Chapter 55 #2
My hands shake as I get dressed and pull my boot laces tight.
I twist my too-long hair up, wishing I had scissors and better face cream, then put on lip gloss like it might help.
I get up and look in a full-length mirror, which shows the truth.
My clothes are too big at the waist, sleeves too long for my hands.
For three weeks, Olivia brought me fancy food to eat in bed—mushroom risotto, glazed salmon, chocolate mousse—and I threw it all away.
I'd smile until she left, then dump the food in a bucket under my bed, and empty it after she went to work.
She thinks I'm eating while I'm getting thinner, a stick figure in Kohl’s clothes.
I sigh, staring at my reflection. My clothes hang off me like I'm a wire hanger. Turns out heartbreak is the ultimate weight loss program—who needs juice fasts, Keto diets and Ozempic when you can just have your soul crushed by Max Kensington? From the looks of it, I’ve lost about fifteen pounds in three weeks.
Maybe I should pitch it to those bougie weight loss spas in Ojai.
"The Devastation Diet: Guaranteed Results or Your Dignity Back. "
Tally's eyes widen. "You're basically Skeletor at this point. We need to get some calories in you ASAP."
Liv's face falls. "But Celeste, I've been dropping off food three times a day. How did you get so—"
I squeeze her shoulder. "I know, and I love you for it. But I just...I haven't managed more than a few bites in three weeks. Haven't really slept either."
Her eyes glisten, and guilt twists in my chest.
"Today's different," I promise, forcing a smile.
"Once I break the fast, I'll demolish all those gourmet leftovers you've been bringing.
" The words sound hollow even to me. My stomach still feels like a closed fist, and I can already envision myself at Old Tony's, pushing fettuccine around my plate while Tally stares daggers at me and Liv exchanges a worried glance with Tally.
We cram ourselves into Tally's Jeep and tear off toward Redondo Beach, sixty excruciating minutes from the condo.
Tally and Olivia babble about anything—the weather, some Netflix show, their horoscopes—desperate to avoid the bleeding wound between us: Max and that silicone-injected parasite Elody are now splashed across every entertainment site as Hollywood's newest power couple.
My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. I'd rip out my own heart with my bare hands if it meant watching her Aston Martin burst into flames with her inside it. I swear to god, I would.
Tally giggles as she speeds down the highway. "You’ ll never believe who just walked into my shop."
"Mother Teresa," I deadpan, rolling my eyes in the backseat. The last thing I need is another round of Tally's celebrity worship.
"Chris. Fucking. Hemsworth." Each word punctuated like a gunshot.
"I swear to god, Celeste, I nearly passed out.
Six-foot-four of pure Australian divinity.
When he rolled up his sleeve for the tattoo, I saw veins I would happily let drain me dry.
He's filming downtown and—" she presses a hand to her chest, "—I had to excuse myself to hyperventilate in the bathroom. "
"Ah. Chris Hemsworth,” I say. “He's got those hands—mechanic's hands—perfect for wiring a car bomb under Elody's driver's seat.
I've thought about it. The exact placement.
The trigger mechanism. The blast radius.
" A savage smile. "Those eyes of his—there's something feral there, something that understands revenge.
Next time you're alone with him, ask him how much C-4 it takes to turn an Aston Martin into confetti. "
Tally rolls her eyes. "Annnnnddddd somehow Celeste manages to steer yet another conversation towards blowing up Elody's car."
"I'm just saying—"
"I get it. I'd want to turn her Aston Martin into a fireball too. But what if Max is riding shotgun when you—"
"Don't threaten me with a good time,” I mutter, turning to stare out the window.
My pulse quickens at the thought of Max beside Elody, his arm draped over her leather seat.
For a split second, I imagine the satisfaction of them both going up in flames.
I catch myself. What kind of monster am I becoming?
Despite everything, I still love him with an intensity that hurts.
He doesn't know I ended things to protect Michael. From his perspective, I’m probably the villain deserving fiery vengeance.
I need to stop this explosive train of thought. Tonight, the only detonation I'm allowing myself involves dropping whiskey and Bailey's into a pint of Guinness.