Chapter 1
Celia
“Oh no! Five more minutes please…” The opening riff of “Don’t Stop Believin’” blared through my bedroom, waking me with all the subtlety of a fucking sledgehammer. I groan, fumbling for my phone on the nightstand. My fingers knock over an empty wine glass before I could silence Journey’s relentless optimism.
I flop onto my back, sprawled across a king-size bed which always felt too big.
Boulder’s disgustingly cheerful morning routine was in full swing outside my window: joggers huffing past, birds chirping their little hearts out, and the distant hum of traffic on Pearl Street.
Christ, when did mornings get so loud?
I squinted at my phone: 7:15 AM, October 25th. Another day closer to the big 5-5. Fantastic.
With a grunt that sounded alarmingly like my mother, I hauled my ass out of bed. My feet hit the cool hardwood floor, and I shuffled zombie-style to the bathroom.
In the harsh glare of the vanity lights, I brave a look at my reflection. Not bad for pushing 55, I suppose. My hair’s a mess of graying brown tangles, but hey, at least I still have hair. I lean in closer, prodding at the network of lines branching out from my eyes.
“Christ,” I muttered, “when did those crow’s feet turn into a whole flock?”
I splash some water on my face and go through the motions of my morning routine. Moisturizer that promises to turn back time (lying bastards), concealer to hide the evidence of last night’s wine and Netflix binge, a swipe of mascara because I’m not completely ready to throw in the towel.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, I’m a little more human. I beelined for the coffee maker, my personal lord and savior. As the heavenly aroma of dark roast filled the air, I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge. My eyes landed on a photo stuck to the door with a tacky Boulder magnet.
It’s Lucas on his college graduation day, all sunshine smiles and bright eyes. My boy, my baby, somehow twenty-nine years old now. I remember taking that picture like it was yesterday, fighting back tears (because like hell was I going to ruin my mascara) as he strode across that stage.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, recalling how he nearly tripped over his gown. Grace has never been his strong suit. Then again, he comes by it honestly.
The coffee maker gurgles its last, and I poured myself a mug. I’m about to take my first sip when my phone starts buzzing. Speak of the devil, it’s Lucas.
“Morning, sweetie,” I answered, trying to sound like I’ve been up for hours instead of barely vertical.
“Mom, you’re not gonna believe this shit,” he said right away.
I sat in a kitchen stool, holding my coffee. “Try me, kiddo. I’ve heard it all.”
What follows is a rambling tale involving a girl he met at a bar, a misplaced wallet, and somehow, a stray cat. I listened, interjecting the occasional “uh-huh” and “oh no,” as I try to piece together the timeline of events.
“...and then I woke up with the cat sleeping on my face!” he finished, sounding both bewildered and amused.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh honey,” I said, shaking my head, “you’re just like your father.”
The words slip out before I realized what I just said, and I immediately want to kick myself. There’s an awkward pause.
“Right,” Lucas says finally without emotion. “Listen, Mom, I gotta run. Talk to you later?”
“Of course, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
The line went dead, and I stared at my phone, mentally kicking myself. Way to go, Celia. Bring up the deadbeat dad. That’s sure to brighten your son’s morning.
I drank my coffee, wishing it was Irish cream, and headed to my closet. The eternal question looms before me: what the hell does a nearly 55-year-old wear to look hot but not desperate?
I rifle through hangers, discarding options left and right. The red blouse? Too “trying hard.” That flowy bohemian dress? I’d look like I was headed to Woodstock. After what feels like hours, I settle on black yoga pants (they make my ass look fantastic) and a fitted emerald green top that brings out my eyes.
Throwing my hair into a messy bun (because who am I kidding, I’m not about to wrestle with a flat iron this morning) I headed back to the bathroom for final touches.
I applied some tinted moisturizer, a touch of blush to liven up my complexion, and then reached for my favorite lipstick. It’s a bold red that my son’s ex-girlfriend once referred to as “a bit much for daytime, don’t you think?” I apply it with extra vigor.
Screw it. If I want to rock red lips at 9 AM on a random Thursday, that’s my prerogative.
I took a step back, giving myself a once-over in the mirror. Not too shabby, if I do say so myself. I threw myself a wink, feeling strangely empowered.
