The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 15 - 16

I changed the title. I know these kind of stories are sometimes a guilty pleasure for many of us, and I wonder if people would be more likely hold a paperback in their hands if it didn't say, 'Confessions of a Feedee' on the cover? I don't know... let me know if that's a thing :)

Chapter 15

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed way too early, already regretting every single decision that had led me to this point. My body felt heavy, sluggish, and downright rebellious, but I pulled it together.

I threw on a so-called oversized brown tee that skimmed the top of my thighs but didn’t do much to hide anything, especially with my matching leggings stretched tight over my hips, clinging everywhere. Let’s be real—there wasn’t much mystery left in the back view, a not-so-subtle reminder of why I needed this gym trip. 

My hair was in a messy bun, loose strands framing my face in that “I tried, kind of” way, and I laced up my pink-and-white sneakers.

Starbucks screamed my name the whole drive in. My stomach growled, my brain begged, and I puffed on my vape like it could somehow drown out the craving. But then I glanced down. My belly—soft, round, spilling out like a ball of dough—rested heavy on my thighs. 

And those thighs? 

Yeah, that’s where a lot of the weight had settled, second only to my butt. Thick and soft, they spread wide, pressing into the raised edges of my leather car seat, squished and jiggling with every bump in the road. 

I let out a sigh, then took another aggressive hit of my vape. No venti iced mocha. No bacon gouda sandwich. Not today. Not for a while.

The Google campus gym was, conveniently and cruelly, located right below the Reboot coffee bar. Because of course temptation had to hover right above my head like some kind of caffeine-fueled angel of doom. The gym itself? Gorgeous. Gleaming machines, shiny weights, spotless everything. Just another one of the free Google perks I’d been ignoring for months. But not anymore. Not today.

Jenna was already there, bouncing on her toes like she’d just mainlined a case of Red Bull, her grin way too chipper for this ungodly hour.

“Look who decided to show up!” she teased, handing me a water bottle with an over-the-top flourish like she was presenting me with a damn trophy.

“Don’t make a thing out of it,” I muttered, snatching the bottle and chugging half of it like it was the elixir of life—the only thing standing between me and whatever fresh hell she had planned. Then, because priorities, I snapped a few selfies—one for my personal Instagram, and another, slightly more scandalous, for Cel Monroe’s account. Just because I was stepping back from OnlyFans didn’t mean I couldn’t keep her Gram going. After all, she was still racking up followers. No signs of slowing down.

Jenna’s grin only got bigger. “Let’s do this!”

And let me tell you, this? Brutal. Oh-my-God-I’m-dying brutal. 15 minute power walk on the treadmill— slight incline—and I was already a sweaty, gasping disaster. Clutching the side rails like my life depended on it, I wondered how I’d fallen this far.

My body felt heavier than ever, because it was. My legs were lead, my thighs rubbed, and my ass and tits felt like they were conspiring to drag me down to the depths of gym hell. My back ached, my heart pounded like it was auditioning for a drum solo, and every agonizing step screamed a reminder of just how far I’d let myself go.

If hell had a gym, this treadmill would be front and center—and I swear it was laughing at me.

Back when I was prepping for my wedding, I could crush an hour at the gym with pure will power. Twenty minutes on the stair stepper? Just put my headphones on and go. Now? Let’s just say it’s downright terrifying how fast things can change.

After our so-called warm-up, Jenna, still bright-eyed and powered by what had to be rocket fuel, decided it was time for squats and lunges. Every squat gave my ass a wedgie and had my thighs screaming. Every lunge made me want to cry. My legs wobbled so badly, I was convinced I’d face-plant right there on the gym floor.

It was surreal, the last time Jenna and I worked out together? I was the tiny spry one, and she was the big girl. But honestly? Even back then, she probably had me beat. Jenna’s always had muscles, stamina, and this freakish amount of determination. 

Me? I was running on pure vanity and a personal grudge against my bathroom scale.

“You good?” Jenna asked, barely breaking a sweat after she breezed through another set of squats like she was auditioning for a fitness commercial.

“Am I (pant) alive?” I panted, hands still on my knees, sweat softly trickling down the back of my neck.

“You’re fine,” she said with a laugh. “First day after a long break always feels like death.”

