Taste (H.S. / A.U.)

Chapter 74

THE CONTEST WILL BE CHAPTER 74 & 75 TWO PARTS!!!

ELOISE DUPONT

I woke up with every nerve in my body feeling like it had been stretched taut, pulled to the breaking point and held there, trembling. My brain flicked on like a faulty switchboard, all circuits firing at once. I blinked into the cool light leaking through the sheer curtains, and the only thing I could think was: today is going to destroy me.

I could hear Ricky and Jade already in the living room, Jade's laugh sharp and unfiltered, Ricky's low voice rising and falling in that rhythmic cadence that meant he was explaining something technical with entirely too much enthusiasm. Their easy energy contrasted sharply with the static inside of me. Harry was in the shower, and even that was off. No singing. No humming. Just the dull, rhythmic thrum of water hitting tile. The absence of his usual soundtrack only intensified the eerie energy in the loft. Something was off. In him. In me. In everything about today.

I hadn't slept more than a few hours, tossing and turning as my mind played an exhausting montage of worst-case scenarios on repeat. At one point, I'd dreamed that the stove caught fire mid-taping, and Harry was nowhere to be found, just an empty studio and my dish smoldering while Mia and the entire network watched, arms crossed, waiting for me to combust.

Maybe it wasn't so much a dream as a prophecy.

Yesterday had been chaos in every direction already, and I didn't a repeat of it today.

Harry. Sweet, beautiful, but disorganized Harry had somehow managed to get completely turned around before I'd even opened my eyes. He'd tried to be helpful, bless him. Woke up early, and snuck out to grab us coffee and bagels, only to end up hopelessly lost downtown he told me. Apparently, he'd stopped to talk to a fan and missed his train stop, then tried to walk back and ended up on the wrong side of the bridge. I didn't even know how that was geographically possible, but it happened. He showed up forty-five minutes late, breathless, holding two lukewarm lattes and an apologetic bouquet of corner-store roses. One of the cups had spilled in the tray and soaked through the bagel wrappers. The gesture should have made me laugh. It didn't. Instead, I stood there with frizzy hair and last night's mascara under my eyes, staring at the soggy mess, thinking: this is what today is going to be like. A series of good intentions, crushed under the weight of bad timing and poor planning.

And it was. Oh, it was just like that.

The meringue I tried to whip up collapsed into a gloopy mess, soupy and unusable, no stiff peaks in sight. My brûlée? Burnt. The sugar on top had gone from perfectly torched to blackened in seconds. Then, to add the final cherry to the shit sundae, I dropped an entire bottle of microgreen slaw I'd handcrafted, the carefully shaved fennel, rainbow carrots, edible flowers, the works. I watched it shatter on the floor like a slow-motion car crash, tiny green curls clinging to glass shards, wasted.

It wasn't even noon yet.

And then came the dry cleaner debacle. The outfit I'd planned for the cook-off, one that was supposed to be elegant, structured, and powerful had shrunk a full size. I couldn't zip the damn thing.

Jade, bless her soul, raced out to find me a replacement.

Meanwhile, Ricky and Harry disappeared for most of the afternoon, working with the production team to get the judges and celebrity guests sorted. Harry insisted I stay behind, said it was "better for optics," which was code for Mia will use any photos of me with anyone to start shit again. And maybe he was right. The gossip blogs had already begun sniffing around the event, and if I was seen with any of the judges I am sure Mia would use that in her favor somehow.