“Still got it, Celia,” I muttered to my reflection. Then I snorted. “And now you’re talking to yourself. Great.”
I grabbed my purse and keys, giving myself a mental pep talk as I head out the door. Yoga with the girls, then coffee. Simple. Normal. Just a regular day in the life of Celia Baynes, divorcée and somehow a mother to a functional adult.
As I back out of the driveway, I caught sight of my neighbor Marta’s house. The memory of our falling out years ago was still fresh in my mind. Stupid, harsh words were exchanged over property lines and borrowed lawn equipment, of all things. It seemed so petty now, but neither of us had ever taken that first step towards reconciliation.
I pushed the thought aside, not wanting to ruin my day. Right now, I’ve got a yoga class to pretend I’m not too old for, and friends to catch up with. And who knows? Maybe today will be the day something exciting finally happens.
I pulled into the parking lot of “Namaste Your Ass Off,” Boulder’s trendiest yoga studio. The name makes me roll my eyes every damn time, but their Vinyasa flow kicks my ass in the best way possible.
Corina and Doris were waiting outside, looking like before and after photos for a midlife crisis support group. Corina’s decked out in some unholy neon yellow and pink ensemble that makes my retinas scream. Meanwhile, Doris is rocking head-to-toe black like she’s auditioning for a remake of “The Addams Family.”
“Ladies,” I called out as I sauntered over, “ready to pretend we’re still flexible?”
Corina grins, striking a pose that makes her look like a demented flamingo. “Speak for yourself, honey. I’m as bendy as a Twizzler.”
“Yeah, and about as nutritious,” Doris quipped, earning herself a playful swat from Corina.
We head inside, chatting about our latest Netflix binges and shamelessly ogling Brad, the buff yoga instructor who’s young enough to be our son. Look, I may be pushing 55, but I’m not dead.
“I swear,” Corina whispered as we roll out our mats, “one of these days, I’m going to need a drool bucket instead of a yoga mat.”
I snorted, trying to stifle my laughter as Brad starts the class with his usual “Namaste, beautiful souls” spiel.
For the next hour, we contorted ourselves into shapes that nature never intended, all while Brad spouts pseudo-spiritual bullshit that sounds like he googled “inspirational quotes” five minutes before class.
I’m in downward dog, ass in the air, wondering if this is how I die, when I hear it. A sound like a tiny elephant passing gas, followed by a mortified “Oh shit!”
I looked over to see Corina, red-faced and wide-eyed, frozen in position. The poor thing just farted loud enough to wake the dead.
For a moment, there’s silence. Then Doris lets out a snort, and suddenly we’re all gone. Giggles bubbled up from my chest, and soon we’re howling with laughter like a bunch of hyenas.
Brad tried to maintain his zen facade, but I swear I see his eye twitch. “Ladies,” he said, in a tone usually reserved for misbehaving toddlers, “perhaps we could channel that energy into our practice?”
This only sets us off again. Tears were streaming down my face, my abs aching from laughter rather than exercise.
“I’m sorry,” Corina gasped between giggles, “I guess I’m just really releasing my tension today.”
That does it. We dissolved into another fit of laughter, and Brad finally gives up, calling for a water break with a sigh.
Somehow, we make it through the rest of the class without any more gastrointestinal symphonies. As we’re rolling up our mats, Brad approached us with the weary expression of a man who’s seriously reconsidering his life choices.
“Ladies,” he said, “while I appreciate your... enthusiasm, perhaps a more meditative practice would be beneficial for you?”
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh again. “We’ll take that under advisement, Brad. Namaste.” I give him my best innocent smile, which he returns with all the warmth of a polar bear.
Once we’re out of earshot, Doris turned to Corina. “Well, darling, I think you’ve officially been banned from the front row.”
Corina groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m never eating curry before yoga again.”
We head to our post-yoga ritual: overpriced lattes at the Caffeine Dream, a coffee shop that looks like Pinterest threw up all over it. Mason jars, exposed brick, and more Edison bulbs than Thomas himself could’ve dreamed of.
