Page 44 of The Malibu Arrangement

And then we go to his garage—a cavernous space that could swallow my entire apartment ten times over, with gleaming sports cars lined up like exotic animals in a zoo. He leads me to an enormous Rolls Royce Cullinan SUV that sits like a throne at the end. I slide onto buttery leather seats that cradle my body, my fingers tracing the hand-stitched details while breathing in that unmistakable new-car scent mixed with sandalwood cologne. Outside, California sunshine catches on the vehicle's misty grey exterior, giving it an almost ethereal glow as we pull away.

He slides on a pair of Ray Ban aviators, the ocean reflecting in the lenses. "Let's talk boards. Mine's short, fiberglass—twenty years of experience earns you that. You'll start with something longer, softer—something that forgives mistakes." He gestures toward the shore. "We'll begin on dry land. Master the basics first: paddling position, the pop-up. Once you've got the mechanics down, then we hit the water." His voice softens. "And hey—nobody rides a perfect wave their first time out. The ocean's patient. She'll wait for you to learn her rhythms."

Max's Rolls purrs down the driveway as we head towards the Pacific Coast Highway. Our destination: some legendary surf shop where I'm supposed to find the perfect wetsuit to keep me from turning into an icicle in the frigid Pacific. Apparently, I need the perfect surfboard too, and Max insists on helping me pick one out. I already know how this will go—I'll reach for my credit card and he'll wave it away with that casual rich-guy gesture. Part of me wants to protest, to not be the charity case in this relationship, but my bank account has other ideas. Four hundred dollars for a neoprene wetsuit? Five hundred minimum for a foam board that I'll probably crash into the sand repeatedly?

What if I hate surfing? I'll give it three honest tries before deciding, but I'm not about to become one of those girlfriends who pretends to love her crush’s hobbies. I wouldn't fake enthusiasm for rock climbing while secretly terrified of heights, or pretend to love snowboarding when I'd rather be inside with hot chocolate. If the surfing experiment fails, I'll just be straight with Max and we can consign the whole expensive experiment to Second Chance Sports, who’ll buy back the surf board and wet suit.

We pull up to Sea N Soul, a weathered blue clapboard shop with a hand-painted sign swinging in the salt breeze off the Pacific Coast Highway. Inside smells of neoprene and coconut wax, surfboards stacked like colorful dominos against the walls. Two hours later, after squeezing into seven different wetsuits—each one making me feel like an overstuffed sausage—Max finally helps me find a sleek black and teal longboard with a single blue stripe down the center along with the perfect black suit that hopefully will keep me from not freezing to death in the water. We're heading back to Max's beachfront house where I'll apparently spend the afternoon awkwardly flopping onto the board on his private beach, practicing the "pop-up" move until my arms quiver, before, gulp, venturing into the actual churning Pacific where I'll try not to become another statistic in the "city girl drowns trying to impress rich crush” category.

My knees wobble as I step onto the beach in my new suit, the sand shifting beneath my feet like my confidence. The ocean roars ahead—massive walls of water that must be ten feet high crashing down with enough force to snap a surfboard in half. This stretch of Malibu coastline isn't for beginners. I glance at Max descending toward the shoreline and force my lips into what I hope passes for a brave smile. You've faced scarier things, Celeste.

Like that ex who dragged me onto ATVs with those impossible manual gears—nothing like driving a stick shift in a car. I still have the scar from when I flipped one and landed on my skull. Same guy zoomed down Double Black Diamond slopes while I stayed firmly on the blues with Mom and Lexi at Big Bear. He'd veer off-trail too, practically begging for an avalanche. When we broke up, my first thought wasn't heartbreak—it was relief that I'd never have to choose between a death-wish ski run or an hour of his disappointment.

Bad examples. I inhale slowly, searching my memory for a single instance when fear transformed into joy. My mind draws a blank. Well, there's a first for everything, right? Maybe surfing will break the pattern.

My arms flail in awkward circles as Max flashes that grin—the one that makes my stomach flip in the good way. I cling to the warmth of his smile instead of picturing myself smacking my head on fiberglass and sinking like a stone, or becoming shark breakfast, or wiping out so spectacularly that I spend six months in a full-body cast. At least the laws of physics prevent all three disasters from happening simultaneously. Maybe. Then again, I could manage the trifecta - hitting my head on the board and sinking, then becoming shark brunch. No, wait. That’s only two of the three. So, it would be impossible to manage all three disasters. Small comfort.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

TEACHING CELESTE TO SURF

Max

Behind Celeste, I steady her surfboard with my foot while pretending to steady her. The neoprene of our wetsuits doesn't stop the heat that rises where her shoulder blades press against my chest. I've positioned myself so I can grasp both her hands in mine, fingers interlocked under the pretense of balance. When she tosses her head, the scent of vanilla bean hits me like a wave. I close my eyes, breathe her in. She could stand on this board without me—we both know it—but I'll keep up this charade as long as she lets me hold her like this.

