The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 1 - 4

Here is a new story for a change of pace. I will be doing a video for Chapter 25 of The Weight of Love coming soon and I will add a few little upgrades to Chapter 26-27 as well to help tie it all together as one long story. I could possibly do Chapter 19 and 22 as well if there is a demand for it. I hope you enjoy this new story :) Thank you!

Chapter 1

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Tanner’s face when I told him it was over. Wide-eyed, disbelieving, the kind of pain that cuts deep.

I hated it.

God, I hated it.

But I knew I had to do it. I had to. Because no matter how hard I tried—how hard I pretended—I just wasn’t in love with him.

Not once. Not ever.

The pleading started almost immediately. All the What ifs and If onlys, like he thought he could bargain his way back into my heart with just the right combination of magic words. But the truth was plain as day, at least to me. He was never in my heart. He never had me.

It was all my fault.

I stayed too long. Too quiet. Too caught up in being what everyone else wanted me to be. I said yes when I should’ve said no. And not just once. I said yes when he asked me to move in. Yes when he slipped that ring on my finger. Yes when everyone we knew clapped and cheered and said, “Finally!”

Yes, yes, yes. Until I couldn’t say it anymore.

I don’t even know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all. I was just swept up in it. Swept up in the idea of being the good girl, Tanner’s hot girlfriend, Tanner’s perfect fiancée, the kind of woman everyone said I was supposed to be.

I was 23, fresh out of college. First real job, first taste of independence—if you could even call it that. Tanner was three years older, steady, safe. He’d been my boyfriend since sophomore year. My rock through all-nighters, hangovers, and every one of my spectacular study meltdowns. Sweet. Attentive. Handsome. The kind of guy who checked all the boxes on paper.

Everyone said we were perfect together. Everyone except me.

The spark? That spark people talk about—the butterflies, the fireworks, the catch-your-breath-and-hold-it kind of love? I never had it with Tanner. Not once. But I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself it’d come eventually. It never did.

There I was perched on his sofa, wearing jeans and a white spaghetti strap top, the Louis Vuitton carry-on he’d bought me sitting on the floor, leaning against my leg. It was hastily packed with my laptop, makeup bag, Sonicare toothbrush, flat iron, a handful of clothes, and not much else—just enough to get me out of there. In my lap, my black Zara backpack-purse was clutched so tight my knuckles were white, my fingers gripping the straps like they were the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

I wanted my vape. God, I wanted it bad. It felt like an itch crawling under my skin, relentless and impossible to ignore. But I didn’t reach for it. No way was I giving Tanner the satisfaction of throwing one of his smug, disapproving looks my way. Not tonight.

He was pacing by the kitchen, firing off one last desperate Hail Mary, words tumbling out like he thought he could talk me out of leaving. Out of ending us.

“What if I bought us a house before the wedding?” he asked, his voice thick with hope. “Just think about it, Celeste, you’d have all the space you want.”

I shook my head, my voice soft but firm. “Tanner, please stop. There isn’t going to be a wedding.”

He froze mid-step, then spun on me, his finger stabbing the air between us. “You owe me!”

I blinked, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“How many times did I cover for you?” he snapped. “Finish your assignments? Cheat for you when you were too hungover to drag your ass out of bed? You wouldn’t even have your job if it wasn’t for me!”

I rolled my eyes and scooted forward in my seat, placing my ankle-high black leather boots firmly on the hardwood floor. “I don’t owe you anything, Tanner. I’m sorry. I’ve said it a hundred times, but I can’t stay here. I need to leave.”

His shoulders sagged, the anger melting into something sad and small. “You’re leaving?”

I stood, slinging my purse over my shoulder, then brushing my blonde hair out of my face with my free hand. “Yes.”

“You don’t even have anywhere to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Or is there another jackass out there waiting for you to crawl in bed with him?”

“I booked an Airbnb,” I told him, keeping my tone calm.

He lunged, grabbing my wrist. “Where?”

I pulled free, my chest tight with nerves. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Fine!” he barked, his voice rising. “Good! Get out of here! You were starting to get a fat ass anyway.”

I froze, my breath catching like he’d sucker-punched me.

