Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
MOVING DAY
Celeste
God, today's the day. No more postponing the inevitable.
Tally and Olivia are helping me pack up my life into cardboard boxes.
Lexi texted that she can't make it—something about a deadline for her film project with Shane.
I believe her, I do. That short film is due Monday, and knowing Lexi, she hasn't touched the editing software yet.
But there's this nagging feeling that she's avoiding me.
Every time I mention my new marriage, she gets this look—like she's personally responsible for my marital sacrifice.
I've told her a million times: Mom's cancer isn't her fault.
If anyone's to blame, it's the universe's sick sense of humor.
No tumor, no desperate need for money, no marriage to Max.
Mom would still be juggling her jobs, keeping their little apartment, and Lexi would be focusing on school instead of feeling like she needs to drop out.
But Lexi won't accept that. So here I am, packing with Tally and Liv while my sister silently protests the arrangement by burying herself in coursework.
I hate moving. Hate it with the burning passion of a thousand suns.
My back aches from hauling cardboard boxes down three flights of stairs, my fingers raw from the edges of packing tape.
I never know just how much useless crap I've accumulated until I'm forced to wrap each item in newspaper and bubble wrap—dog-eared paperbacks with coffee stains on their pages, framed photos of people whose names I barely remember, ceramic figurines of woodland creatures with chipped ears, that hideous brass lamp I found at a yard sale in Pasadena that I swore would look "vintage-chic" somewhere, and Mom's meticulously preserved Barbie collection, in an enormous glass and wooden three-story case.
Yes, Barbie Dolls. It all started when I found out that my mother never had a Barbie Doll growing up because her family couldn't afford one.
I still remember her face pressed against the glass at FAO Schwarz during our trip to New York—her breath fogging the display case that housed the Holiday Barbie in her crimson velvet gown with white fur trim.
The way her fingertips hovered just above the glass, not quite touching, as if the doll might disappear if she pressed too hard.
My father was still alive then, so we conspired together, and soon it became our family tradition.
Lexi and I would pore over glossy Barbie catalogs with Mom, watching her dog-ear pages and circle dolls with her red pen.
Our collection grew: a Grecian Barbie with a gold laurel crown and draped chiton, a Victorian one with a bustle the size of my fist, the Titanic Rose with her miniature Heart of the Ocean necklace that actually sparkled under light.
A fairy Barbie with gossamer wings that shimmered iridescent blue-green in the light, her miniature violin tucked under a porcelain chin.
A Bob Mackie Barbie draped in a dramatic black and white sequined gown, its enormous satin collar arching behind her platinum blonde head like a peacock's tail.
A Celtic Barbie with cascading copper hair that fell in perfect waves past her waist, an emerald-studded golden crown perched atop her head, her velvet dress the deep green of ancient forests.
A Gone With The Wind Barbie with that iconic moss-colored velvet dress cinched impossibly tight at the waist, matching hat tilted coquettishly over one eye.
A ballerina Barbie balanced on perpetual tiptoe, her crystalline tutu catching the light, satin ribbons criss-crossing up delicate ankles.
Mom's favorite was the Bond-Girl Barbie with a tiny golden pistol strapped to her thigh in a lace garter.
And about 10 different holiday Barbies. When Mom and Lexi downsized after her diagnosis, I inherited these treasures.
Now they wait, each doll's limbs cushioned in tissue paper, their tiny accessories sealed in Ziploc bags, the display case swaddled in three layers of bubble wrap, ready for their journey.
Olivia leans against my doorframe, arms crossed. "You're seriously bringing your own bed?" she asks as I tug at my sheets. I wave Tally over to help me lift the mattress so I can dismantle the frame beneath it.
“Of course, why?”
Tally's eyes roll skyward. "Because Liv has this fantasy you'll be cuddling up with Mr. Hunk tonight.
" The nickname sticks in my ears. We've all developed our own code names for Max, as if saying his actual name might summon him like Beetlejuice.
I prefer "Jack"—jackass abbreviated—while Olivia never calls him anything but "Pretty Boy.
" All three fit him perfectly, though I hate admitting mine hits the mark.
