Page 5 of Triplet Babies for Pucking Christmas

I turn and storm out, slamming the door behind me.

The next few weeks are a blur.

Everywhere I go, people recognize me. They point. They laugh. They whisper. I can’t walk down the fucking street without hearing someone mutter, “There goesSalmonella Savannah.”

It’s like I’ve become a joke. A punchline.

I avoid my phone. Social media is a fucking warzone, filled with people tearing me apart. The restaurant scene in New York? Yeah, I’mdonethere. No one wants to hire the chef who poisoned a famous person’s wedding. My reputation is shot.

And my dad? Not a single fucking call. Not a text. Nothing.

The one person who could’ve shown me some goddamn support during all of this just...disappears. I know we don’t have the best relationship, but I thought maybe this would be the thing that brought him back, that made him realize how much I needed him.

But no. Of course not. He’s probably in LA or Miami or wherever the fuck, schmoozing with his football clients, not giving a single thought to his daughter who’s having the worst fucking time of her life.

I sit in my apartment, staring at the ceiling, wondering how the hell it all went so wrong. I wasso close. So close to everything I’ve ever wanted.

And now...now I’m nothing. A joke. A meme.Salmonella fucking Savannah.

I rip the tinsel rope off my Christmas tree with annoyance. Dry needles pelt all over the floor.

I grimace, but I should have thought of that. The tree has been sitting here forgotten for more than a month.

I had come home from the Christmas wedding nightmare and taken down all my Christmas decorations. I didn’t have the heart to look at them anymore.

The tree had stayed, mostly because there were still presents under it. Once I had exchanged gifts with my friends, it had sat there collecting dust, the lights turned off, forgotten.

Now, however, it was turning into a real fire hazard and I had forced myself to deal with it.

What else did I have to do? Layla had made me stay away from the restaurant to protect me from the ravenous press attention before she decided to buy me out. My life was reduced to sleeping, hiding from social media, and mourning the Christmas that I wished I had had.

I decide to finally be brave and grab my phone. I check the notifications. My inbox is flooded with media requests, interview offers from talk shows, reality TV deals.

They all want to talk to me, to hear my side of the story. But they don’t give a shit about me. They just want more content, more shit to laugh at.

Layla texts me a few times, asking how I’m doing, offering to talk. I ignore her. I can’t even look at her without wanting to punch something.

I toss my phone onto the couch and groan. “Fuck.”

There’s a knock at my door.

I ignore it, sinking deeper into the couch. But the knocking gets louder.

“Sav, open up!”

It’s Layla.

I grit my teeth and storm to the door, yanking it open. “What do you want?”

She winces at the venom in my voice. “I came to check on you. You’ve been ghosting me.”

“Yeah, because I don’t want to talk to you.”

She pushes past me and walks into my apartment like she owns the place. “Well, tough shit. I’m here now.”

I slam the door and cross my arms. “What do you want, Layla? I’ve lost everything. You took what was left from me. Isn’t that enough for you?”

She spins around, her eyes flashing. “You didn’t lose everything. You still have me.”

---