Page 43 of The Malibu Arrangement

I tiptoe back to my home, to my bedroom, the plush cream carpet silencing my footsteps as I slip between the cool Egyptian cotton sheets. I trace the uneven bumps on the ceiling with my gaze, counting each popcorn texture until my vision blurs. My eyelids feel like sandpaper when I finally force them closed, willing my racing thoughts to quiet. Sleep remains elusive. The rhythmic crash of Pacific waves filters through my cracked window—a sound that usually lulls me into dreams now merely punctuates my anxiety. The late November air carries a bite that seeps through the glass, so I cocoon myself in the electric blanket's artificial warmth, its low hum competing with the thunderous beating of my heart.

God, these 24 hours have been…consequential. Mom looking like a ghost against those hospital sheets. Then Rosa calmly spilling Max's whole tragic backstory. But nothing prepared me for seeing the guy who's been treating me like crap for weeks completely fall apart. Shoulders heaving while watching his parents on that old home movie, like he could climb inside the screen and live there instead. His dad with that arm around his mom, both of them smiling like nothing bad would ever happen. And Max just sitting there in the blue glow, trying to touch something he can't have anymore.

Around 7 in the morning, I'm still awake, staring at the moonlight casting silver rectangles across the ceiling when the door hinges give a soft whine. Max's silhouette appears in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway sconce. He stands there for three heartbeats, his breath audible in the silence, before the door clicks shut again. He's checking if I'm home, which of course I am - my beat-up Prius is clearly visible in the circular driveway, parked like an eyesore next to his gleaming Bentley.

I call out his name, my voice echoing through the house. It's my day off, and Max's too—at least I think so. Didn't he mention something about Saturdays being sacred? I start to wonder what he does with this time, then catch myself. My own Saturday stretches empty before me. Tomorrow's packed: brunch with Tally and Liv, then sneaking over to Cedars to check on Mom. She needs rest today, but by tomorrow she should be well enough for visitors, maybe even ready to come home.

He inches his way back after I call out, his footsteps barely audible on the hardwood. "Just wanted to make sure you got home from the hospital alright," he says, lowering himself into one of those oversized armchairs that somehow screams my name—the kind you sink into rather than sit on, wrapped in that soft sky-blue fabric I've always loved. How he managed to find furniture that might as well have come straight from my daydreams is beyond me, but there it is, proof he was paying attention all along.

His beauty is almost painful to look at. He's wearing a navy cotton t-shirt with matching cashmere sweats—the kind that cost more than my monthly mortgage. That dark hair of his is tousled, as if he's been running his fingers through it. I search for traces of the tears I witnessed earlier, but find none. Did I imagine them? His face maintains that familiar mask, but something has shifted in his gaze. A flicker of sympathy? A hint of emotion? Whatever it is, for the first time since I've known him, he seems less like some untouchable deity and more like a man who bleeds when cut.

I nod. "I did." My fingers twist in my lap. "About seeing you at the hospital." I can't meet his eyes. "I was a mess. I shouldn't have⁠—"

"I understand," he says, voice gentle as a hand on my shoulder. "No explanations needed." His chest rises with a deep breath. "How's your mother doing?"

"Better." I rap my knuckles twice against the wooden headboard. "The doctors got ahead of the sepsis before it spread. If Lexi hadn't rushed her to the ER at the first mention of pain when urinating—" I swallow hard. "Most people would've just grabbed cranberry juice from the store and hoped for the best. But because of Lexi, Mom was already getting treatment when things took a turn."

Max nods, smiles, and rakes his fingers through his hair, squinting against the sunlight. "Do you surf?"

I shake my head.

"Want to learn?"

The thought of being tossed around by waves while trying not to drown doesn't exactly appeal to me. But Rosa mentioned Max has been surfing since he was four—trained by some champion in the monster waves at Big Sur. He could probably teach me without much effort, assuming he doesn't lose his temper when I inevitably wipe out a dozen times. Still, it's a chance to spend time with him, to maybe crack that wall he's built.

