Chapter 55
Chapter Fifty-Five
AFTERMATH
Celeste
Six Weeks After the Breakup
Olivia nudges my shoulder. "Celeste." She's been my bed companion for three weeks now, returning the favor from when I camped out with her after the disaster with what's-his-face. "The outside world still exists, you know."
When I left Max, I fell apart. But it wasn't just heartbreak that's kept me bedridden for twenty-three days straight. Something else shattered me—cracked me open in a way I never thought possible. Now I lie here, surrounded by crumpled tissues and endless tears, as wealthy Real Housewives from Orange County, Atlanta, New York, Dubai, New Jersey, and Beverly Hills scream at each other on my TV screen. In the last twenty-three days, I’ve watched every Real Housewives season, every reunion, every "lost footage" special.
Their petty dramas and champagne problems have become my strange comfort, the voices that fill this house when I can't bear to hear my own thoughts.
Right after the breakup with Max, I buried myself in the mountain of scripts waiting on my desk.
I'd highlight passages until my fingers cramped, scribble notes in margins until three a.m., schedule back-to-back meetings with writers who blurred together.
Anything to keep my mind occupied, to fill the hollow ache in my chest with the mundane responsibilities of a development executive who definitely wasn't falling apart.
For three weeks after our breakup, I functioned like a robot with its emotions switched off.
Then the headlines hit. Max and Elody. Dating.
I scrolled past those tabloid rumors, refusing to let them register.
When Elody blasted their "relationship status" to her half-billion followers, I rolled my eyes and kept scrolling.
But the day when they became Instagram official broke me - there they were, silhouetted against a perfect sunset, his arm around her shoulders, her perfect teeth gleaming.
US Magazine coined it: "Maxody Is Born!" At that point, something inside me just...
collapsed. Before I could fully disintegrate, I went numb instead.
Apparently, my version of emotional numbness involves memorizing every Real Housewives episode from Beverly Hills to Dubai.
I cashed in three years' worth of unused sick days and vacation time from Dreamscape - two full months I'd hoarded because who gets sick when they can't afford to, and where would I vacation on my salary? Dreamscape approved my sudden leave request with surprising speed. I went home, pulled on the pajamas I save for period cramps and flu, and I’ve barely left my bed since then.My daily routine has narrowed to the bare essentials: a reluctant shower (because even heartbreak doesn't justify that level of funk), a fresh pair of equally depressing pajamas, and the occasional trudge to the bathroom.
That's the full extent of my accomplishments lately.
Not that there haven’t been bright spots.
Selena emailed me with the news that three scripts sold.
Netflix snatched up my Varian Fry series about the American who smuggled artists from Nazi-occupied France and will be producing it as a limited series next spring.
The Thanksgiving family drama caught Jeffrey Huxley's eye—he's the indie darling making waves with those quiet, emotional family pieces.
And Hallmark? They're not just taking one of my rom-coms; the exec practically begged me to pen three Christmas specials.
Perfect timing. I could churn out mistletoe meet-cutes without the emotional drain of my historical work.
So now I’m on Day twenty-three of my bed prison.
This mattress has become my island and reality tv my only companion.
The Real Housewives franchise has consumed me.
Three weeks ago, I couldn't have named a single cast member.
Now I can recite their divorce settlements and predict their alliance shifts like some reality TV fortune teller.
"Just let me finish this episode," I mumble, clutching the remote. "Tamra and Heather's New Orleans blowout is about to resolve, and she's clearly setting Gretchen up for the next ambush. Classic Tamra move."
The mattress dips as Olivia slides in beside me, her fingers gently prying the remote from my death grip.
"Orange County's drama queens will survive without you.
Real life won't wait forever. Your mom misses you—she was glowing at the Susan G.
Komen event I catered yesterday. They want her to speak at their Spring fundraiser, and you didn't even ask about it.
That's when I knew this"—she gestures at my nest of blankets and snack wrappers—"needs to end. "
I shoot Olivia a death glare as she clutches my remote.
Mine. Not hers. My look says it all: touch that power button and die.
