Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
REALITY HITS
Celeste
Tally's eyes widen when we get back to my wing of the house. "Celeste. What the hell?"
I shake my head, pressing my fingertips against my temples.
The champagne buzz has faded, leaving behind the familiar throb of a day-drinking headache.
Just hours ago, I'd twirled in front of the mirror in a Stella McCartney dress that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage payment, while Olivia and Tally whooped and clinked their Dom Pérignon flutes.
The closet alone had left me breathless—racks of designer clothes I used to gawk at through boutique windows, wondering about the lives of women who wore such things.
The house itself had surprised me too. This whole place—with its ocean-facing windows and hand-knotted rugs—looks ripped from the Pinterest board I'd labeled "Someday, Maybe."
But now, as the alcohol leaves my system, reality crashes back.
Soon Olivia and Tally will leave, and I'll be alone in this beautiful cage.
I can't ask them to stay—that wasn't part of the deal with Max.
The thought of their departure makes this mansion, despite its luxury, feel suddenly hollow.
When Tally joked about me sharing a bed with Max and some future pet, something inside me just... crumbled.
I boost myself up on the kitchen counter, my legs dangling over the marble side.
"I keep thinking about what happens when you both leave.
I've never lived alone—not really. Home with Mom and Lexi, then with you, Olivia.
" My voice catches. "And now Mom's getting worse, and I just—" I stare at the floor.
"Sometimes I picture myself walking down to the beach at night.
Just staring at the waves like James Mason at the end of A Star Is Born.
" I don’t need to finish that reference.
The girls know just why James Mason goes down to the beach at the end of the Judy Garland version of A Star is Born.
They both know he never returned from that little “swim.”
"Jesus," Tally straightens. "That's not funny, Celeste. You talk like that again, I'm driving you straight to Cedars-Sinai for a psych eval.”
Olivia reaches across the table, her eyes wide. "Where is this coming from?"
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. "Just stupid thoughts. They come and go." I take a breath. "But I promise, if it gets bad, I'll crash at my old place."
"In your old bed," Olivia nods. "And I'll be right there like when Greg dumped you. With snacks."
"Not that garbage H?agen-Dazs," I say, grateful for the shift. "Ben the 24-hour parlor where she works expects her behind the needle by 7 AM.
I watch them fidget with car keys, gathering empty wine glasses, but hesitating at the threshold like they're abandoning a puppy at the shelter.
My ocean drowning "joke" hangs between us like a fog that won't lift.
I raise my hands in surrender. "I promise I won't cause any trouble.
But we all need to call it a night." I check my watch and groan.
My 7 AM meeting with that new screenwriter—the one with the buzzed-about dystopian romance that every studio in town is salivating over— means a 5 AM wake-up call, and Claremont might as well be in another state with LA traffic.
One fender-bender on the 405 and I'm screwed because the highway will turn into a giant parking lot with the cars at a complete standstill for miles. I glance at Tally and Olivia’s faces, torn between wanting them to stay and knowing they need to go.
"Seriously," I add, gesturing toward the door while my heart does the opposite.
We wrap our arms around each other in a three-way embrace before parting ways with promises of cocktails by Thursday.
The geography of friendship just got more complicated—my new Malibu address might as well be in another solar system.
Liv's still in my old Claremont condo, manageable for after-work meetups, but Tally?
Between her arts district loft and Melrose job, she's practically orbiting Saturn.
Still, we've made a pact: once a week, minimum.
These women are my oxygen, my heartbeat—non-negotiable.
After they're gone, I wander through the rooms of what's supposed to be my dream house.
When I fling open the French doors, the ocean's rhythm should soothe me, but the sound only hollows me out.
A damp chill seeps in—forty degrees feels colder here by the water—but that's not what's freezing me from the inside.
The cruel irony isn't lost on me: I'm standing in the exact home I've always fantasized about, yet somehow I've never felt more trapped.
How did my dream house become my prison?