CHAPTER ONE
Dahlia Woodson might have been shit at marriage, but she could dice an onion like a goddamn professional.
The first even slices, the cross hatching. The comfort in how logical and perfect it was. Dahlia had put in the work, onion after onion, until she could create consistent knife cuts every time. Until she trusted her hand, her knife, without having to think about it at all: fast and efficient and right.
When Dahlia stepped onto the set ofChef’s Specialin Burbank, California, on a Tuesday morning in late July, she thought about onions.
She certainly couldn’t focus on the mahogany floor under her feet, how it positivelygleamed. Or how high the ceilings were, far higher than she had imagined, than seemed necessary. Like some sort of sports stadium. For food nerds.
And the lights—sweet holy Moses.
It felt like walking into an airport terminal after a long cross-country flight: everything too fast, too loud, too full ofnew.
Except the set ofChef’s Specialwasn’t new, not exactly. Dahlia had seen it before, back home on her TV set. But it was different in person. More overwhelming, more surreal.
She approached the soaring wooden archway that marked the rear edge of the set. It was majestic and unmistakable, like the doorway of a cathedral, if a kitchen could be a church.
She shuffled around it, staring in awe, dazzled by the shining lights above. And a second later, smacked herself right into a solid wall of person.
A person who released a displeased grunt at Dahlia’s face implanting into their chest.
Dahlia bounced back a step, a rubber ball of embarrassment, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Blinking up, she watched as the other contestant ran a freckled hand through their strawberry hair. It was buzz cut on the sides, longer on top, and when their hand released, a flop of it fell back over their right eyebrow.
Dahlia cleared five feet, but barely. And this person wastall. That eyebrow hovered what felt like a full floor above her.
But it was cute, the strawberry hair. It made Dahlia think of leaves changing color in the fall, and Anne of Green Gables, and sunsets reflected off of still water. They hadn’t moved since her face met their chest, and the nearness of another body felt grounding somehow, like when your eyes lock onto someone in Arrivals you recognize, the cacophony of the airport finally settling around you.
And so maybe it was the sunset hair or the simple proximity of another sentient human being, but Dahlia opened her mouth and—
“Oh, god. I just ran right the fuck into you. I am so, so sorry. I am just so nervous. Like, I think the last time I was this nervous was my fourth grade spelling bee, when I forgot how to spellwhistleand everyone laughed at me and I maybe peed my tights, just a little. God, wearing tights is theworst.”
Dahlia sucked in a breath. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the other eleven contestants milling around, waiting to be herded to their assigned cooking stations by a producer named Janet. Strawberry Blond Hair kept standing there, staring at her with a blank look on their face. Dahlia felt awkward ending the conversation here, but she didn’t know how to transition smoothly from fourth grade urination—although, for the record, she stood by her assessment of tights—so she simply barreled on, her brain scrambling to find a more relevant way to finish this horrifying minute of her life.
“Anyway, this is weird, right? That we are going to be on TV. That this is real. All I can think about is onions, which is so dumb because everyone else is probably thinking about, you know, veal and foie gras or whatever. Although I’m also thinking about how I’m probably going to trip over someone’s feet the first time we all run into the pantry. And how I will likely forget how to cook as soon as the timer starts.” She paused to laugh a little at herself. “A veritable parade of positive thinking, right here.”
Dahlia pointed to her head. Attempted a charming smile.
Strawberry Blond Hair blinked.
“Cool, okay, so, great. Good talk. Bye.”
Dahlia turned to pivot around their shoulder right as a pale hand landed on her arm.
“This way, honey.”
Thank the goddesses above. Producer Janet was saving Dahlia from herself. If such a thing was even still possible.
Swallowing, Dahlia tried to take it all in as Janet led her through the curving maze of cooking stations that took up the majority of the floor space in the cavernous set. But mainly, all she could focus on was how much she liked the bright red frames of Janet’s glasses, and the small pulse of warmth that had pushed into her pounding heart when Janet called herhoney.
They stopped at the very front of the semicircle of stations, all the way to the right.
“Here you go, Miss Woodson. This is you.”
And with a reassuring smile, Janet whirled away to direct the next contestant.
Here were all the details Dahlia had seen on TV for the last seven seasons ofChef’s Special: the deep greens and golds and sparkling turquoise scattered throughout the set in pops of colored glass. How the dark wood of the walls and the floor contrasted against those lighter hues.
She had always thought the set resembled an old Scottish castle on the moors, only recently been paid a visit byQueer Eye. Cozy and strong all at once, its foundations invoking a sense of time and honor—and here and there, some bright splashes of cheer.
