Page 61 of The Malibu Arrangement

I grin. "You know why I helped you buy this condo, Mom. It's super close for Lexi, it's gorgeous and it's yours, not a rental. And I know you need this sunroom." I sweep my arms towards the sunroom where afternoon light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting honey-gold rectangles across the polished maple floors. I love everything about this place, and Mom does too - from the rich amber hardwood that gleams under our feet, to the intricate crown molding that frames each room like artwork, to the soaring 10' ceilings that make even this modest space feel palatial. The terrace outside, barely larger than a postage stamp but perfectly positioned to catch the morning sun, already holds Mom's collection of jewel-toned glass hummingbird feeders and three terracotta pots where tiny green tomato seedlings reach skyward - a world away from the water-stained ceilings and peeling linoleum of her dingy old apartment.

Tally and Liv push through the door with cardboard boxes stacked to their chins. Tally blows a strand of hair from her face and sets her load down with a thud. "Tell me we're done after this round, Celeste." She turns to Mom with an apologetic grimace. "Patricia, you know I'd do anything for you, but my back is killing me. Thank god it’s cool today."

I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning my upcoming move from Max's place—Mom doesn't need to hear that right now. She and Max have developed this unexpected connection since Christmas, when she stayed with us. I still can't get over the sight of Mom hunched over a poker table with Max, Gianni, and the rest of the Kensington brothers—Ansel, Roman, Kalen, Asher, Cameron, Silas and Connor—all of them locked in their family's traditional Christmas Eve tournament. Turns out they do it every year instead of singing Christmas carols and opening gifts, and I was there for it. Mom's face when she raked in that final pot! The next day, on Christmas Day, the wind whipped through our hair as Max steered his sailboat towards Catalina Island. I watched them from the bow, and then watched their heads bent close together over a museum exhibit, then later splashing each other like kids during our kayak adventure.

Mom's laugh—that full-throated one I hadn't heard in years—echoed every time Max launched into another outlandish tale, such as the one about him about stealing his grandfather's yacht at thirteen and accidentally docking at a nudist beach, his hands painting elaborate pictures in the air, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper at the punchlines that made Mom double over, clutching her sides. Or about the time he accidentally set his prep school headmaster’s toupee on fire during a chemistry experiment gone wrong. Mom got a kick out of these stories and by the time she went home after staying with us a week, she told me how much she adored my husband.

Mom grimaces and jabs a thumb in my direction. "Don't look at me. This genius right here is responsible." She rolls her eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck. "You should move, she said. You’ll love it, she said. Meanwhile, I'm seriously contemplating whether they'd let me plead temporary insanity if I strangled her. Lucky for her I love her too much. And I guess she was trying to help. So there's that."

I can't help but laugh. "Well, the silver lining is I can actually pay for movers now." I catch Tally staring at one of the movers—the one with arms like tree trunks and a jawline that belongs on a movie poster. I nudge her with my elbow. Earlier, I overheard him mentioning his husband while arranging boxes. Mom nearly spilled her coffee when I whispered it to her. Classic Tally—somehow always gravitating toward men who couldn't possibly be interested.

We spend the next few hours lugging boxes while the moving guys handle the furniture for Lexi's new condo. Once everything's inside, Lexi—who orchestrated this entire move like a general—collapses onto the bare living room floor. She fans her arms and legs across the hardwood, making invisible snow angels and dissolving into laughter. I join her, our limbs sweeping in unison. The gesture transports me back to Kansas City winters, when we'd fall backward into real snowdrifts, our breath clouding above us. Los Angeles hasn't seen actual snow since '62. Sometimes I miss the Midwest's clear-cut seasons, though I conveniently forget how much I cursed those icy mornings while scraping my windshield, my nostalgia selective as always.

“What are you two nuts doing?” Mom asks, laughing.

Lexi's eyes sparkle as she surveys the new place. "This is heaven compared to the rat colony we were living in before. Though I was always partial to sweet Willard.”

I groan at the memory. Only my sister would name a disease-carrying rodent after a horror movie. The whole nightmare started when her neighbor Bill's "pet" Suzy turned out to be pregnant. Instead of dealing with the babies responsibly, Bill released them into the wild—the wild being their apartment complex. Six months later, management was setting traps while Lexi conducted her one-woman rescue operation, relocating captured rats to "the countryside" where they're probably staging a takeover of some poor farmer's barn. She even kept one as a pet until her class schedule made rat-parenting too demanding. I still remember her tearful goodbye when she surrendered Willard to the animal shelter, gender still undetermined.

Three and a half months into marriage with Max, and I still catch myself wondering if this is real. I wake up tangled in his sheets, his scent lingering on my skin, and have to pinch myself. Last month, he casually mentioned tickets to the Super Bowl—as if everyone just happens to have access to a private suite at SoFi Stadium. When we found out the Chiefs were playing, his eyes lit up with that look I've come to recognize: the one that says he's about to make me deliriously happy. Mom, Lexi and I all got to share his family’s suite at this past Super Bowl. Mom and Lexi couldn't stop gaping at the champagne fountains and celebrities, while I couldn't stop watching Max watching me celebrate as Kansas City demolished Detroit. I screamed every obscenity known to man during that game - couldn’t help myself, it was a nail-biter for the first three quarters before the Chiefs broke it wide open in the fourth quarter, scoring 21 unanswered points. So, yeah, that was yet another fantasy brought to life by Max.