I shot her a glare but forced myself to do another set. It wasn’t pretty. My form was a mess, my belly felt like it was getting in the way, my breathing was embarrassingly loud, and by the end, my legs were trembling so hard I had to collapse onto a bench.

Jenna handed me my half-full water bottle, her grin softer now. “Proud of you,” she said.

I rolled my eyes and fought to catch my breath. “Yeah, (pant) well, I hate you (gasp) a little right now.”

“You’ll love me later,” she said, completely unfazed.

Doubtful. But as I sat there, trying not to keel over, a tiny part of me felt… accomplished. Like maybe, just maybe, Jenna wasn’t completely insane, and this wasn’t the worst idea ever. 

Maybe.

The next day, my legs felt completely worthless. Walking? Pure torture. I’d already told Jenna I was only committing to the gym every other day. Max.

No way was I dragging myself into her every-morning routine—not in my current state, and definitely not when Jenna was strutting around with so much energy these days.

But I stuck with it, slowly finding some kind of rhythm. Three days a week at the gym wasn’t nothing, and it felt like progress. My diet, though? Not great.

Doordash was way too easy—just sitting there on my phone, practically begging me to press “order.” And my nightly ice cream-in-bed routine? 

So hard to quit. 

If I skipped it, I’d lay awake, hearing it call to me from the freezer like some sugar-filled siren. And if there wasn’t any in the house? I’d cave, either ordering it or, worse, dragging myself to the grocery store at 11pm. on a worknight in too-tight pajama pants and creepy guys tailing me to the frozen section.

When I went full binge mode, I’d hit the gym harder to make up for it, but that nagging voice in my head? 

Oh, it was back. 

The one that whispered every calorie was a battle and every bite had a consequence. It felt way too much like growing up with Mom—where food wasn’t just food. It was war. I didn’t want to go back there. But I also needed to get in shape.

Two weeks in, three days a week at the gym, and I’d lost exactly three pounds. 

Three. 

I mean, come on—I could gain three pounds in one Cheesecake Factory date, easy. Not exactly the big, life-changing result I’d been hoping for.

And with Thanksgiving looming, the constant back-and-forth between indulging and depriving myself was driving me straight-up nuts. I felt stuck in limbo—caught somewhere between who I wanted to be and who I actually was, with no clue how to bridge the gap.

Maybe I was too stressed to lose weight.

Sam? Yeah, still no clue what to do about him. 

Talk to HR? Make him sweat? Coast through the rest of my contract, knowing I had the upper hand? But if no one saw us, it’d just be his word against mine—and we all know how that usually shakes out. The options spun around in my head like a roulette wheel, but for now, I was staying put. No moves. Not yet.

David? Whole different kind of problem.

And OnlyFans? Stepping away felt like ripping off a Band-Aid from a wound that was still raw and throbbing. I knew I needed the break—it was what was best for me—but the thought of losing my subscribers, my momentum, and maybe even a piece of my identity? That part stung.

And then there were the boys. Texts blowing up my phone like clockwork. Guys, here’s a tip: confessing your love through text? It just comes across as lame and desperate. The usual suspects were all there—ex-boyfriends, random guys I’d never gotten around to blocking, and, of course, Jordan, Chase, and a handful of others. 

They wouldn’t stop begging me to hang out, each one practically oozing an agenda. And yeah, maybe I could use some action in the bedroom—it had been a minute—but the constant buzzing of my phone, the attention, the expectations? It was all giving me serious anxiety.

And then, because life apparently wasn’t chaotic enough, the holidays were barreling toward me like a freight train I couldn’t outrun. Family dinners. Endless questions. Passive-aggressive comments I didn’t have the energy to deflect. It was piling on fast, leaving me feeling totally overwhelmed.

Chapter 16

Thanksgiving sucked butt.

My dad—the dentist—and his wife, Diana (she’s been around a couple of years, but let’s not kid ourselves, she’s not stepmom material) had their house done up like something straight out of a Hallmark card.

A fire crackled in the living room, mismatched plates gave the dining table that “charming and cozy” vibe everyone loves to gush over, and the smell of roasted turkey filled every corner of the house. It was warm. Inviting. Everything Thanksgiving should’ve been.

