just want to be me.”
Mom’s eyes soften in understanding, then she grabs a flowery sundress from the closet—one with flowy, tulle sleeves that I wore exactly one time when I was a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding almost a decade ago. “What about this?”
“I’d rather wear my avocado pajamas for every shoot.”
She shrugs, totally unbothered. “I’m simply pulling options, hon. I don’t know why you insist on keeping clothes you don’t actually want to wear.”
We fall into an easy rhythm with her holding things up, me making horrified faces, and both of us laughing more than packing until suddenly she goes quiet, her hand lingering on the hem of my worn jean jacket.
Her voice gentles. “I’m so proud of you, Taylor.”
“Mom,” I swallow hard against the emotion I can’t hold down anymore.
“No, really.” She turns to me, eyes twinkling with pride in a way that makes my chest ache. “You’ve been dreaming about this for so long. And you worked hard for it. You chose this even when it scared you. That matters, hon. You’re so brave.”
The swell behind my eyes returns with full force, blurring the room around me. I reach over and squeeze Mom’s hand, letting her steady support anchor me.
“Mom, I don’t even know how I’m going to pay rent next month,” I confess with a small laugh, burying my face in the pillow I’ve been clutching like a lifeline. “I only have one week ofPTO, and after that, it’s unpaid. What if I last longer? But worse, what if I don’t? What if—”
I press my face into the pillow and groan before lifting it and smiling despite the nerves. “No matter what happens, at least I’m chasing my dream. I’ll figure it out. I always do, right?”
She sits beside me, taking my hands in hers. Long, deft fingers trace circles along the backs of my hands in a steady, comforting pattern.
“Sweetheart. Listen to me. I can cover your bills for a bit.”
My eyes snap to hers. “Mom, no—”
“Yes.” Her tone is light but firm. “This kind of chance doesn’t come around every day. You have to take it and give it your all. Let me help you the way I wish I’d had help when I was your age. I’m sure I can pick up a few extra shifts in the coming weeks. We’ll figure it out together.”
The tears spill over before I can stop them. Slow, hot, vulnerable. She wipes one away with her thumb.
“I don’t want to put that on you,” I choke out. “I don’t know how long it will be for, or when I’d be able to pay you back.”
“You’ll owe me nothing,” she says as if it were that simple. “You being bold enough to do this is payment enough.”
“You’re going to make me cry into my packing cubes.”
“They could use a little moisture. I’ve heard it makes them more flexible.” She teases.
I nudge her shoulder with mine, sniffling. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“And you, my girl, are going to shine,” she says, leaning her forehead against mine. “Now. Show me what you’ve been working on all week as your first bake.”
I stand, wiping my tear-stained cheeks, and head into the kitchen to retrieve a small container from the fridge. It’s the last test batch of my first challenge for the show. I’ve been tweakingit obsessively over the past couple of weeks, adjusting the zest, butter, and bake time.
Since I’ve been on a lemon kick, I figured, why not run with it for week one? I didn’t want to do a pie or a cake in case that would be considered too safe or predictable. Instead, I opted for lemon-blueberry crème puffs. A lot can go wrong, but if it all goes right, it’s going to knock the judges’ socks off.
“They were a little vague, honestly. Something about capturing myflavor identity.” I air-quote the last words with a laugh. “No idea what that looks like yet, but I’m excited to figure it out!”
“I think you’re overthinking it.” Mom takes a bite and closes her eyes. Her shoulders relax as she chews. “Oh, Taylor… this tastes like sunshine.”
“Do you think it’s good enough to keep me there?”
“It’s perfect.” She squeezes my hand. “This is going to get you noticed. The pop of blueberry is a beautiful touch.”