I ordered my usual, a vanilla latte with an extra shot because I really needed it that morning. We snagged a table by the window, watching the parade of Boulder stereotypes pass by: tech bros in Patagonia vests, soccer moms in SUVs, and enough dreadlocks to make Bob Marley proud.
Doris leaned in, looking mischievous.
“So, ladies,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’ve got some news that’ll make your week.”
Corina and I exchanged glances. Doris’s “news” is usually either hot gossip or some harebrained scheme that’ll end with us questioning our life choices. Sometimes both.
“Alright, spill it,” I said, taking a sip of my latte. “Who’s getting divorced this time?”
Doris rolled her eyes. “Please, give me some credit. This is much juicier than Karen from book club’s third failed marriage.”
She pulled out her phone, tapping away. “Feast your eyes on this, my dears.”
She handed me her phone, and I squint at the screen. It’s some kind of invitation, all swirly fonts and mysterious imagery. I read aloud:
“A night you will never forget. For one night, attendants will have the opportunity to either make their deepest desires become reality or their worst nightmares. Unfortunately, some people will experience both... But if nothing else, we guarantee you will have a good time!”
I snorted, handing the phone to Corina. “Sounds like a bad pickup line. What is this, some kind of cheesy haunted house?”
Doris’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s so much more than that, hun. It’s a Halloween party. Costumes and masks required. And get this, it’s hosted by that new-age Wicca group. You know, the local witches’ coven.”
Corina’s eyes widened. “Wait, you mean those weirdos who dance naked in the moonlight and sacrifice squirrels or whatever?”
“Jesus, Corina, they’re Wiccans, not the Manson Family. I’m pretty sure squirrel sacrifice isn’t on their agenda.”
“Either way,” Doris continued, practically bouncing in her seat, “it sounds absolutely thrilling, doesn’t it? A little mystery, a little danger...”
I raised an eyebrow. “Danger? Doris, honey, the most dangerous thing at this party will probably be the punch. I doubt these suburban witches are summoning demons in their spare time.”
But as I kept reading the invitation, I felt a flutter in my stomach. Costumes, masks, deepest desires... It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything truly wild. The last time I let loose, “Macarena” was still topping the charts.
“Come on, Celia,” Doris insisted, clearly sensing my hesitation. “When’s the last time you got laid?”
I choked on my coffee again. “Doris! Jesus Christ, you can’t just ask people that!”
She shrugged. “I’m just saying, a little mystery, a mask... who knows what could happen?”
I want to argue, to be the voice of reason. But she’s right. When did I become so... safe? So predictable?
I look at my friends – Corina and Doris, eyes sparkling with the idea of the party. And suddenly, I’m tired. Tired of being responsible, of being the boring divorced mom whose wildest night involves two glasses of wine and a “Bridgerton” marathon.
“You know what?” I said, surprising myself. “Fuck it. I’m in.”
Corina gasped dramatically. “Did Celia ‘I need to check my calendar’ Baynes just agree to something spontaneous? Alert Boulder!”
“Shut up. I can be spontaneous.”
“Sure, you can, honey,” Doris teased.
As we finished our coffees, making plans for costume shopping, I felt something I haven’t felt in years: excitement.
As we left Caffeine Dream, the debate about the party kicked into high gear.
“So, what are we thinking for costumes?” Corina asked with excitement. “I’m thinking sexy nurse. Classic, right?”
“Corina, honey, you’re fifty. ‘Sexy nurse’ stopped being an option around the time flip phones went out of style.”
“Speak for yourself,” she huffed. “I’ve still got it.”
“Oh, you’ve got something alright,” Doris chimed in. “But I suspect it’s menopause.”
We’re so busy cackling that I almost don’t see her.
Marta Cicone, my next-door neighbor and former friend, is across the street, coming out of the organic grocery store. Probably buying kale and judgment, her two favorite food groups.
Our eyes met for a second, and I felt that familiar twist in my gut.
Marta looked away quickly, hurrying to her disgustingly eco-friendly hybrid. I watched her go, memories of our fight years ago bubbling up in my mind.
It had been so stupid. One small thing and suddenly fifteen years of friendship went up in smoke faster than Snoop Dogg at a concert. I still missed her sometimes, especially when I see her watering those damn prize-winning roses she’s so smug about.