Except for the people around the table.

Aunts, uncles, cousins, and, of course, Grandma Livia? Way too much. And the cherry on top? This was supposed to be my first Thanksgiving as Mrs. Tanner Jensen—the perfect, obedient, skinny little exercise-obsessed housewife to a future CEO.

Instead, there I was. Solo. Walking into Thanksgiving on my own, trying to hold my head high, even though I felt like a big, overly curvy hippo dropped smack in the middle of a room full of judgmental, outdoorsy relatives. 

Sure, I’d tried—cut carbs, hit the gym with Jenna, did all the things—but let’s be real. I was definitely bigger than the last time most of them had seen me.

And judging by the not-so-subtle side-eyes and those awkward silences that hung in the air like bad perfume, they’d noticed. 

Oh, they’d noticed.

Christopher, my younger brother, was there, thank God. Easygoing, funny, and always armed with a perfectly-timed joke, he was the only reason these family dinners didn’t send me running for the hills. 

Claire, my older sister, wasn’t there—still buried in dental school, following in Dad’s footsteps like the perfect golden child she is. And while I missed her, a part of me was relieved. If Claire had been there, the judgment, the commentary, and the subtle jabs would’ve doubled.

And Claire? She didn’t hold back. She’d see straight through me, call me out on my “curves” (aka my weight gain), and poke holes in every half-truth I’d pieced together about how great my life was going.

Dinner started off pretty damn good—the food was incredible, as always. But, like clockwork, the comments started rolling in.

“Wow, Celeste,” Grandma Livia said, her eyes trailing over my ass like she was mentally slapping a “Caution: Wide Load” sticker across my leggings. “You’ve really... filled out.”

Seriously, how does she have zero filter?

“Thanks, Grandma,” I said, my tone so dry it could’ve turned the cranberry sauce to dust. I grabbed another dinner roll, because if they were gonna judge me, I might as well make it worth their while.

Uncle Bob, the self-proclaimed family charmer (he’s not), probably already a few brandies deep, chimed in between bites of turkey. “That outfit’s doing some heavy lifting, huh? Not a teenager anymore, I see.”

Dad shot him a glare sharp enough to carve the turkey, but Bob just grinned, oblivious to the awkwardness he was creating.

And okay, maybe Uncle Bob wasn’t totally wrong. My black tights were working overtime, clinging to my hips and thighs like they were holding on for dear life. The matching V-neck top? Let’s just say it wasn’t doing me any favors. It dipped low, walking the line between flattering and look at me—not the vibe I was going for. Swear.

“Single life must be treating you well,” Grandma Livia added, her tone so sweet it could rot teeth. “No one around to say no when you want dessert?”

I clenched my fork so tight I thought it might snap, biting back every snarky reply that was ready to fly out of my mouth. Instead, I reached for the gravy boat and drowned my mashed potatoes in buttery goodness. If they were going to judge me, I was going to enjoy every single bite of this meal.

But even telling myself that, it wasn’t easy.

Not with Grandma’s sharp blue eyes crawling all over me and Uncle Bob’s smug little goatee grin sitting across the table.

The old insecurities?

Oh, they crept in like they always did.

Maybe I should start weighing my food again.

Maybe I really did have more energy in my keto days.

Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second roll—or even the first.

But then there was the other part of me—the tired, frustrated, I’m so done with this crap part. That part grabbed another spoonful of stuffing, loaded up my plate, and said, screw it.

By the time dessert rolled around, my plate was a battlefield—cranberry sauce smears, gravy streaks, and crumbs from at least three butterflake rolls. My black tights were practically begging for mercy, the waistband digging into my stomach like it was punishing me for every indulgent bite.

And the comments? Oh, they didn’t stop.

“Are there any special men in your life?” 

“I really liked Tanner. He was such a catch.”

“Have you been living on mostly take-out now?”

“Why are you still single?”

Then came the pièce de résistance.

“So, what is it dear?” Grandma Livia asked, her voice dripping with phony curiosity, her eyes sparkling with judgment. “Stress eating since calling off the wedding? Or are you just… enjoying life a little too much?”

If Grandma Livia only knew how much money I made online in the last 4 months. 

I swear, even my own relatives are jealous of my looks. You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.

