Chapter 3 #2
“I ate!” I protest without thinking, then pause. Did I actually eat anything of substance today? I narrow my eyes as I mull that over.
Mom raises an eyebrow in question, but her warm brown eyes sparkle with amusement as she watches me try to sort it out.
“Okay, okay.” I relent, hands raised. “I drank coffee, nibbled on a leftover practice cookie from last week, and called it lunch.”
“That sounds about right.” She kisses my cheek, then continues straight to the kitchen in that purposeful, unquestionable way only moms possess. “You look like you’re vibrating. Is that caffeine, nerves, or happiness?”
“All three. Definitely all three!” I fold my arms and lean against the counter, watching her pull out fruit, a box of granola bars, and what looks suspiciously like a premade sandwich, cut into fours.
“Mom…you didn’t have to—”
“Hush. Yes, I did.” She straightens, eyes turning glassy. “It’s not every day your baby girl sets off on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure like this.”
Warmth spreads through me so fast it makes me dizzy. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away before she notices. Knowing Mom, if she sees me get emotional, she’ll get even more emotional, and we’ll both end up a puddle on the tile floor.
She spins around, eyes sweeping the apartment like a general surveying a battlefield. “Okay, suitcase first. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”
I gesture toward the couch. Mom marches over, plants her hands on her hips, and lets out a slow breath as she picks up whatever’s on top of the pile next to my suitcase.
“Honey, these are pajamas.”
“Not just any pajamas, Mom.” I defend with a half-smile. “They’re cute pajamas.”
“They have a cartoon avocado riding a skateboard, Taylor. You can’t wear that on TV!”
“Why not? They’re playful and show everyone that I don’t take myself too seriously. They make me approachable.”
“You’re not going to a sleepover at Kara’s,” she says lovingly, balling them up and tossing them onto the armchair.
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 of PTO, 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 tweaking it 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 my flavor 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.”
“Okay.” I nod more to myself than Mom, letting out a nervous breath. “Okay. Let’s finish packing before I have another emotional breakdown.”
“But the packing cubes need the hydration!”
I pick up a pillow from the couch and toss it at her, laughing. Together we get back to work, folding clothes, choosing outfits, and filling tiny toiletry bottles. The apartment always feels different when Mom is here, brighter somehow. Full of optimism, possibility, and love.
So much love, I swear it could lift the whole building a few inches off the ground.
Mom squeezes me one last time at the doorway before she heads home for the night.
“You’re ready,” she murmurs into my hair, hugging me a little tighter. “Go make your mark.”
After she’s gone, silence settles around me. My suitcase waits by the door. My apartment feels a little emptier now that Mom is gone and all my essentials are packed. A little lonelier.
A little like it knows I’m leaving.
I rest my hand on the knob and give the room a soft smile.
“Goodbye, little apartment,” I whisper aloud. “Try not to miss me too much, I’m off to make our dreams come true.”
I lock the door behind me, straighten my shoulders, and step forward into whatever comes next.