“Celia!” Doris’s voice snapped me back to reality. “You still with us, or did Brad’s ass in those yoga pants finally make you stroke out?”
I blinked, shaking off the memories. “Sorry, just... thinking. So, this party. We’re really doing it?”
Doris grinned, looping her arm through mine. “Oh yes, and we’re not just doing it. We’re going to own it. Now, let’s go find some costumes that’ll make those young witches wish they had our kind of magic.”
An hour later, we’re elbow-deep in polyester and fake blood at “Abracadaver,” Boulder’s premier (and only) year-round costume shop. The place smells like mothballs with a hint of patchouli because, well, Boulder.
I rifle through racks of slutty nurses (Corina’s still considering it, god help us), generic zombies, and enough superhero knockoffs to make Marvel’s lawyers salivate.
“How about this?” Doris held up a costume labeled ‘Sexy Grandma’. It’s essentially a floral nightgown paired with a grey wig and orthopedic shoes.
“Put that back before I shove it somewhere unpleasant,” I growled.
“Touchy,” she smirked, but returned it to the rack.
I’m about to give up hope when I spotted it. Hidden between a knockoff Harley Quinn and something that might be a sexy avocado (I don’t want to know), there’s a sleek black catsuit. It comes with ears, a tail, and a mask that would make Catwoman herself purr with envy.
It’s ridiculous. It’s impractical. It’s probably going to require extra-strength shapewear and a miracle for me to fit in it.
I loved it immediately.
“Ladies,” I announced, holding up my prize, “I think we have a winner.”
Corina whistled. “Damn, Celia. You’re really going for it, huh?”
“Go big or go home,” I shrugged, trying to ignore the little voice in my head screaming about dignity and age-appropriate choices. That voice sounded suspiciously like my ex-mother-in-law, which is all the more reason to ignore it.
We leave the shop with our costumes: Catwoman for me, a thankfully not sexy witch for Doris, and a vampire for Corina, who decided that if she couldn’t be a sexy nurse, she’d at least be eternally young.
I wave goodbye to the girls, promising to meet up for “pre-gaming” before the party. Because apparently, we’re college students now.
Inside, I hang up my costume, running my hand over the sleek material. I was finally feeling excited, like maybe, I’m not too old for a little fun.
I poured myself a generous glass of red wine (a nice Malbec, because I’m classy like that) and curled up on the couch. My phone buzzed with a text from Lucas.
“Hey Mom, how was your day? Mine was crazy. You’ll never guess what happened with that cat...”
I smiled, typing back a quick reply. I considered telling him about the party, but something held me back. It’s silly, but I wanted this to be just for me. A secret.
As I scroll through old photos on my phone, I came across one that makes my heart catch. It’s me and Micah on our wedding day, young and stupidly in love. God, we were beautiful. Idiots, but beautiful.
I take a big swig of wine, trying to wash down the bitterness that always comes with thoughts of my ex. Ten plus years later, and the divorce still stung.
There are more recent photos too. Lucas graduating college, me cheering from the stands. Family dinners, girls’ nights out, that disastrous attempt at paddleboarding where Doris ended up halfway to Kansas.
My life, laid out in pixels. It’s a good life, I realized. Maybe not exciting, maybe not what I’d imagined at 25, but good.
So why do I feel so... restless?
I finished my glass, setting it down. “Here’s to new beginnings,” I said to the empty room, trying to ignore the nerves bubbling up in my stomach. What the hell am I getting myself into?
The cat costume seemed to taunt me from where it hung on my closet door. It was looking less like a silly Halloween outfit and more like a chance to get loose, just for one night.
I thought about Marta, about how easily friendships can slip away. About Lucas, growing up so fast it made my head spin. About Micah, and the life we could have had.
And then I think about that party. Deepest desires or worst nightmares, the invitation had said. Part of me wonders which one I’ll get. An even bigger part of me is terrified they could be the same thing.
But as I got ready for bed, I realized I was afraid of one day, waking up and recognizing I’ve become nothing more than a punchline at the country club. “Oh, Celia? She’s that divorcée, you know. Shame about her, really.”
Fuck that. I’ll prove them wrong.