Dad cleared his throat, his way of trying to steer the conversation somewhere safer, but it was too late. Grandma’s words had already hit their mark.

I plastered on a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes but screamed, Try me. “Something like that,” I said, my tone just sweet enough to make it clear I wasn’t playing along.

And then, because I was done—done with the judgment, done with the pointed looks, done pretending I cared what they thought—I reached for the pumpkin pie.

The first bite melted on my tongue—sweet, spiced, perfect. But one slice? That wasn’t going to cut it. Not tonight. Not after enduring Grandma Livia’s endless commentary and Bob’s obnoxious remarks.

I went back for seconds. Then thirds. And let me tell you, every bite tasted like defiance. Like victory. Like something Cel Monroe would do with a wink and a slow lick of her fork for dramatic effect.

By the time I poured myself another glass of wine—rich, red, warming my heaving chest—I was already reaching for a slice of pecan pie. Somewhere in the haze of carbs and sugar, Bob muttered something about my appetite, but I barely heard him. The buttery, sugary pie on my plate was calling louder than he ever could.

“Cel, you okay?” Dad’s voice broke through the fog, his brow furrowed as I polished off another slice of pie and reached for more.

“Peachy,” I said, taking another sip of wine and shooting grandma a look as her lips pursed so tight they could’ve sealed an envelope.

By the time the dishes were cleared and the leftovers packed up, I was stuffed to the point of bursting, tipsy from too much wine, and caught in a whirlwind of emotions I didn’t have the energy to untangle. My belly pressed hard against the waistband of my tights, my black top squeezing everything, the deep V-neckline showing off way more than grandma probably approved of—not that I cared.

“Celeste,” Grandma said, her voice oozing fake concern as I reached for my coat. “You’re not really planning to eat all those leftover cookies, are you dear?”

I turned to her with a grin—full sass, zero sweetness. “Oh, I absolutely am. Thanks for asking.”

I wiggled into my coat and grabbed the container of pumpkin shaped sugar cookies, holding my head high as I swayed to the door, even though my tights were screaming and my stomach felt like I might pop. Grandma Livia’s gaze followed me the whole way, her lips pursed in disapproval, and Uncle Bob gave a low chuckle as I passed.

“Save some for the rest of us,” he called, laughing at his own joke.

“Don’t worry, Bob. I left the fruitcake just for you,” I called over my shoulder, dripping sarcasm like it was my superpower.

Dad followed me out to the car, his hand heavy on my shoulder in the crisp night air. “You okay to drive, kiddo?” he asked, his voice low and cautious—full-on dad mode with a side of let me figure out how much you’ve had to drink.

“Yeah, Dad,” I snapped, my breath already short from the walk to the car. Probably because I was stuffed to the point of bursting. 

He nodded, his brow furrowing, wearing that classic dad worry like it was stitched into his DNA. “Your grandma loves you. She means well. She just… doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Whatever,” I shot back, yanking the car door open and tossing the container of cookies onto the passenger seat. “She means something, but let’s be real—it’s not well.” I shrugged, even though I felt seconds away from falling apart. “It’s fine. I’m used to people commenting on the way I look.”

Dad’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a tight, thin line. I could tell he wanted to say something—fix it, maybe—but he didn’t. Instead, he just nodded, gave my shoulder a firm squeeze, and said softly, “Drive safe.” Then he turned and headed back inside, leaving the words unsaid hanging in the air between us.

I crammed into the driver’s seat with a heavy flop, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. For a second, I just sat there, staring out the windshield, taking a long pull from my vape. The sharp buzz hit my chest, cutting through the emotional storm brewing inside me, but not enough to clear it.

The container of cookies sat on the passenger seat, practically glaring at me.

Mocking me. Taunting me.

Without thinking, I reached over, grabbed one, and bit into it, the sweetness hitting my tongue as frustration, embarrassment, and straight-up defiance swirled inside me like a bad cocktail I didn’t want but was drinking anyway.

With a heavy sigh, I started the car. The hum of the engine was grounding, pulling me back to the present as I backed out of the driveway and left the evening behind me. By the time I made it to my apartment, the tension from dinner had dulled to a low throb, replaced by sheer exhaustion that settled into my bones like a weighted blanket.