"That's not what I said," Olivia protests, tapping her phone screen.
"I just bet Pretty Boy’s got you set up with something ridiculous.
One of those mattresses that costs more than my car.
" She turns her phone toward me, displaying a cloud-like monstrosity.
"The H?sten Maranga. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Swedish sleep technology. "
I glance at the photo and hand the phone back.
"If Max has something that luxurious waiting for me, I swear to God I'll strip naked and perform the entire Nutcracker Suite.
I've been sleeping on what feels like concrete wrapped in sandpaper for six years.
" I rake my fingers through my hair. "Liv, you're absolutely right. The man probably has guest beds worth more than my entire existence. Why the hell would we risk hernias hauling this decomposing Costco monstrosity down three goddamn flights? Worst case, I arrive to an empty room and panic order something at 2 AM.” I dig my knuckles into my temples so hard I see stars.
"Sure, it'll cost a fortune I don't have, but less than the spinal surgery I'd need after that death march down those stairs. "
Truth is, I'm broke, so I didn’t hire movers.
When I saw the thousand-dollar minimum quote for professional movers, I nearly vomited.
Instead, I promised Liv and Tally the most obscene steaks Ruth's Chris offers in exchange for their sweat and a U-Haul that reeks of previous tenants' desperation.
They agreed—partly because they love me, partly because I've destroyed my back helping them move their shit across town approximately fifty-seven times.
But let's be crystal clear: all three of us would rather perform open-heart surgery on ourselves with plastic sporks than spend another Saturday of our rapidly evaporating youth cramming my pathetic life into cardboard coffins.
Tally's eyes light up with mischief. "Listen to me," she says, leaning in close.
"This marriage is a two-way street. He needed you as much as you needed him.
So why not work that angle?" She points to the picture of the $150,000 mattress.
"Starting with demanding this heavenly Swedish cloud as part of your marriage settlement. "
My forehead creases as a thought hits me.
Wait—Max must have his own reasons for going along with this charade.
What's his grandfather using as leverage?
Money? The company? Some family secret? I've been so caught up in my own desperation that I never stopped to wonder why a man like Max would agree to marry a complete stranger.
His grandfather's motives are clear enough, but Max's?
There's something there. Something I might be able to use.
Dammit! What an idiot I've been! Whatever leverage Max's grandfather has over him could've been mine too.
I could've flipped the script—told Max to handle the wedding planning himself or watch me walk.
These last eight weeks might have looked like his—feet up, carefree, while someone else handled the details.
But who am I kidding? He would've seen right through it.
The cold reality is I couldn't afford to walk away, and Max knows that better than anyone.
With his shark-like instincts, he would've called my bluff in a heartbeat.
Still... I should've at least made him sweat.
I shake my head. No, I can't leverage my way out of this mess.
Max knows exactly why I signed those marriage papers—Mom's medical bills, Lexi's tuition.
My back's against the wall, and he's just leaning casually against his.
This isn't some standoff where we're both holding loaded guns.
He's got a cannon; I've got a water pistol.
If I try the whole "treat me better or I walk" routine, he’ll probably say “don’t threaten me with a good time” and hold the door open for me on my way out. And that would be that.
I look around the apartment. “Well, I guess that’s it. Let’s go.”
The U-Haul's door slams behind us, the sound final as a gavel.
Through the smudged window, I catch a last glimpse of my third-floor condo—the one I scrimped for years to afford, the one with the mortgage paperwork I signed with trembling fingers.
For three years, that place has been home: the kitchen counter where Olivia and I demolished pints of H?agen-Dazs after midnight, the bathtub where I soaked away terrible days with cheap Merlot, the couch that caught our tears when men whose faces now blur together walked away.
The engine rumbles to life beneath us, and something in my chest seems to tear loose, floating untethered as we pull away from the curb.
“Bye beautiful apartment,” I say, looking out the window.
Leaving this place hits me in the gut more than I ever thought it would. I’m leaving my sanctuary for a cold palace where I’ll materially have everything I need, but emotionally will be bereft.
Oh, god, what the hell am I doing?