Page 60 of The Malibu Arrangement

"But just think,” I point out, "all your favorites are putting on a show—the hippos are splashing in their pool, the sea lions darting through water, the tigers are prowling. Even the giraffes are stretching their necks beneath the stars."

We wander over to the hippos. Beneath the water's surface, their massive bodies perform an unexpected dance of weightlessness. I think of Fantasia—Walt Disney knew what he was doing when he put tutus on these creatures and imagined them as graceful ballerinas. Max and I settle onto a bench, mesmerized. Time slips away as Rosie and her calf Mara twirl and glide in their watery stage, defying every expectation their bulky frames suggest.

Mom's eyes never leave the hippos. "Everyone thinks lions or crocodiles are Africa's deadliest," she murmurs, "but it's these guys. Something about those mothers—they'd do anything for their babies. And the bulls?" She clicks her tongue. "Pure territorial rage. That's what makes them so dangerous. One second they're floating there like peaceful river potatoes, the next—" She snaps her fingers. "They're charging at sixty miles an hour with jaws that can snap a canoe in half."

I nod. "It's strange, isn't it? They look so adorable from a distance—all fuzzy and innocent. But up close..." I trail off, thinking of Max. He’s just the opposite from the hippos who look cute and cuddly but are actually aggressive killers. When we first met, his eyes were winter, his words ice. The whispers around the office painted him as the executive who reduced Harvard MBAs to stammering apologies. Yet somehow, beneath that frost-bitten exterior beats a heart I never expected to find. He arranged all this for my mother—a woman whose name he's barely had time to learn. And I'd bet my career he pulled strings for her Keytruda treatments when insurance denied her only real chance against the cancer. And those nights when his hands trace my body with such tenderness that I forget to breathe….there are no words.

At the lion exhibit, we find the pride scattered across the enclosure. The male perches in a tree, tail flicking back and forth, his amber eyes tracking our movements. Females groom their cubs while others bound through the night air, tumbling over one another. "This is rare," Max whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "Lions aren't strictly day or night creatures—they adjust their schedules based on their surroundings. We got lucky tonight."

I nod and smile. “It’s like they’re performing just for us.”

For another two hours, we wander the zoo, lingering at exhibits where the animals haven't surrendered to nighttime lethargy. At the marine mammal pool, Rocky and Buddy, the two male sea lions, bark and splash at each other, their voices echoing across the concrete. Something about them tugs at me—these bachelors confined together when in the wild they'd be competing for females. Buddy, with his clouded eyes, at least has a reason to be here. Rocky's story remains a mystery. They glide through the water alongside several Harbor seals, who watch their antics with what looks like dignified indifference, their whiskers twitching.

Mom squints at her phone. "Says here Rocky was found with a bullet lodged in his skull. Only has vision in one eye now." She taps the screen, scrolling further. "Poachers, probably." She'd been wondering the same thing I was—why he wasn't swimming free somewhere. She looks up at the solitary figure gliding through the water. "Shame they don't have any lady sea lions. These bachelors could use some company."

She turns around to find Giorgio and Marcello beside her, their eyes also fixed on the sea lions. Giorgio drapes his arm across Marcello's shoulders with a playful smile. "Maybe those two bachelors out there have the right idea—no ladies, no problems." A chuckle escapes him as he gives Marcello a gentle elbow to the ribs. Marcello returns the gesture, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Our group moves through the nocturnal animal exhibits, pausing at each enclosure. I'm surprised to find giraffes among them. "They're not actually nocturnal," Max whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "They just don't need much sleep—always watching for predators." I glance up at their towering forms, some dozing on their feet while others stretch their long necks toward leafy branches. "What could possibly hunt something that tall?" I whisper back. Max's eyes gleam in the dim lighting. "Lions. They hunt in prides."

We move on to where leopards pace behind glass, their spotted coats gleaming under moonlight. In a different enclosure, maned wolves trot with their distinctive fox-on-stilts gait, while nearby, an aardvark burrows its snout into artificial soil. An ocelot watches us with jewel-like eyes, and at the Australian exhibit, a kangaroo joey peeks from its mother's pouch, then ducks back into safety.

Of these animals, the kangaroos fascinate me the most. Their powerful hind legs propel them in graceful bounds across the yellowing grass, their alert eyes tracking our every movement from beneath furrowed brows. Two males suddenly rear up on their tails, balancing perfectly as they swat at each other with gloved paws, their muscular torsos gleaming copper. Max's laughter mingles with mine as we watch this primal dance of dominance unfold mere yards away.

The zoo closes at ten, and as we make our final loop past the flamingos, Max turns to Mom. "Patricia, what do you think about heading back for something sweet?"

Mom's eyes light up. "I've been saving room," she says, patting her stomach. "Giorgio mentioned tiramisu earlier, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since."

Max's lips curve into a smile. Earlier, he'd quietly asked me what dessert Mom loves most. "Tiramisu," I'd answered without hesitation. Now we're making our way back to our table beneath the canopy of stars, still savoring the memory of Giorgio's pizza—hands down the most incredible any of us had ever tasted. I catch Mom's eye and see my own anticipation mirrored there; we're all wondering what magic Giorgio might work with ladyfingers and mascarpone.

Giorgio emerges from the kitchen carrying a tiramisu the size of a small suitcase, a single flickering candle standing tall in its center. Our voices blend together in the familiar birthday melody as Mom leans forward, closes her eyes for a wish, and extinguishes the flame with a gentle puff. Applause ripples around the table. Giorgio's knife glides through the layers of mascarpone and coffee-soaked ladyfingers, and when my first bite dissolves on my tongue, I can't help but close my eyes and let out a small, involuntary moan. Heaven has a taste after all. The mascarpone cream melts into a silken cloud against my palate, each delicate layer of espresso-drenched ladyfingers yielding beneath my fork with the gentlest pressure. The bitter cocoa dusting mingles with the sweet marsala undertones, creating a perfect harmony that makes my shoulders drop in surrender. This isn't just dessert—it's Giorgio's masterpiece.