I kicked off my shoes the second I stepped inside, my coat flying onto the sectional without a thought. I threw the cookies on the coffee table—they were still calling to me, still teasing me—but for once, I ignored them. My stomach was painfully full, and all I wanted was to sleep off the disaster of the day.

I peeled off my clothes and collapsed into bed, sinking into the cool comfort of the sheets. But as I stared at the ceiling, Thanksgiving replayed in my mind. Grandma’s judgmental stares. Uncle Bob’s obnoxious, inappropriate jokes. The way my tights felt like they were strangling me with every single bite. I’d probably undone all the progress I’d made at the gym with Jenna—what, three pounds? Seriously? It was laughable.

I sighed deeply, rubbing my belly like it might somehow help. “Tomorrow,” I whispered, like the word itself could press reset. “I’ll deal with it…ooohh, tomorrow.”

But tonight… tonight I wanted to enjoy the fullness in my body. I wanted to savor it. That lazy, stuffed feeling, like I’d indulged in something delicious and now just needed to relax. 

There was something about it that turned me on, the food coma vibe tugging at me, and before I knew it, I was getting wet and reaching for my toy. 

Maybe I missed sex. Maybe I missed being with a man. But right now, alone with my body, stuffed and my toy in hand, it felt like enough. 

I let myself take comfort in it, every second of it, moving it from my nipples, to the softest part of my inner thighs, then rubbing gentle circles around my clit, teasing my pussy. I even wiggled back toward the coffee table naked to grab the cookies, letting the sweetness mingle with the pleasure, and it was pure bliss, pure ecstasy, shoving the last cookie between my plump lips as I pushed deep inside and finished, gasping and moaning, thinking only about how soft and stuffed I felt.

December was a blur—a tornado of good intentions blown to bits by terrible decisions. I tried—I swear I did. I stuck with my workouts with Jenna, cut back on sugar, carbs, and wine—well, most of the time—and even gave intermittent fasting another go. But seriously, how do people survive that on a workday? Absolute madness.

The office was quieter with the holidays creeping closer. Sam was still MIA, David was still lurking, avoiding me, and being his usual weird self. And honestly? I was working from home more than I was showing up, skipping out on gym sessions with Jenna way more than I should’ve.

Too much stress. Too many parties. Too many cookies. And let’s not even talk about those cranberry bliss bars. Seriously, how the hell was I supposed to say no to those?

By Christmas Eve, the scale hit 193. All the progress I’d made in November with Jenna? Poof. Gone. And, because the universe loves to laugh, I’d tacked on an extra two pounds for good measure.

How is it that gaining weight is as easy as sipping champagne—but losing is like the hardest thing ever.

Small win? At least the scale didn’t hit 200—small mercies and all that. But still, I felt like I was stuck on a hamster wheel. One step forward, two steps back, and no exit in sight. And with OnlyFans on pause, I couldn’t even blame Cel Monroe for this disaster. Nope, this one was all me.

That weigh-in video after Halloween? Supposed to mark my heaviest ever: 191. But surprise, surprise—193 had other plans. For a hot second, I thought about doing another quick weigh-in video, but I talked myself out of it. Stick to the plan, right? Truth? I was probably just too lazy.

Christmas at Mom’s? Thanksgiving on steroids—and not the fun kind. Walking into her house felt like marching onto a battlefield. My so-called armor? A cropped black leather jacket and a dress that clung to me like it was holding a grudge.

That dress? I’d pinned all my hopes on it. The ruched olive-green fabric had looked so promising a month ago, whispering lies about hiding my curves and masking my weight. 

But, it didn’t. 

That backstabbing thing wrapped around me like it was designed to highlight every inch of my ass, belly, and breasts. And the strappy heels I paired it with? Completely useless. They didn’t distract from the fact that every other “holiday-appropriate” outfit in my closet had surrendered weeks ago.

As a last-ditch effort, I threw on the leather jacket—the one I’d splurged on at AllSaints after a particularly good OnlyFans month. Because really, nothing says I’ve got my shit together like leather. Except my arms had gotten so soft and my boobs had gotten so big that the stupid thing wouldn’t close. So there I was, jacket bulging open, leaving the dress to carry all the weight. Literally.

