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Olivia

Why do I do this to myself?

As soon as I open the trashy article, I regret it.

Olivia and Justin on the rocks

Olivia Zeston and Justin Bakersfield are the ultimate celebrity match.

Young, gorgeous, and so in love. Or so we thought.

Lately, it looks like this celebrity couple could be in danger of a split.

Justin has been spotted out and about with fellow Glowup Goals star, Rechelle Oaks and Olivia is nowhere to be seen.

Rumor has it she’s still in Australia on her Downunder Food Tour, but she hasn’t posted a new vlog in a week.

Could the breakup have already happened?

As always, here at Celebrity Watch, we’ll bring you all the latest gossip as soon as it happens.

I shouldn’t read this stuff. It always upsets me, even though I know it’s not true.

The only reason I haven’t posted this week is because I’m supposed to be on vacation. In fact, Justin should be arriving to meet me at any moment. His flight got into Sydney five hours ago.

I open my messages again just to check I haven’t missed one from him.

Still nothing.

Frowning, I decide the flight was probably delayed.

Maybe he’s decided to stay in Sydney overnight before picking up the rental car and driving down to Kraken Cove, the tiny coastal town in eastern Australia we decided was the perfect spot for a romantic getaway.

Surely this is the perfect place to escape the constant stalking of paparazzi determined to take the next pic that sells for thousands. The perfect spot to reconnect.

Weird that he hasn’t called though.

He probably won’t be hungry if he makes it tonight.

I’ve adjusted to local time, since I’ve been in Australia for a couple weeks now, filming content for my food vlog.

I think I’ll eat dinner while I wait to hear from him.

There’s a new local restaurant I’ve been meaning to check out.

Seafood is their specialty, and Justin’s never been the biggest fan.

Grabbing the keys for my room at the bed and breakfast, I slip on my sandals and make the short walk along the main street and down the hill to The Snapper.

The sun is just starting to set over the inlet and the sky is lit up in competing shades of orange and pink and blue. It’s so pretty here. No city smog in sight. No pollution. The air here is as clean as anywhere I’ve ever traveled, and the landscape is just stunning.

I was expecting everything to feel a bit barren, to be honest. When I heard people talk about Australia, I heard them describe the red desert of the outback, not the subtle greenery of the coast.

The Snapper is surprisingly busy when I enter, considering how sleepy this town feels on a Tuesday night.

Most of the tables are full and waitstaff move quickly and efficiently, taking orders and tending to everyone.

I note the elegant, modern decor and the subtle music playing in the background.

Classy. Unexpected, even after everything I heard about this place.

I mean, I’ve heard it’s good. Good even by Sydney standards, and I’ve got to say, the Australian food scene is exciting and impressive. Everyone I’ve spoken to about my stay in Kraken Cove has mentioned the up-and-coming new chef, Noah Wilson, who recently re-opened The Snapper.

I guess I figured most of the talk was because he’s a monster.

A kraken to be specific. A sea monster with tentacles instead of legs, that Noah apparently puts to great use in the kitchen.

Supernaturals—supes—have exploded in popular media recently. They’ve been out in society for years, but since world-famous actress Bella Owens started dating a werewolf, supes have been all the rage. I’ll admit, I came here thinking it might be interesting to get a little look for myself.

A young woman with a friendly smile and brown hair tied back in a braid greets me. “Good evening. Welcome to The Snapper. Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” Maybe that was a mistake. I just assumed there would be a table free. The place only re-opened a few months back after all, but it seems I was wrong.

Just then, another server approaches the young waitress and whispers something in her ear.

Her eyes widen and she looks at me more closely. “Oh, ah, let me just check with the kitchen. I’m sure we can find something.”

I guess they know who I am, then. That’s a shame. I was hoping to have a quiet dinner.

She dashes off and the other server gives me a smile and returns to his tables. When the young woman reappears, she looks flustered. “Right this way, ma’am. The chef has reserved a special table for you by the kitchen.”

I smile at her white lie. I feel bad for her.

I didn’t mean to stress her out. Normally when I’m writing a review, I call ahead and give the establishment notice that I’m coming.

I wasn’t planning on writing this up, though.

But if they’re going to a special effort to look after me, I might have to.

Especially if they’re as good as I’ve heard.

She leads me to a little table right beneath the open window to the kitchen.

Heat lamps and flames draw my eye to where a young, handsome man with vibrant blue-green skin barks orders at several men and women in chef’s whites.

I don’t get a good look at him, but I note sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms covered in tattoos.

And of course I spot the eight tentacles in place of feet, several of which are currently being used to toss food over a hot stove or spray himself with a small bottle of water.

I catch a glimpse of a stern, square jawline and dark eyebrows creased above green eyes before he turns away. I hope I haven’t just made his staff’s day hell. From everything I’ve heard, Noah Wilson has a reputation for being a bit of a tyrant in the kitchen.

He’s younger than I expected. About my age, though it’s hard to tell exactly. I’m no expert on supes. He acts with the authority of someone who’s been doing this all his life, though.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the young waitress asks as I sit.

“A glass of white wine, please. Whatever you would recommend.”

My phone beeps.

She comes back a moment later, but I’m only half looking when she unscrews the bottle. I’m too busy staring down at the message I just got from Justin.

Justin: babe, not going to make it to Oz. So sorry. It must be late there. I’ll call you in the morning

It can’t be. I must be reading it wrong. But it doesn’t matter how many times I reread it, there’s only one way to interpret it. My boyfriend just let me know, on the day he was supposed to be arriving, by text, that he’s not coming on our romantic holiday. The one we’ve been planning for months.

“On second thought, maybe just leave the bottle,” I mumble to the waitress. I think I’m going to need it.

She asks for my order, and I haven’t even looked at the menu. “Fish of the day, please,” I say, taking a stab. Surely they have a fish of the day. I’m not even sure I’m hungry anymore.

She hesitates for a moment, and I think she’s about to tell me they don’t. But then she nods and trots off to the kitchen, leaving me to stew over what the hell is going on with Justin.

The gossip articles are wrong. Of course they are. There’s probably some very reasonable—maybe horrible—reason why he can’t make it. Maybe his mom got sick, or something came up with work. Maybe I’m the jerk here.

He will explain tomorrow when we talk.

I take a long gulp of my wine while I tell myself that over and over. Just don’t freak out. Everything is OK. I will talk to him tomorrow.

Then something occurs to me. I flick on my phone again and check the time difference. What’s he talking about? It’s almost two a.m. back home. Why is he only messaging now and why hasn’t he called?

Hitting call, I lift my phone to my ear. Then I pull it away again to stare in disbelief at the screen when it goes straight to voicemail. He sent that message fifteen minutes ago! Has he already gone to sleep?

And what am I supposed to do for the next seven or eight hours until he wakes up and calls me back?

Oh, I really don’t like this.

I glance up to find a man at a nearby table watching me. He leans to the guy next to him and whispers something. Soon they’re all looking.

I should be used to this. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I can just imagine the paparazzo sneaking around outside the restaurant, hiding in the bushes or peering through the window to snap a picture.

My throat is tight. I take a sip of wine and end up coughing into my napkin when it goes down the wrong way.

More people are looking.

Do they know?

Can they tell what a pathetic life I’m actually living? Do they see on my face how lonely I’ve been for months—how humiliated I am? Did they read that article too?

I can hardly breathe. Stumbling out of my chair, I gaze around frantically for the restroom. I need a minute to collect myself. To calm down. Somewhere no one can see me.