The Real Housewives of Orange County is reaching its boiling point—Gretchen's homophobic social media scandal is about to explode, and Tamra's going for blood. The producers have been building to this moment all season, manipulating footage and stirring drama like master puppeteers. I’m here for it. All of it.
"Fine, finish this episode," Olivia concedes with a dramatic sigh. "But then we're getting you outside. Fresh air, bike ride, beach trip—maybe even boogie boarding. You used to love that."
"Boogie boarding is off-limits," I mutter, already reaching for my Kleenex.
“Bad memories.” Boogie boarding reminds me that I learned to surf and I should be surfing with Max today.
If it's Saturday. But I can't remember if it's Saturday or not.
Is it Monday? Tuesday? Three weeks of this and I'm already losing track of days. They all feel the same now. What month is it even? I don’t know even that.
The tears come right on schedule. They always do when his name materializes, even in my own thoughts.
The thoughts of Max, which come whenever something comes up that reminds me of him, is why I've barricaded myself behind 247 episodes of Real Housewives franchises for three weeks straight.
Those wealthy, wine-throwing women from Orange County to Dubai don't trigger memories of Max.
Unlike the latest gossip site headline on TMZ—“Max Kensington and Elody Spotted Canoodling in Palos Verdes”—which sent my laptop sailing out the window last week.
And that stupid nickname - Maxody. Idiotic.
Wish that portmanteau trend would die a merciful death, but nope.
And just when did she become "Elody"? As if she's earned single-name status like Beyoncé, Cher, Adele, Madonna or Rihanna?
Thinking about that headline again makes me want to hurl my television through the window, but I'd regret it when I can’t watch Real Housewives anymore.
I need those catfights and champagne-soaked meltdowns more than I care to admit.
My life revolves around other people's drama now—the only thing keeping me from completely losing it.
Olivia shakes her head. "Once this episode ends, we're getting out of here. Beach time. I already texted Tally to meet us at Redondo. The sea lion pups are waiting."
Before Max entered my life, I'd spend whole afternoons at Redondo Beach just watching the sea lion colonies.
Something about their barking, their piling on top of each other, the way they'd nudge rivals off the dock – it was better than therapy.
This season, with all the newborns nursing from their mothers, would normally have me grabbing my keys without hesitation, but...
I bury my face in the pillow and yank the comforter up until only a tuft of my hair remains visible. "Can't do it," I mumble through the cotton. "Possibly ever."
Olivia sighs. "Fine, but reinforcements are on the way."
"Please tell me you didn't call—" I already know the answer, but I'm praying I'm wrong. Tally's the last person I need right now, with her take-no-prisoners approach to my problems. Not like Olivia, who at least lets me wallow for five minutes before pulling me up.
"Just wait and see," Olivia says, a hint of mischief in her voice.
About a half hour later, Tally bursts through the door and snatches the remote from my hand, then yanks my comforter to the floor in one swift motion.
"That's enough," she announces. "Pity party's over."
I groan and reach for the blanket, but Tally's already marching toward my bathroom.
The shower hisses to life as she calls over her shoulder, "Shower.
Clothes. Then we're watching baby sea lions at Redondo and eating fish tacos at Old Tony's.
" She reappears in the doorway, hands on hips.
"And if your ass isn't out of that bed in thirty seconds, I'm dragging you out myself and burning the whole damn bed to the ground.”
I let out a groan but surrender to her demands. After my shower, I emerge to find Tally and Liv perched on the edge of the bed like intervention specialists.
"Human again?" Olivia asks with that hopeful tone she reserves for my lowest moments.
"I wasn't feral," I mutter. "I've been showering this whole time. Just because I've been horizontal doesn't mean I've abandoned hygiene."
"Three weeks of pajamas says otherwise," Tally counters, gesturing toward an outfit laid out on the bed.
"Real clothes today. Non-negotiable." The ensemble includes stain-washed jeans, Mickey Mouse socks, my rainbow combat boots, a purple tie-dyed bucket hat, and a sarcastic graphic tee with "I'm currently unsupervised...
I know, it freaks me out too... but the possibilities are endless! " splashed across the front.
The boots make my stomach clench. Those damn rainbow boots—the ones I wore when I first met Max. Will I ever be able to lace them up without thinking of him?