He knew. Of course, he knew. Tanner always knew where to hit me, how to aim for the crack and make it spread wide open. He knew my insecurities—the ones I’d whispered in the dark when I thought I could trust him. He’d watched me obsess over calories, over the numbers on the scale, over every bite of food I put in my mouth.

He knew I was 5’4” and how hard I worked to keep the scale under 140. Knew it was a battle I’d been losing lately, the kind that showed in the way my jeans fit a little too snug.

And he used it. Of course, he did.

Because that was Tanner. When he was losing, he didn’t just lash out. He went for blood.

But I wasn’t giving him any more of mine.

I didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t let him see how his words landed—sharp and cutting, sinking deep and twisting in all the places he knew I was raw. I just kept walking, dragging my suitcase behind me, keeping my chin up, my stride a steady clicking of my heels, out the door and into whatever came next.

Because whatever was waiting for me out there? It had to be better than this.

Chapter 2

I blame my weight obsession on my mom. She’s the reigning queen of yo-yo dieting, like her entire self-worth hinged on the number flashing back at her on the scale. Ten pounds up? Panic mode. Ten pounds down? A brief sigh of relief before the next round of deprivation and calorie counting kicked in. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure she had an undiagnosed eating disorder, probably still does. Maybe she hated how much she actually enjoyed food. Maybe she hated her body so much that she couldn’t help but pass all that loathing down to me.

Claire, my older sister, got lucky. She slipped right through the cracks of Mom’s obsession. No sweet tooth, no sneaking midnight snacks. While I was figuring out how to climb onto the counter to swipe candy from the top shelf, Claire was parked at the kitchen table, calmly finishing her homework.

And while I got my mom’s beauty and her curves—hips, thighs, and all—Claire got more of Dad’s genes, his athleticism and tendency towards leanness. She looked like she ran five miles just for fun, and I guess she sort of did. Disciplined. Controlled. Everything I wasn’t.

She made it look so damn easy. God, I envied that.

I hated that I let my mom’s insecurities become mine, like some kind of toxic inheritance. It was so stupid. Especially because when I stripped away all the noise—Mom’s voice in my head, society’s endless expectations—I actually liked my body better when it was a little fuller. When I just let myself eat what I wanted, when I wasn’t counting calories like they were $100 bills, I was happier.

At least until the guilt came creeping back, slow and insidious, wrapping itself around me until I was back at the gym, back on the scale, back in the same unrelenting cycle.

After Tanner proposed, it was like I hit turbo. Exercising every single day, weighing my food, stepping on the scale first thing every morning. It wasn’t about health—it never was. It was about chasing this impossible ideal I thought I had to achieve, especially with a wedding on the horizon.

But as the wedding date got closer, so did reality. I didn’t love Tanner. I wasn’t going to love Tanner, and I had to end it.

Once I accepted that, everything else started to crumble. The workouts? I couldn’t muster the energy. The food scale? It disappeared into a drawer. Instead of dealing with my feelings, I started eating them. Chips, ice cream, takeout—I didn’t care. The bathroom scale crept into the upper 130s and then kept climbing until I stopped looking altogether.

By the time I slid into my black VW Jetta after walking out of Tanner’s condo on that summer night, I felt like I was going to come apart at the seams. The second the door clicked shut, I grabbed my vape, dragging hard and fast until my chest ached and my throat burned. But it didn’t stop the tears. They came hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks before I even had a chance to fight them.

I sat there, shaking, head in my hands, my makeup streaked to hell. I let it all out—the anger, the heartbreak, the sheer exhaustion of holding it together for so long. When the sobs finally eased, leaving me hollow and spent, I took a quick peek at myself in the rearview mirror, wiped my face with the back of my hand, threw the car into gear, and drove.

The Airbnb was a one-bedroom tucked in a quiet building about 15 minutes from Tanner’s place. Cozy. Anonymous. The kind of place where you could disappear, and no one would come looking. It was nicer than I could really afford, but at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care.

I stepped inside, shut and locked the door behind me, and let out a tired breath. My bag rolled into the corner by the bed, forgotten as I collapsed into the chair by a window overlooking the city. No unpacking, no overthinking—just me pulling out my phone, compulsively vaping on cherry-flavored nicotine, scrolling through DoorDash like finding the perfect meal might somehow make everything hurt a little less.