Mom's face lights up as she takes another bite of the tiramisu, her eyes closing briefly in that way they always do when she's savoring something delicious. The dessert's cocoa dusting leaves a faint brown smudge on her upper lip that she doesn't notice. I'm scraping the last creamy remnants from my own plate when she suddenly pushes back her chair. The legs scrape against the hardwood floor as she rises, reaching for her crystal wine glass. The delicate ping of her spoon against the glass silences the dinner conversation, and all eyes turn to her as she fixes her gaze on Max.

Patricia raises her glass. "To Max," she says, her voice carrying across the room. "When Celeste first told me about you, I thought she'd gone completely crazy." She gives a small laugh, shaking her head. "A man she barely mentioned, suddenly her husband? I hadn't even met you! But now—" her eyes soften as she looks between them, "—I see you're the perfect match for my daughter's particular brand of insanity."

I plaster on a smile and sneak a glance at Max, who's practically glowing as he talks to Mom. Something twists in my chest. Mom's looking at him like he hangs the moon—and why wouldn't she? The man's making her mountain of medical bills disappear like some financial magician. Great for her. For me? I keep seeing that merger date circled on the calendar. Once my scripts actually pay the bills, what's left? Our little Malibu playhouse gets packed up. This whole fantasy comes with a timer that's ticking down, even if no one else can hear it. I've been stealing moments with Max like they're samples at Costco, knowing damn well I can't afford the full-size version. When our time's up, Mom's heart will crack in two right along with mine. Better she doesn't get too attached to my temporary husband.

Later, we fall into bed, both of us buzzing from the day's emotional rollercoaster. After sex, Max conks out immediately, his face all peaceful, those stress lines vanished. I prop myself up, memorizing him—the stubborn jaw, those ridiculous eyelashes—like I'm cramming for a test I'll have to take alone.

"Max," I whisper, my voice barely disturbing the darkness between us. "What you did for Mom today..." My throat tightens. The treatment might fail—I know this—but he gave her something insurance statements and medical jargon couldn't: hope. "You didn't just give her a birthday. You might have given her more birthdays."

His lips curve slightly upward, and I wonder if somewhere in his dreams, he hears me.

Chapter Forty-Eight

SEVERAL MONTHS LATER…

Celeste

Time blurs with Max in my life. Three months ago, I nearly dropped my phone when Selena called asking to represent me. Now I'm frozen at my kitchen table, staring at a check that makes my previous salary look like pocket change. Six hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. For words I wrote. My signature wobbles across the endorsement line, and after taxes and Selena's commission, I know exactly where the money's going. I put a substantial down payment on a condo for Mom, over her objections, and the greatest thing is, she’s strong enough to move now.

So, a week later, I watch Lexi toss her backpack onto the cream-colored sofa in Mom's new Westwood place, UCLA's iconic bell tower framed perfectly in the window behind her. Just weeks ago, Mom's hands shook too much to hold her tea. This morning, she planted herself in the doorway, spine straight, finger pointing as she commanded the moving crew. “Oh, for chrissakes, that’s a Tiffany lamp, not a baseball!” she barks to the movers who are still bringing her stuff into the new place. The hollows in her cheeks have filled in, her jeans fit again, and though Max denies it every time I ask, I know exactly who paid for the treatment that's bringing her back to us.

Max. Soon-to-be my ex-husband. The expiration date on our marriage ticks away silently between us, neither of us acknowledging the countdown. I catch myself watching him sometimes across the breakfast table, wondering how I'll feel when this is over. But there's Mom—her color returning, her appetite back, her laugh no longer forced. "No evidence of disease," the oncologist said last week, his voice betraying surprise at how quickly she'd responded to the treatment. May is circled in red on our calendar now—merger completion, divorce papers, as the merger has been postponed from March until May now, so there’s some reprieve but not a lot. I've practiced saying the words "irreconcilable differences" in my bathroom mirror. Yet every time Mom calls, bubbling with energy she hasn't had in years, I know whose signature is on those medical bills she never sees.

While Max jet-sets to Tokyo for some gaming company deal—something about expanding Kensington's "intellectual property portfolio," as he calls it—I'm here with cardboard boxes and packing tape, helping Mom and Lexi move. Things between Max and me have been like something from a movie these past months, but I find myself stepping back. Creating distance. When he texts from Japan, I wait hours before responding. Our nightly FaceTime ritual? I've let it slide completely. I tell myself he's swamped with meetings anyway, that I'm doing him a favor by not interrupting. But really, I'm protecting myself. Because fairy tales end, and I can't bear the thought of building my whole world around someone who might disappear.

Mom staggers through the doorway, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box labeled "Kitchen—Fragile" in my hurried Sharpie scrawl. Her cheeks are flushed pink against her newly cropped blonde hair, evidence of its post-chemo regrowth. "Oh, Celeste," she groans, setting the box down on the hardwood floor with a muffled clink of dishes. "Why did I let you talk me into this?" Then her weathered face breaks into that familiar crinkle-eyed smile. "Ah, but look at this!" She rolls up the sleeve of her faded blue t-shirt and flexes her bicep with theatrical flair. "Just started Pilates. Can you believe it?" The muscle is small but defined—a victory flag raised against everything her body has endured.