I study Celeste's stance on the board. "Good balance," I tell her with a nod. "Now watch this." I drop to my chest on my own board, then spring to my feet in one fluid motion, knees bent, arms out. "Practice that move until it's second nature. The ocean won't wait for you to figure it out."

Celeste hesitates before finally laying flat on her board, attempting the pop-up I just demonstrated. Most people struggle with this move at first—that moment when you have to spring from prone to standing in one fluid motion. I've had twenty-five years of practice, hitting the waves every weekend without fail since my dad first pushed me into the whitewash on my fourth birthday. At fifteen, I had sponsors eyeing me, but couldn't commit my entire existence to chasing perfect sets around the globe. Still, I remember being exactly where Celeste is now, awkwardly positioning my feet, my muscles not yet understanding what my brain was asking them to do.

Celeste struggles to find her footing on the surfboard, her limbs working against her as she tries to push up from her chest. Sand clings to her wet skin with each tumble back to earth. I demonstrate the motion again on my board, keeping my face neutral. But again and again, she trips on her feet and falls on the sand.

After the tenth failed attempt, her shoulders slump. A tear slides down her cheek before she quickly raises her hands to shield her face—not just from embarrassment, but as if bracing for a blow. The gesture freezes me in place. Who taught her that failure deserves punishment?

"Celeste," I say, my voice barely carrying over the waves. "You're doing fine."

She shakes her head without lowering her guard. "Just get it over with. The yelling, the cursing. I know it's coming."

I nod. Her wounds run as deep as mine, just in different places. "Celeste," I say, my voice softer than I thought possible. "What makes you think I'd lash out at you?" My hands find her shoulders, steadying her before I tilt her chin up with my fingertips. "Please look at me," I murmur. When she finally raises her eyes, they're clouded with something that breaks my heart. "Nobody gets this right the first time around. Or the second. Or the tenth. This isn't something I'd ever hold against you—least of all something I'd punish you for."

She blinks back tears and nods. I clench my jaw, watching her shrink into herself like she's bracing for a blow that isn't coming. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. Who taught her to expect the worst? I catch myself and exhale slowly. I've dated supermodels and top actresses, but this girl has me ready to slay dragons I can't even see.

“You’ll get impatient,” she says. “This isn’t for me.”

I smile. “Well, okay, we gave it our all. Let’s just go back to the house and grab a beer, alright?” I’m teasing her, of course. I know that she’s not ready to give up. She just thinks that I’ll somehow blow a fuse if she can’t get it right away, but I need to make her see that I’ll stand out here all day if that’s what it takes and will be happy to do it.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, not meeting my eyes. A reluctant smile breaks across her face, followed by a soft laugh. "Fine. I haven't exactly been giving it my all." She inhales deeply. "The thing is..." Her cheeks flush. "My ex was obsessed with taking me ATVing on these insane trails. I despised every second, but there I was, weekend after weekend, because he couldn't get enough. I crashed without fail, constantly terrified I wouldn't make it back in one piece."

I nod, genuinely trying to understand her perspective. I search my memory for instances where I've endured something miserable just to please a woman, but nothing surfaces. I've never felt strongly enough about anyone to put myself through that. Still, I can imagine how soul-crushing it must be—forcing enthusiasm for something you loathe, white-knuckling through fear, wondering if each outing might the time you break your neck.

She gestures wildly, recounting the ATV incident. “We rented the ATVs from some shop. Then one day I got stuck with a manual transmission one. I thought, no problem—I've driven stick-shift cars forever. But this thing..." She makes a throttling motion with her hands. "Nothing like a car. I couldn't make it budge." Her voice drops. "That's when he snapped. Right there in the parking lot, screaming so close I could feel his spit on my cheek. All these strangers just...watching." She rubs her arm, eyes distant. "At least I never had to face those people again. God, the way they must have looked at me—just taking it, frozen there like some...punching bag."

I close my eyes, my pulse hammering in my throat like a war drum. My fingers curl into fists so tight my knuckles crack. This piece of shit who hurt Celeste—my Celeste—deserves to have his face rearranged, bone by broken bone. The rage inside me is a living thing, clawing up my spine. I could find him anywhere—Mongolia, Siberia, the depths of hell itself. One call to my pilot, one flight, and I'd be there with my hands around his throat, watching his eyes bulge as he comes to understand what it means to hurt what's mine.

Celeste catches my expression and offers a half-hearted smile. "I'm keeping his name to myself," she says. "He turned out to be nothing special anyway. I just wanted you to understand why I'm terrified you'll lose patience with me fumbling around trying to stand on this board while we're still on dry land." She gestures toward the waves breaking offshore. "You could be out there carving through those perfect swells right now. Instead you're babysitting me on the beach."

I force the air in and out of my lungs, willing my clenched jaw to relax. Some faceless guy in her past has turned what should be a fun morning into this minefield of anxiety, and part of me wants to hunt him down. But that's not what today is for. Today is about Celeste on a surfboard, about her seeing that patience isn't something I reserve for other people. I watch her fingers fidget with the leash, and remind myself: whoever made her expect anger at every mistake is long gone. My job is to make sure his ghost is too.