You’d think I wouldn’t have an appetite after all that, right? Wrong. I was starving. Craving anything that would fill the gnawing void left by the breakup and distract me from the storm of texts and emails waiting for me. Vendors, guests, friends, family—every single one of them expecting a wedding, and instead, I had to tell them it was over. All the money, the planning, the excitement—gone. Because of me. Because I hadn’t spoken up sooner. Because I didn’t say no.

So, yeah, I was hungry. Hungry for escape, for comfort, for anything to drown out the noise in my head.

I found a local pizzeria and ordered a medium white sauce parmesan chicken pizza, mozzarella sticks, and a slice of dark chocolate salted caramel cheesecake. Just to balance it out, I threw in a Caesar salad. Like that made it better. But honestly? I didn’t care. All I wanted was food, silence, and the bliss of not having to think about today until tomorrow.

I placed my order, stuffed my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and headed for the elevator. Once I hit the street, I slipped into a little corner store that smelled like stale chips and overripe bananas, the type of place where the aisles were so narrow I worried my butt might knock something over, and everything felt sticky. I grabbed the first bottle of red wine I saw with a screw top and a price tag under twenty bucks. Cheap, easy, and effective—that was the criteria tonight.

The clerk behind the counter was a middle-aged guy with a gut straining against his shirt and a name tag that might’ve said “Larry.” He gave me the kind of slow, deliberate once-over that made me want to crawl out of my skin. Then he said, “You gotta be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

I wasn’t in the mood. My eyes were still red, my hair a tangled mess, and my makeup streaked down my cheeks like some tragic raccoon. I mumbled a quick “thanks,” tapped my phone to pay, and grabbed my bottle without waiting for chit-chat. Compliments weren’t going to untangle the wreckage of my life tonight, especially not from some loser convenience store attendant named Larry.

And Tanner? Tanner had been dead wrong. There wasn’t another guy. Sure, there were guys—plenty of them. Guys who’d love to invite me into their beds, probably no questions asked, maybe even forever if I wanted. But tonight wasn’t about rebounds or distractions.

Tonight was about me. About finding peace and solitude. About unsnapping my bra, unsnapping my jeans, sinking into a king-sized bed, putting my phone on do-not-disturb, wrapping myself in high-thread-count sheets, and letting the world outside fade away. Pizza, wine, Netflix—all mine, no compromises. No judgment. No expectations.

For the first time in months, I let myself just be. And it felt good.

Chapter 3

The next morning was Friday, and I woke up late with a mild hangover and a lingering burn in my chest. The kind of burn that told me I’d made some questionable decisions, but it wasn’t bad enough to make me regret them—yet. I didn’t have to be at the office today, and there was no way in hell I was showing up anyway.

After a few puffs on my vape, I stumbled into the bathroom, still half-asleep, and took care of business. After washing my hands and splashing some cold water on my face, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror. For someone who’d drowned herself in wine and carbs the night before, I didn’t think I looked half bad.

I was topless, just wearing my pink thong—the one that was starting to dig into my hips and belly a little too much to ignore. But even with that, and despite my stomach looking understandably bloated, I didn’t think I looked fat. Just curvy. Feminine. Shapely in the way that made me almost want to smile at myself, though years of being in my own head about my body held me back.

The thing is, the obsession I’ve had with my weight? It’s always been a mental thing for me. If I didn’t complain about it, no one would even know I carried all this baggage about how I looked because I was never fat. I mean, yeah, I went through a chubby phase in seventh grade before puberty and a growth spurt evened things out. And sure, I gained the freshman fifteen in college. And, like everyone else, I put on a few extra pounds during COVID. But I’ve always been able to whip myself into shape after—crash diets, obsessive workouts, the whole routine.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve fluctuated between 120 and 140 pounds. Not that I’ve been anywhere near 120 since junior year of high school, but even at my heaviest, no one’s ever called me fat. They might say I’ve got a fat ass, but that’s just where the weight goes when I gain. It also fills out my chest a little, which, honestly? No complaints there. I’m actually pretty petite—small hands, small feet, narrow shoulders, a delicate jawline. I’ve never been particularly blessed in the chest department, but what I lack up top, my rear end has always more than made up for. 

