Page 54 of The Malibu Arrangement

I grin as I dig into my pasta some more. “Also if you’re a quarterback and you get sacked in the end zone. Also a safety.”

She nods. "Right." Her eyes go distant. "I never miss a Chiefs game. It's like Dad's still there beside me, you know? In his ratty old armchair with those ridiculous maracas." She demonstrates a quick shake with her hands. "Every first down, every long run, every fourth-down conversion, every sack, every touchdown—those maracas would go wild." A smile flickers across her face, there and gone. "So that's my schedule. Sundays, Monday nights, Thursday nights. Whenever Mahomes is throwing, I'm watching."

I catch myself wishing the Chiefs make it to the Super Bowl again. The thought of Celeste's face if I surprised her with tickets makes something warm unfurl in my chest. For me, Super Bowl Sunday means the usual luxury suite my grandfather reserves without thinking—a family tradition spanning two decades. But watching her eyes light up at the roar of the stadium, at seeing her team battle for the Vince Lombardi trophy in person instead of on some tiny screen? That would be something worth remembering.

But I don’t mention that. That would be a surprise for her if the Chiefs make it again, which they probably will, considering their track record of the past few years.

“So,” I say. “Your mother…”

“Right.” She nods and takes a sip of her wine. “I…” She blinks hard, but a tear streaks down her cheek. First one, then another. “Sorry. I can’t talk about that…”

I suddenly want to just hold her in my arms, comfort her, and tell her it's all going to be OK. But, at the same time, I know that's not necessarily the truth. After all, I lost my mother to that disease. Granted, my mother’s breast cancer was extremely aggressive. With any luck, Celeste’s mother does not have a particularly aggressive form of the disease. And if that's the case, she has a good chance of beating it.

I take a deep breath. "Not a problem." My fork hovers over the pasta. How much do I reveal to someone I barely know? The walls I've built aren't easily dismantled.

"I understand what you're going through," I finally say, twirling spaghetti around my fork without lifting it to my mouth. "After my father disappeared, I became obsessed with learning about my mother's death. Everyone changed the subject whenever I asked." The pasta grows cold as I set down my fork. "Eventually my grandfather sat me down—I was seven, maybe eight. He told me everything. About her illness. About how my birth complicated things." My voice drops. "About how she might have survived if not for me. He probably figured I'd piece it together eventually. But hearing it..." I shake my head. "Let's just say I wasn't equipped to handle that truth."

Her eyes widen as she reaches for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "How did you cope with that?"

"Seven-year-olds aren't supposed to know what suicide is," I tell her, my voice steady despite the weight of the words. "But I walked into my granddad's pool fully clothed, just kept walking until my head went under. Rosa spotted me from the kitchen window. Everyone kept asking how a kid who'd been swimming since three and surfing since four could suddenly drown. After that, Granddad found this child psychologist. Three sessions a week, ten years straight. Can't say if it fixed everything, but..." I shrug, attempting a smile. "I'm still breathing, so I guess something stuck."

“Oh, Max,” she says, her eyes shining. “I’m so sorry.”

I hold up a hand. "It's fine. Well, not fine—it's never going to be fine. Sometimes I think if I could just erase myself from the equation, maybe our family would still be together. Whole. But that's not exactly how the universe works, is it? Can't exactly pull a Superman and reverse time by flying around the Earth, so..." I trail off with a shrug.

The corners of her mouth lift, but her eyes remain heavy. "Looks like we're both members of the same club, then. The one where we'd give anything to rewrite history or slip sideways into some world where certain things never happened." But then she puts her hand on mine. She reaches for my hand across the table. “But in your fantasy, you erase yourself. I just want you to know—I wouldn't erase you for anything."

I shrug. "Well, that's something."

She nods. “And about my mom. There's a new immunotherapy treatment. Promising results in the trials. But her insurance won't touch experimental treatments, so..."

"Fight them," I say. "Appeal their decision."

She laughs, but it's hollow. "Oh, you sweet summer child." Her eyes meet mine, tired but somehow still fierce. "Must be nice living in your tax bracket. Where medical care is just another luxury purchase. For the rest of us? It's a full-time job battling insurance companies over basic coverage they're contractually obligated to provide. My mom spent three hours on hold last week just to get them to approve her regular medication. This new treatment?" She gestures vaguely toward the ceiling. "Might as well be asking them to cover a trip to Mars."

I shake my head, suddenly aware of the invisible safety net I've always had beneath me. She's right. While her family debates whether they can afford life-saving treatment, I've never once checked a price tag on healthcare. One phone call from my family would have specialists flying in from Johns Hopkins or UCLA. Cancer for me wouldn't mean GoFundMe campaigns—it would mean a private suite at Mayo Clinic by morning. The language of insurance denials and payment plans might as well be Swahili to me.

“Let’s change the subject,” she says, scooping up the last streak of tomato sauce with her garlic bread before popping it into her mouth. "And Max. There's something I've been wondering."

My shoulders tense slightly. "Shoot."

"What's in this for you?" She waves a hand between us, her wedding ring catching the light. "I mean, my reasons are pretty clear. But yours?"

The question lodges itself under my skin. I stare at the empty wine glass between us, suddenly aware of the ticking clock hanging over our arrangement. Twelve months. $250,000 for her. For me, just long enough to secure the Dreamscape merger and my position as CEO—a position they can't take away without cause. Once that's done...

I look at her face, the same face I've started searching for first thing every morning, and feel the uncomfortable collision of my growing feelings and my exit strategy. When the year is up, I'll still walk away. This isn't a real marriage.

It can't be.

I take a deep breath. "My grandfather blackmailed me into marrying you," I confess, watching her face carefully. "He threatened to turn the major shareholders against me—people who control more than half the board votes—if I didn't go through with it." I then explain everything in more detail, telling her exactly how it all went down.

Celeste's expression remains neutral as she absorbs my words. No anger flashes across her features, no hurt dims her eyes. She simply nods once, then shrugs.

"Well, that explains it," she says. "Let's tackle these dishes."

Side by side at the sink, we fall into an unexpected rhythm. I load the dishwasher while she scrubs pans, humming softly to the music from her playlist filling the kitchen. Rosa won't be back until tomorrow—she's in Temecula visiting a friend, a fact I learned when I texted her earlier about giving Celeste and me some privacy. The wine glasses gleam under my careful attention with the electric brushes, and I find myself enjoying this simple shared task more than I'd ever imagined possible.

Then first notes of "God Only Knows" drift from Celeste's playlist, and my chest tightens. This song. The Beach Boys' gentle harmonies that played in the background of every home movie my dad shot of my mom. The same melody that filled my grandfather's house that summer afternoon when my father walked out during the donor party. I can still see the French doors swinging shut behind him, the needle skipping on the record player. The last notes I heard before everything changed—before I knew what it meant to lose someone.