I’d styled my hair into soft, loose waves, framed my face just right, and nailed my makeup. If nothing else, I was determined to own the look. Sure, I was walking into a room full of judgment, but hell, I’d at least look hot doing it—or as hot as possible with a jacket that wouldn’t close and a dress clinging to me like an ex who couldn’t take a hint.

The moment I stepped through the door, the smell of gingerbread and roasted beef slammed into me, overwhelming and inescapable. I braced myself, sucking in a deep breath. 

Mom’s house was, as always, perfect to the point of insanity. The fake tree sparkled, and the stockings were hung by the chimney with drill-sergeant precision. 

Everything was too perfect. Too controlled. And don’t even get me started on the heat—it was cranked so high it felt like I was standing in a sauna, suffocating under all that fake holiday cheer.

“Celeste!” Mom’s overly chipper voice rang out from the kitchen. Before I could even shrug off my jacket, she was there, her eyes sweeping over me like a TSA scanner. They lingered just a beat too long on my waist, her smile faltering for the briefest second—long enough for me to catch it.

“Oh my goodness, sweetheart wow! Um, you look… festive. Come in, come in, we’re just sitting down to eat.”

“Festive,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes. If she only knew the Herculean effort it took to squeeze myself into this damn dress.

I wiggled out of my jacket, hung it on the hook, and caught Mom’s quick, calculating glance at my hips. Her eyes went wide, like she was mentally updating her spreadsheet of my weight in real time.

“Smells amazing in here,” I said, forcing a smile and bouncing past her into the dining room before she could guilt-trip me with any more looks of shock and disappointment.

Claire was already seated, posture perfect, next to her boyfriend, Brandon. She looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of Women’s Health in her cream sweater dress, perfectly draped over her toned arms and slender frame. Her platinum ponytail was pulled so tight, it was practically giving her a facelift. Her makeup? Meh. Fine. Nothing to write home about. But when you’re “the smart one,” you don’t need flashy. Straight-A student. Overachiever. The one who would make the family proud.

We used to be about the same size, not even that long ago—albeit Claire with her broader shoulders and more muscles, me with more booty. I tried to shove the thought down, but it clawed its way back up, refusing to let go. Now? My sister was probably like 50 pounds lighter than me, which was just plain crazy. And, of course, she had that extra inch of height, because why not?

But let’s be honest—people always compared us. It was practically the family pastime. Claire was the district champ swimmer; I was the cheerleader. Claire was valedictorian; I was sneaking vodka into prom. At least I got voted homecoming queen senior year—Claire never managed that.

Me? I was the middle child. Blessed with too much beauty—their words, not mine—and cursed with way too much emotion. Always treated like I’d fall apart if someone so much as sneezed near me. My role? Look pretty and serve as family decoration I guess.

Not that I cared. I never wanted to be Claire. Seriously, who chooses to spend their life poking around in strangers’ mouths, fixing their nasty yellow teeth, and disgusting gums? Hard pass.

Claire’s eyes flicked over me—just long enough to sting. Too quick to scream outright judgment, but slow enough to make my fingers itch to tug at my dress and disappear into the wallpaper.

Then there was Brandon—Mr. Health-Nut Fitness Science Podcaster, influencer, or whatever title he was slapping on himself these days. The perfect match for my picture-perfect sister. Except his eyes? Oh no, they weren’t on her.

They were locked on me, taking a slow tour of every bulging, heaving curve that hadn’t been there last Christmas. And let me tell you, it was the kind of look that would definitely not sit well with Claire. 

Not that she noticed. 

She was too busy dissecting me with her own laser-focused glare. But if she’d been paying attention? She’d have caught her so-called boyfriend looking like he was about two seconds away from straight-up drooling.

Leave it to men to tell you the truth without saying a word—gaining weight doesn’t make you any less attractive. I don’t care what Brandon preaches on his YouTube channel or podcast or whatever. His eyes didn’t lie.

Not that it mattered.

Whatever. Who even knew? If I started making videos again and got back into it, maybe Cel Monroe could rake in more money than Brandon’s ridiculous podcast or Claire’s future dental practice ever would. 