My whole life, no one has ever called me anything but beautiful, stunning, or even drop-dead gorgeous. People often compare me to Marilyn Monroe—probably because of the blonde hair, the curves, and the way I move through the world. Quiet. Shy. Though sometimes people mistake that for arrogance.

And yeah, I’ve been called a siren more times than I can count. Men are drawn to me—always have been. Like I’ve got some kind of energy they can’t help but follow. It’s just how it is, and it’s not something my sister and I share. She’s incredible in her own right, don’t get me wrong. But she was never a siren. Few women truly are.

There was a scale on the floor next to the toilet, staring me down like it had something to prove. I knew better than to step on it. I really did. But Tanner’s snide comment about me “starting to get a fat ass” had been on repeat in my head since last night, and, well, curiosity got the better of me.

I stepped on, braced myself, and looked down.

148.

Wait—what? 148 pounds? That couldn’t be right. Ten pounds up from the last time I weighed myself, which had to be at least a month ago. Back when I told myself I was done caring. And yeah, I was pretty sure this was the heaviest I’d ever been.

The too-tight panties? The fuller breasts? It all made sense now.

When I got fitted for my wedding dress two months ago, I measured 32-24-37. I’d worked my ass off (literally) for those numbers, and I was damn proud of them at the time. But now? I couldn’t help wondering if I’d be able to squeeze into that dress at all. It’s crazy how you can kill yourself exercising, eat perfectly for ages, and then watch all that progress vanish like poof. Why can’t everything be as easy as gaining weight?

I turned back to the mirror. Bare skin, softer curves. My waist was still there, my stomach mostly flat, though there was a little more spillover than usual. But here’s the thing—I didn’t hate it. My body looked fuller. Feminine. Real.

Sure, the number was higher than I expected, but it didn’t wreck me like it would’ve a year ago. No guilt. No beating myself up. No plotting the world’s most miserable diet.

Maybe it was the hangover talking.

I went back to the bedroom and tried to piece together how I even ended up asleep last night. It was all a blur—endless TikTok videos and a Criminal Minds marathon. The wine bottle? Empty. No shock there; I’d been sipping it like it was my lifeline. What did surprise me was the food. Every crumb gone, except for one lonely slice of pizza sitting cold and greasy in the box on the table next to the bed.

Well, at least I ate the salad, I thought, rolling my eyes, knowing I didn’t actually care.

I grabbed my phone, my pastel pink nails pausing over the screen when the number of unread texts from Tanner hit me square in the face—fifteen. Plus the missed calls. A whole damn list of them. Just looking at his name made my stomach twist and my head pound harder.

But before I could even think about sorting through that trainwreck, survival instincts kicked in. Caffeine. I needed it, now. Something to wake me up, clear the fog, and push back the emotional trainwreck looming on the horizon.

So, I shoved all the messages aside for the moment and went back to my good ol’ DoorDash app, still feeling too lazy and tired to take the elevator down to any of the numerous coffee shops on street level. Despite all the options, I didn’t hesitate. Starbucks. Venti iced mocha. Bacon, egg, and gouda breakfast sandwich. Two brownies—because one is never enough, and I wasn’t even going to pretend I cared about being “good” today.

As I waited for the food to show up, I grabbed my other vape, my THC vape, taking a long pull to calm my anxiety, and drained one of the plastic complimentary bottles of water the host had left between coughs. Then I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

Could I spend the entire weekend holed up in this Airbnb without stepping foot outside? Probably. It wasn’t exactly home, but it was close enough for now. I’d booked it for a month, giving myself enough time to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life—and to score the monthly discount. That was probably the smartest thing (aside from breaking up with Tanner) I’d done in the past week.

The food finally came, and I devoured all of it—every bite, every sip, including both brownies. It’s wild how amazing food tastes when you’re hungover and there’s no one around to judge you. No snide comments about calories or needing to hit the gym later. No one to remind you that you’re “letting yourself go.” Just me, savoring every single delicious bite.

It was gone too quick. The Starbucks cup was empty, nothing left but melting ice rattling softly at the bottom. Crumpled wrappers littered the nightstand, and while I felt a flicker of guilt—eating way more than I normally would—there was a matching wave of defiant pleasure. Screw it. I didn’t care. If anything, I wished I’d ordered more.