It's past midnight when I finally make it home after helping Lexi and Mom settle into their new place. The house is empty—Max won't be back from Tokyo until tomorrow—and I stand for a moment in the dark stillness, listening to the distant rhythm of waves against the shore. My fingers trace the outline of my phone, still warm from Mom's call thanking me again. Two screenplay deadlines sit in my inbox. And somewhere over the Pacific, a man I never expected to love is flying back to me.

I can't help but smile at the ceiling, even as a tiny voice whispers: surely the universe won't let me keep all this.

Chapter Forty-Nine

A SHOCKING RETURN

Celeste

The bathroom scale doesn't lie: five pounds. I stare at the number, remembering how Olivia and I used to pound the pavement together, training for 10Ks around Los Angeles. These days, my running shoes gather dust in the corner of Max's closet. Last weekend, we watched runners stream past during the LA marathon, their faces etched with determination. Something twisted in my chest as they crossed the finish line—something like longing. That night, I find myself circling November's first Sunday on the calendar. The NYC marathon. My finger traces the date again and again until the ink smudges. Ambitious? Absolutely. But as I tape the calendar to the refrigerator, I feel something I haven't in months: a hunger that has nothing to do with food.

The alarm buzzes at 5 AM, and I slip out of bed, careful not to wake Max. My running shoes wait by the door like old friends I'd neglected too long. I stretch in the dim hallway light, muscles protesting the early hour, then ease the front door closed behind me.

The rhythm of my feet hitting pavement had always been my therapy—no earbuds, no playlists, just the sound of my breathing and the space to untangle my thoughts. I needed that clarity again. One hour each morning to pound the Malibu roads while the world slept, letting my mind wander through the maze I'd created of my life.

This morning, as my feet sinks into the cool sand with each step, my mind drifts between thoughts of my mother's recovery and the screenplays that would soon bear my name. The beach stretches before me, empty and peaceful in the pre-dawn quiet. I breathe in the salt air and smile. Our stretch of Malibu faces east rather than west—a geographical quirk that means the sun would soon emerge from the ocean horizon rather than sink into it. While the hills behind us capture magnificent sunsets, there was something magical about watching light break across water, painting the waves in gold as they rush towards shore.

My breath comes in ragged bursts as I pound down the beach toward the stairs that lead up to Pacific Coast Highway. The coffee shop is miles away, but the thought of a latte pulls me forward like a lifeline. I take the wooden steps two at a time, sand flying from my sneakers. At the top, I barely register a blue Corolla pulled onto the shoulder, hazard lights blinking lazily. Just another broken-down car on the PCH. I've got exactly forty-three minutes to reach the café, down my caffeine, run back, shower, dress, and get into my car for my hour-long commute to the office, so I can arrive at 7:30, which is my new start time and has been since I moved in with Max.

The coffee shop barista slides my latte across the counter. I gulp it down, burning my tongue, and dash back outside. There it is again—that blue Corolla with the tinted windows. I hesitate, wondering if I should check on the driver, but my watch says I'm already fifteen minutes behind schedule.

Days blur together. My morning route never changes, but that car appears like a ghost in different spots. Monday, it's pulled onto the gravel shoulder near the bend. Tuesday, it's lurking in the Malibu Farm parking lot. Wednesday, it claims the spot directly in front of my regular coffee shop, the Malibu Farm Pier Cafe. Thursday, it's stationed outside that boarded-up Italian place that went under last year.

The feeling reminds me of that Twilight Zone episode where a hitchhiker keeps appearing to a woman driving cross-country. She sees him in Pennsylvania, then Ohio, then Nebraska—the same haunting face at every turn. Only in the final moments does she learn the truth: she died in an accident back in New York, and he's been Death all along, patiently waiting for her to realize that she’s dead. That's how I feel about this car—like it's following me with some terrible message.

Then one Saturday morning, I finally discover who's behind the wheel. I'm lingering at the Blue Bottle Café, nursing a latte and picking at a blueberry scone, with nowhere particular to be. Max is buried in merger paperwork at the office, as he has been every weekend lately, leaving me to fill these empty hours however I can.

A man appears beside my table and pulls out the chair across from me without asking. My spine stiffens. The café suddenly feels too warm, too close. His weathered jeans have a tear just above one knee, his red-and-navy plaid flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows revealing tanned forearms, and his brown leather work boots are scuffed at the toes as if he's kicked something hard, repeatedly. He's about 55, with salt-and-pepper hair that curls slightly at his collar, crow's feet around eyes that are a startling shade of green, the same color as Max’s. Those eyes lock onto mine with unsettling intensity.

"Hello, I don't want to scare you. But you're Celeste Jenkins, am I right?" His voice is deep, gravelly, with the faintest hint of a British accent. But it’s not quite British…it’s more American with just a hint of Brit. I shake my head. His voice, although slightly accented, sounds familiar. Like Max…

I nod, breaking off a piece of my scone with trembling fingers. Crumbs scatter across the white tablecloth. "Yes. Who's asking?"

"My name is Michael Kensington. I believe you're married to my son, Max."

Chapter Fifty