My sister spends years studying, working her butt off, and I sit on mine, eat donuts on camera, and make bank. Just thinking about it was downright hilarious. If only they knew. 

Not that I’d ever tell them.

“Cel!” Claire popped up, pulling me into one of her quick, polite hugs. Her tone was flat—classic Claire—but her eyes? Oh, they were still wide and still sweeping over me. “You look… great!”

“Thanks,” I said, forcing the word out as I stepped back, far enough to keep her out of my bubble of judgment. My stomach twisted—a sharp, painful reminder of just how much bigger I was since she’d last seen me—but I wasn’t about to let her turn me into her personal science project.

Christopher, bless him, was leaning by his chair, flashing me his easy grin—the one that said, We should sneak out and smoke a bowl later. At least someone in this family wasn’t silently calculating my BMI.

And then there was Scott—Mr. Lawyer Extraordinaire, my stepdad—planted at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, eyes glued to his phone. He gave me a quick nod, the bare minimum of acknowledgment, before diving right back into whatever was apparently more riveting than family.

Dinner, as always, was a production: prime rib, roasted veggies, candied yam casserole, mashed potatoes, and enough sides to feed an army. So much good food, but no one touched it without first commenting about “hitting the gym tomorrow” or “not ruining their diet.” Everyone except me. For better or worse, I wasn’t holding back.

And, predictably, the comments started.

“Celeste,” Mom began, passing the breadbasket, her tone light, but that familiar edge of critique sliced through like a hot knife through butter. “How’s Google treating you? You’ve been… keeping busy?”

Here we go. I slapped on a fake smile. “Super busy,” I said, grabbing a roll and slathering it in butter like it was my last meal. Moments like this? I wished I had a boyfriend—or maybe just a part-time one. Someone to take the heat off me and shut down the inevitable so, are you seeing anyone? questions.

Hell, maybe I should’ve invited Chase or Jordan—or both—to Christmas dinner. They probably would’ve shown up, considering they’ve been texting me nonstop lately. Two big, handsome guys at my side to shield me from my own family? Missed opportunity, for sure.

I mean, I’d almost married Tanner just to avoid situations like this. And don’t even get me started on the passive-aggressive weight comments. When you’re in a relationship, extra curves can make you look “well taken care of.” But when you’re single? Suddenly, it’s all girl, put the fork down.

Claire chimed in, her voice sharp and cold, cutting like a knife. “I’ve heard Google has amazing food.”

“They sure do,” I said, grabbing the mashed potatoes and piling them high. If I was gonna survive this dinner, I was damn well gonna eat my way through it—like Thanksgiving 2.0.

But, of course, Mom wasn’t done. She hit me with the look—that soft, concerned expression that pretended to be loving but was really just judgment wrapped in a sugary bow. “I just worry, sweetheart,” she said, her voice sweet, but her eyes sharp enough to slice. “You’re so busy—don’t neglect your health. The habits you form when you’re young can stick with you for life.”

Translation: You’ve gained weight and I’m worried you’re going to gain more.

“Mom, I’m fine,” I snapped, sharper than I intended. I grabbed the candied sweet potato casserole, shoveling it onto my plate like I was suiting up for battle, pretending the tension in the room wasn’t thick enough to choke on.

By the time dessert rolled around, I was stuffed. The dress? It was fighting a losing battle. The ruching was working overtime, but it was no match.

“Celeste,” Mom said, just as I reached for a slice of the yule log Claire made but wouldn’t touch if her life depended on it. Her voice was light, but her eyes? Sharp as a blade. “Are you sure you need that?”

Uh, what? Excuse me, hello, it’s Christmas. I froze, my hand hovering over the cake, my brain short-circuiting for a second. But then I snapped out of it, arched my back, and plastered on the fakest, sweetest smile I could muster. “Absolutely,” I said, grabbing the slice and topping it with an obnoxiously generous dollop of whipped cream, just for good measure. Take that, Mom.

As the night dragged on, the tension thickened with every glance from Mom, every too-perfect posture from Claire. By the time I made it to my car, I was stuffed to the point of bursting yet again. My hips, belly, and chest strained against my dress, and I collapsed into the driver’s seat, sucking on my vape, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Christmas at Mom’s? I was just glad it was over.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)