Still, the food, the caffeine, and the mellow buzz from the cannabis gave me just enough of a boost to finally face what I’d been putting off.

The texts from Tanner sat there, glaring at me, daring me to open them. I let out a breath, steeled myself, and tapped into the thread. Predictable.

“You’ll be back!”

“I miss you. I love you.”

“Baby, I’m sorry. Please come back.”

“Ghosting me? Really???”

“Please, I’ll do anything for another chance. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

I rolled my eyes. Pathetic. Classic Tanner—grasping, needy, and somehow still making it all about him. So, so pathetic.

I probably should’ve blocked him last night, but I still had some stuff at his place that I wanted back. No way was I giving him a reason to toss my things out of spite. So, for now, I left the messages unanswered and moved on to the next thing on my to-do list: canceling the wedding.

Thankfully, Tanner’s mom had taken over most of the planning, mainly because I’d been “too distracted” to deal with the details. God bless her Type A personality. The woman lived for floral arrangements and seating charts. Still, there were a few things I couldn’t escape—like breaking the news to my mom and dad. And since they’re divorced, that meant two conversations instead of one. Lucky me.

I was hoping they’d pick up the slack from there—contact the photographers, the venue, the caterers, and send those “we’re so sorry” emails to the hundred-something guests who were about to get uninvited.

I probably should’ve felt sad. Or guilty. Or something other than… relief. But that’s all there was. A weight lifted. A freedom I hadn’t realized I was starving for until it hit me.

I texted my mom first. She responded right away, and not even ten seconds later, my phone lit up with her name. I couldn’t handle the inevitable onslaught of questions or concern, so I sent back a quick text: I’m fine. I just need some time alone this weekend.

My dad’s response was simpler: “Do you need money?” Classic Dad. I told him no, even though I wasn’t entirely sure that’d hold true once I started apartment hunting.

And that was that. It sucked for a lot of people. I knew it. But honestly? Canceling a wedding was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

A lifetime of misery? A brutal divorce down the line? No, thanks.

This wasn’t perfect, but it was the right call. It had to be.

Chapter 4

It had only been a few hours since I sent those texts and broke the news to my parents and a few close friends, but it felt like forever. I’d been holed up in my little temporary apartment, getting settled and diving deeper into the local cuisine, one DoorDash order at a time.

Because honestly, if there’s ever a time for comfort eating, it’s when you’ve exploded your wedding plans in one fell swoop. Food made me happy, and I was embracing any scrap of happiness I could find.

At some point, I’d dug through my suitcase and pulled on my charcoal camisole and matching boyshorts—my go-to for serious girl-rot sessions. Sure, the hems dug into my thighs a bit more than they did a month ago, but whatever. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere, so who cared?

I did manage to drag myself from the bedroom to the living room couch, but that only meant I was now surrounded by the glorious carnage of my lunch—chicken pad thai, half-eaten spring rolls, and a crème brûlée I’d tacked on from some fancy little place down the street. The result? One slightly bloated me, sprawled among a tangle of takeout containers, feeling about as emotionally stable as a three-legged chair.

Then my phone lit up on the sleek glass coffee table. I’d been ignoring it all day, with the sole exception of Jenna’s texts. She wasn’t giving me an earful about the canceled wedding; she was just trying to figure out where the heck I was hiding out.

I’m in za building, waiting for za elevator.

I let out a sigh of relief and shot back a quick, Great, see you in a sec, before hauling my overstuffed self off the sofa.

Just then, a soft, rapid knock sounded at the door—like someone was itching to swoop in and save me from the meltdown I’d been teetering on.

When I opened the door, there was Jenna—thick in all the right places—wearing a snug black yoga set that practically hollered, I might hit the squat rack, but I’m definitely stopping by the donut shop, too. In one hand, she gripped a giant box of Crumbl cookies; in the other, double-lined paper grocery bags weighed down with who-knew-what, while the strap of her crossbody purse sank between her breasts.

“You made it,” I said, stepping aside so she could breeze in and then closing the door and locking it behind her. “How’s the parking? Sorry, they only gave me one spot in the garage.”

