She wanted to feel their mouth on her skin.
Dahlia blinked, shifting on the couch. She lay on her side and tried to quiet the vivid memories, the heating of her blood.
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 thisChef’s Specialworld, 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.
Whyhad Dahlia decided to pack the kitchen last?
Everything was heavy and awkwardly shaped, and there was simplytoo muchof 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.