"Sure," I say, forcing confidence into my voice. "Looks like fun."

His hands can't seem to stay still, and those ocean-colored green eyes lock onto mine. "I usually hit the waves on Saturdays. My brothers tag along most weeks—sometimes it's just Gianni, other times the whole crew shows up. Everyone's busy elsewhere today, though." He pauses, a hint of vulnerability crossing his face. "If you wanted to try surfing... this would be a good time. Just us."

My pulse quickens at the thought. A whole day with Max? I picture myself on the surfboard, still safely on the beach—he'd start with the basics, of course. He would stand so close behind me, his chest nearly touching my back as he guides my arms outward to find my center of gravity. I can almost feel his exhale against my neck, his fingers sliding between mine to adjust my grip. Just imagining it steals the air from my lungs.

I nod. "But it's late November. The water must be pretty cold."

He smiles. "That's why god made surf shops. There's a great one on the PCH. You can get a wetsuit there.” He looks at his watch. "Meet in the main house in a half hour?"

I nod and smile. "Sure." My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Is it pounding because of fear or the thought of spending hours next to Max in the water? Probably both.

The last time I went into the ocean, I got caught in a rip tide. I still wake up sometimes gasping for air, feeling phantom seawater filling my lungs. I had to be rescued by a lifeguard, and every time I get into deep water it’s like PTSD - I panic just a little. And don't even get me started on sharks. Discovery Channel's Shark Week ruined beaches for me forever.

But Max. Just the two of us. For hours. In wetsuits. God help me, I'm actually giddy about this, which is beyond pathetic. The guy's carrying around enough emotional baggage to fill a 747—dead mom, vanished dad, guilt complex the size of Montana, probably a healthy dose of survivor’s guilt, too. And it's not like Rosa said he's secretly pining for me. Though he did show up at the hospital even though I ran him off, so...

Get it together, Celeste. The man probably has his breakfast cereal imported from Milan. You're the charity case he married for his grandfather's approval. This surf invite is just rich-person politeness. I'm not setting myself up for another emotional face-plant. This is just an adventure. A bucket list item. Nothing more.

I catch myself humming as I pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans that probably cost more than my mortgage, a soft long-sleeve tee, and these ridiculous white Prada sneakers, all items that Max's credit card paid for. I twist my hair into a messy bun, swipe on some Chapstick and call it good. Why bother with makeup when the ocean's just going to wash it off anyway?

When I check the mirror, some rich woman's reflection stares back. The clothes scream money in that quiet, expensive way I used to envy from across the studio lot. Not my money—never my money—but at least these designer threads are mine to keep. I think. God, I hope.

I deserve this. After spending 24 hours on pins and needles, wondering if Mom would see another sunrise, I need to breathe. Just one day where I'm not memorizing medication names or pretending I understand what her oncologist is saying. Tomorrow I'll be back at Cedars, nodding along to whatever new treatment protocol they've concocted, but today? It's just me, Max, a surfboard, and waves that don't give a damn about white blood cell counts. I shouldn't feel this flutter in my chest—like I'm stealing something good from a universe that's been nothing but cruel lately—but screw it, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation.

I make my way to the main house and find Max in the kitchen, waiting. Rosa sits at the breakfast nook, her face lighting up when I enter. That smile of hers—the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners—washes over me like a warm tide. With Rosa here, I can breathe easier; her presence alone makes this arrangement bearable. Then Max's lips curve upward too.

Max gestures toward the shoreline. "Let's get you set up at the surf shop first. Then we can come back to this stretch of beach—it's more private. Perfect for beginners. You won’t find anybody to crash into here.”

I raise an eyebrow. "Bold of you to assume I'll make it past the paddling stage. I'll consider it a victory if I can stand up for more than two seconds without face-planting into the water."

“I have faith in you.”

“Glad somebody does.”