She rolled her eyes, her loose brunette ponytail swishing over her shoulders. “Ugh, took me fifteen minutes of circling to find a decent space. But hey, I come bearing gifts.” She strode straight to the coffee table and set down the cookie box, then started unpacking the groceries, ignoring the mess that was already there. “We got a dozen of Crumbl’s best, a pinot that hopefully won’t taste like kerosene, a half-gallon of mint chocolate chip, and Epsom salt with lavender—because I know you.”

Despite everything, I couldn’t help a shaky little laugh. “You’re a goddess.”

She glanced around the snug living space, clocking the high ceilings, the shiny kitchen, and that cute dining nook in the corner. “Oooh, Celeste, this is nice. Like a perfect little hideaway.”

I took a step towards her. “It’s just for a month. Long enough to figure out my next move, I guess.”

She paused, then came in close, wrapping her arms around me in a big, squishy, comforting hug. “So… how you holdin’ up? Really?”

I offered a small shrug. “I’m okay.”

She released me and glanced around. “Where’s your corkscrew? Also, I should toss these bags and get this ice cream in the freezer before it melts.”

I let out a slow breath, then sank back down onto the sofa and took a pull from my nicotine vape. “Feel free to poke around. You probably know this place about as well as I do, so make yourself at home.”

Jenna returned from the kitchen moments later with two glasses of wine filled nearly to the brim. She sat down next to me and handed me one. She looked at the mostly empty takeout containers on the coffee table, then at the way my skimpy top was riding up my midsection, leaving an inch or two of my distended belly exposed. “Looks like someone’s been enjoying herself.”

I tugged downward on my camisole, took a sip of wine, and then smiled. “I have been, actually, although I’m also kind of a trainwreck.”

“Trainwreck or not, you’re still glowing,” Jenna insisted with a smile. “I mean, look at you—tossing the wedding, the fiancé, making a total pig out of yourself while still pulling off that sultry-loungewear look.”

I let out a quick little laugh before that familiar wave of anxiety washed over me—like it always does whenever people gush about my “natural beauty.” Deep down, I can’t help worrying it’ll spark envy. Meanwhile, Jenna’s forever fussing over her appearance—swinging between fierce confidence and total self-doubt, questioning if guys really like her, or just the idea of her.

Me? I just exist, and men apparently can’t look away. That’s never done me any favors with most women, who tend to see me as a threat. It’s why I’ve always gotten along better with guys, and why Jenna’s probably the only real female friend I’ve kept. 

We met freshman year—partied hard, practically dragged ourselves through with communications degrees—and by some miracle (or in my case strong referrals from Tanner and a few professors who just couldn’t stop staring), we both landed recruiter gigs at the same Google campus in Seattle, the same city where we went to college.

These days, Jenna’s got a boyfriend named Aaron, who’s honestly decent—better than I can say right now, I guess. But wanting my own space wasn’t the only reason I sprung for an Airbnb instead of crashing on Jenna and Aaron’s hide-a-bed, even if it was an extra three grand. The last thing I need is some man just a cracked bedroom door away, wondering if I sleep naked or sneaking a peek when I slip to the bathroom at two in the morning. Still, Jenna insists she loves me too much to let jealousy worm its way between us. And for now, I’m choosing to believe her.

I took another sip of wine, letting the tangy warmth glide down my throat. Amazing how quickly a little alcohol can take the edge off. “Yeah, well, too bad pigging out in sultry loungewear won’t cover the rent. I’m still stuck slaving away at a job I hate just to afford sky-high DoorDash fees and breakup Airbnbs.”

Jenna snorted. “True. But hey, I’m still in awe of you—walking away from everything and ignoring men who’d probably crawl over broken glass to date you. That’s pretty badass.”

A breathy laugh slipped out of me. “I’m done letting men dictate my life. One meltdown at a time is all I can handle.”

She grinned, set her wine on the coffee table, and reached for the cookie box. “Alright then, meltdown number one: sugar fest. I won’t pretend I’m not in for some stress-eating, too.”

She flipped open the lid, revealing a dozen pastel-frosted, chocolate-drizzled, sprinkle-covered masterpieces. They practically sparkled under the overhead light. My stomach rumbled at the sight. “They look incredible.”

“Duh.” Jenna plucked a funfetti cookie and pushed it toward me. “Chin up. This is your new normal—at least for now.”

