Dahlia awoke on Sunday morning with a deep case of the alcohol dooms.
She lay in bed, head pounding, as bits and pieces of the previous night came back to her.
She remembered dancing with London at the wedding.
She remembered talking to them about David, about her spectacular failure as a wife.God, why had she done that? Although she vaguely remembered London saying nice things. She remembered them being a good listener.
Maybe she had talked it out of her system, then. Maybe she’d stop thinking about the email now. Which she still hadn’t responded to.
Maybe, too, Dahlia would be able to ignore all the birth announcements, all the ridiculous gender reveals, the proposals that seemed to pop up practically every day on her social media feeds. Maybe it would stop hurting, each reminder of how easily everyone she knew was navigating the path David wanted so badly, the path Dahlia couldn’t give him. The path Dahlia just knew, in her gut, was one she couldn’t walk.
And maybe, one day, she’d be able to ignore the way her mom looked at her, ever since Dahlia had told her.
Dahlia shook her head. And then groaned.
She couldn’t even remember getting to her room. Jesus, she was a mess.
Her cheek pressed against something cold next to her pillow. It took her longer than it should have to realize it was her phone. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. There was a message from London from three hours ago.
Hey Dahlia, it’s London . . . I made you give me your phone number last night so I could make sure you were okay today. So, are you okay today?
Yep, definitely didn’t remember that.
Dahlia texted back a quick reply and then stood, stretching. While she wanted to stay snuggled under the covers, it was already ten thirty, later than she had slept in years. She felt godawful, and she knew from experience that wasting away the day in bed would only make her feel worse. She needed to get out, explore at least a small piece of LA while she had the chance.
After a hot shower and a detailed tooth brushing. With a side of ibuprofen.
Thirty minutes later Dahlia walked through the hotel lobby, feeling as refreshed as it was probably possible for her to feel. She was almost out the door when she saw Barbara sitting on a couch to the right, eating a blueberry muffin.
“Hey, Barbara.” Dahlia swung her bag down and sat on a loveseat across from her. “How are you?”
“Dahlia, sweetheart.” Barbara smiled. “You’re looking better than I thought you would. I swear I don’t actually live on this couch, by the way. You just have funny timing.”
“Um. What?” Dahlia blinked at Barbara while something fuzzy scratched at her memory. “Hold up. Did I talk to you last night?”
“Yes.” Barbara nodded. “But I’m gathering you don’t remember.”
“Oh my god.” Dahlia rubbed her forehead. “I haven’t been that drunk in a long time. Was I embarrassing? Did I do something dumb?”
“No, you were sweet.” Barbara smiled reassuringly at her. Barbara probably would have smiled reassuringly at her even if Dahlia had vomited on her shoes, though. Oh god. “And you looked hot.” Barbara grinned before taking a bite of her muffin.
“Babs!” Dahlia laughed, blushing. “Um. Thank you?”
“You two looked like you were having a good time.”
“Yeah.” Dahlia leaned back in the loveseat. It was surprisingly comfortable. “What about you? Are you having a good time here? I mean, not just on this couch. But on the show?”
Barbara looked thoughtful. “I am. It’s been nice getting to meet so many different folks. Like you.” She smiled. “It’s definitely more work than I anticipated, though. I knew the challenges would be stressful, I never underestimated that, but I didn’t know the filming times would be so long. I am absolutely tuckered.” Barbara chuckled. “My kids are never going to hear the end of it for convincing me to do this.”
Dahlia smiled. “I bet they’re so proud of you, though.”
“They are. To be honest, I thought I’d be one of the first ones out. All my recipes are kind of old-fashioned. But I’ve been lucky so far.”
“If you know food, it doesn’t matter if you’re old-fashioned. At least, I don’t think so.” Dahlia didn’t even know what Barbara meant by old-fashioned, other thandelicious and good. “I tasted those dumplings you made on the first day! Oh my god. They were amazing.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Barbara said. “Still, I’m not up to par with you, or London. You’re going to go far.”
“Maybe.” Dahlia looked out the wide front window to their left. It was a gorgeous August day, and she should get going before it got too hot. But she liked talking to Barbara. She was such a comforting woman. She radiated vibes of chicken noodle soup and weighted blankets.
