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CHAPTER FIFTY
Dahlia
The heaviness in my chest that has been present since I left Lake Wisteria gets progressively worse with every hour I spend in San Francisco. I should be happy to be back in my old stomping grounds, but not even a poke bowl from my favorite spot can save me from the oppressive sadness choking me.
I expected the feeling to lessen when I entered the Archer Media building, only to be disappointed when it didn’t.
“So, what did you think?” my agent asks once the elevator doors shut. Her strawberry-blond curls frame her face like a halo, giving her a deceitfully sweet appearance that doesn’t match the woman who spent the last hour playing hardball with the people from Archer Media.
“I’m not sure.” I lean against the support bar as the car begins its descent toward the lobby.
Her brows rise. “About Archer or the show?”
“All of it?”
“I know you had your heart set on filming in Lake Wisteria, but their scouts agree San Francisco would be a great place to film the first season. After that, if the show is renewed for another season, which we both know it will be, then you’ll get dibs on the next location.”
The idea sounds great in theory, but every time I consider moving back to San Francisco, the pit in my stomach deepens, something I never thought would happen after living here for years.
My gut is telling me not to accept Archer Media’s deal, and it’s not only because of the man waiting for me in Lake Wisteria.
You still trust your intuition after everything you’ve been through?
No, but it’s about time I started because I’m tired of doubting myself. I let Oliver and the Creswells’ judgmental thoughts and opinions haunt me for far too long, and for what? To torture myself by doubting every decision I make?
I’mthe one who built Designs by Dahlia from the ground up. Sure, Oliver encouraged me to post a photo, but I’m the one who put in the work to turn my name into a brand. And yes, the Creswells helped produce my show, but the fans stuck around formeand my work, not because of the people funding the project.
It’s time to forgive yourself for your past mistakes and move on.
“What should I tell them?” Jamie taps away at her phone.
“I’d like to take some more time to think about it.”
“How long are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a week?”
She whistles. “There might be some pushback about scheduling.”
“I know. If I make up my mind sooner, I’ll let you know, but I want to take my time and think this through.”
Although I feel my decision has already been made.
Returning to my empty townhouse solidifies my growing concern about moving back to San Francisco. I distract myself by falling back into my old routine of cooking dinner, watching a rerun of one of my favorite shows, and showering until my fingers and toes turn wrinkly, but nothing seems to lessen the ache in my chest as I consider my situation.
I climb into bed and hope sleep takes me soon to save me from the nonstop thoughts running through my brain.
What’s the point of moving back here for a show if you’re going to be lonely and miserable?
Sometime in the last three months, Lake Wisteria started feeling more like my true home while San Francisco became more of a distant memory.
My phone pings with a new message. I grab it off the nightstand and check who texted me at this hour.
JULIAN
How did the meeting go?
My chest pinches. Although I changed his contact name recently, I’m still not fully convinced I love it.