I took it and smiled. “Well, I just ate a crap-ton of pad thai, but that was over an hour ago.”

“Oh, I noticed. So, you’re obviously in a full-on indulgence phase, huh?”

I bit down into the sugary bliss without a second’s thought. “Mm-hmm,” I moaned around the mouthful. “I (chew, chew) used to be all about the (chew) twelve-hundred-calorie life. But I think I’m getting over it.”

Jenna rolled her eyes, but there was a smile tugging at her lips. “I’m half jealous you can do that without ballooning overnight. I’m always trying to drop a size or three. But you know what? Screw it, we deserve cookies.”

“Exactly,” I said, eating shamelessly. “Tanner (munch, chew) always hated my junk-food binges. Guess that’s his problem now.”

“He’s just a control freak,” Jenna said, lifting her glass again. “So here’s to your future—whatever form it takes. Cookies, pinot, and no men calling the shots.”

I clinked her glass. “To my future and no regrets.”

After grabbing one of the original pink-sugar cookies, Jenna settled back, eyes flicking to me. “So you really hate our job that much? I don’t think it’s that bad. I mean, amazing breakfasts and lunches, all free, and I’ve got the hips to prove it. Plus it pays pretty well.”

I took another huge bite of my cookie—God, it tasted amazing—and mumbled around a mouthful of sprinkles, “I (chew, chew)swear I feel (chew, munch) out of my depth, underqualified, and completely unmotivated.”

Jenna licked a dab of frosting from her lips. “So what would you want to do?”

I sighed, frustration knotting in my chest. “That’s the problem. I have no clue, and I’m not really good at anything.”

She shot me a teasing grin. “You kidding? If anyone should be a model, it’s you girlypop. You should reboot that little side hustle from college.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Right. My mom would die if she found out I was doing that, and I’m surprisingly terrible at posing in front of cameras.”

Jenna raised her half-eaten cookie with a triumphant flourish. “Your mom would keel over just seeing us eating these. And please—don’t get me started on the picture thing. Whenever I can get you to loosen up, you’re the most photogenic person in the history of ever.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I just get shy when people try to take my picture, it makes me feel so silly and awkward.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “You gotta get over that. You’re your own woman now. Life’s too short to live according to what other people think. Not that I’m any better.”

I smirked. “So…my sister’s in dental school, and I’m contemplating taking pictures of my butt for money.”

Jenna’s laugh was warm, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, we’ve got our whole lives ahead, babe. Don’t compete with your sister. Live your life.”

I exhaled a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “You’re right.”

She arched an eyebrow, mischief amping up. “Plus, you know guys are always looking at your butt anyway. Might as well charge for the privilege.”

“You’re so bad,” I said, shaking my head.

“Speaking of bad,” she said, taking another bite of cookie, “we (chew, munch) going out tonight, or what? Might be you just need a hot lay to blow off steam.”

I took a big sip of wine then shook my head. Jenna loved the whole club scene way more than I did. It’s not that I’m against going out for cocktails, but it usually ends up with some drunk guy hitting on me—or worse, grabbing my butt or trying to follow me home. No, thanks. “Not tonight. All I want is to stay in, get stoned, eat myself into a food coma, and maybe do a little apartment-hunting if I can find the energy.”

She shrugged. “Works for me. Mind if I hang around? I love scoping out places.”

I flashed her a smile and shoved another big hunk of cookie into my mouth. “Of (munch, chew) course you (chew) can stay. Just so long as you’re cool with me pretending calories don’t exist this weekend. I think I gained five pounds from last night alone. You know I weighed myself this morning and I’m actually pushing 150, if you can believe it.”

“Oh my God, you’re getting so huge,” Jenna teased sarcastically. “I still got you beat by a good thirty.”

“Yeah, sorry, (chew, chew) I know I shouldn’t get fixated on weight,” I admitted, munching on the cookie. “It’s just (munch, chew) that I haven’t been able to stop eating since I left Tanner’s.”

Jenna grinned wide. “Girl, if anyone deserves to binge right now, it’s you. Just promise me you won’t starve yourself or kill yourself on the treadmill next week.”

I finished chewing and laughed softly. “Deal.”

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)