Page 71 of The Malibu Arrangement

My hands shake as I get dressed and pull my boot laces tight. I twist my too-long hair up, wishing I had scissors and better face cream, then put on lip gloss like it might help. I get up and look in a full-length mirror, which shows the truth. My clothes are too big at the waist, sleeves too long for my hands. For three weeks, Olivia brought me fancy food to eat in bed—mushroom risotto, glazed salmon, chocolate mousse—and I threw it all away. I'd smile until she left, then dump the food in a bucket under my bed, and empty it after she went to work. She thinks I'm eating while I'm getting thinner, a stick figure in Kohl’s clothes.

I sigh, staring at my reflection. My clothes hang off me like I'm a wire hanger. Turns out heartbreak is the ultimate weight loss program—who needs juice fasts, Keto diets and Ozempic when you can just have your soul crushed by Max Kensington? From the looks of it, I’ve lost about fifteen pounds in three weeks. Maybe I should pitch it to those bougie weight loss spas in Ojai. "The Devastation Diet: Guaranteed Results or Your Dignity Back."

Tally's eyes widen. "You're basically Skeletor at this point. We need to get some calories in you ASAP."

Liv's face falls. "But Celeste, I've been dropping off food three times a day. How did you get so⁠—"

I squeeze her shoulder. "I know, and I love you for it. But I just...I haven't managed more than a few bites in three weeks. Haven't really slept either."

Her eyes glisten, and guilt twists in my chest.

"Today's different," I promise, forcing a smile. "Once I break the fast, I'll demolish all those gourmet leftovers you've been bringing." The words sound hollow even to me. My stomach still feels like a closed fist, and I can already envision myself at Old Tony's, pushing fettuccine around my plate while Tally stares daggers at me and Liv exchanges a worried glance with Tally.

We cram ourselves into Tally's Jeep and tear off toward Redondo Beach, sixty excruciating minutes from the condo. Tally and Olivia babble about anything—the weather, some Netflix show, their horoscopes—desperate to avoid the bleeding wound between us: Max and that silicone-injected parasite Elody are now splashed across every entertainment site as Hollywood's newest power couple. My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. I'd rip out my own heart with my bare hands if it meant watching her Aston Martin burst into flames with her inside it. I swear to god, I would.

Tally giggles as she speeds down the highway. "You’ ll never believe who just walked into my shop."

"Mother Teresa," I deadpan, rolling my eyes in the backseat. The last thing I need is another round of Tally's celebrity worship.

"Chris. Fucking. Hemsworth." Each word punctuated like a gunshot. "I swear to god, Celeste, I nearly passed out. Six-foot-four of pure Australian divinity. When he rolled up his sleeve for the tattoo, I saw veins I would happily let drain me dry. He's filming downtown and—" she presses a hand to her chest, "—I had to excuse myself to hyperventilate in the bathroom."

"Ah. Chris Hemsworth,” I say. “He's got those hands—mechanic's hands—perfect for wiring a car bomb under Elody's driver's seat. I've thought about it. The exact placement. The trigger mechanism. The blast radius." A savage smile. "Those eyes of his—there's something feral there, something that understands revenge. Next time you're alone with him, ask him how much C-4 it takes to turn an Aston Martin into confetti."

Tally rolls her eyes. "Annnnnddddd somehow Celeste manages to steer yet another conversation towards blowing up Elody's car."

"I'm just saying⁠—"

"I get it. I'd want to turn her Aston Martin into a fireball too. But what if Max is riding shotgun when you⁠—"

"Don't threaten me with a good time,” I mutter, turning to stare out the window. My pulse quickens at the thought of Max beside Elody, his arm draped over her leather seat. For a split second, I imagine the satisfaction of them both going up in flames. I catch myself. What kind of monster am I becoming? Despite everything, I still love him with an intensity that hurts. He doesn't know I ended things to protect Michael. From his perspective, I’m probably the villain deserving fiery vengeance.

I need to stop this explosive train of thought. Tonight, the only detonation I'm allowing myself involves dropping whiskey and Bailey's into a pint of Guinness.

I fall silent as Liv and Tally chatter away in the front seat. Their laughter stabs at me. Eight months ago, before Max, I'd have joined right in. Even with Mom's treatments draining me emotionally, I always woke up excited for work, hunting for that perfect script, that hidden gem I could champion. I met friends for brunch. I lit candles in my tiny condo just because. Now? I'm the woman who has worn nothing but different pajamas for weeks, who knows every Real Housewives plotline by heart, who can't remember when she last ate a real meal. All because of Max. Max with his hands that knew exactly where to touch me. Max who looked at me—really looked—when no one else did. Max who paid for Mom's treatment and reserved an entire zoo just for her. Max who got my screenplay in front of a real agent, an agent who’s put rocket fuel into my dream career. I never deluded myself that someone like him would stay with someone like me forever. But for four perfect months, I lived inside a fantasy. Now I'm back in reality, and I can barely breathe without him.

We arrive at the beach where sea lions have claimed a dock as their territory. A cacophony of loud barks cuts through the air—all from one massive bull, his sleek body twice the size of the females surrounding him. Hundreds of the females crowd the wooden planks, nursing pups tucked between their bodies, while the bull's persistent calls echo across the water. According to the Sierra Club volunteer standing nearby with a spotting scope, this bull has earned his position as colony patriarch, fathering most of the pups and guarding his family - amusingly called a harem - during their rest stop on their migration route.

Usually, I'd be transfixed by their blubbery soap opera, giving them all backstories and accents. The alpha male—this enormous blob with a bump on his head like nature's crown—I always voice as an exhausted Southern gentleman. "Lawdy mercy," I'd drawl, flopping an imaginary flipper, "managin' this many wives is givin' me the vapors." Then I'd switch to a breathy Marilyn Monroe for his favorite female sea lion: "But sugar-blubber, that teenage hoodlum is eyeing your spot again." And sure enough, some adolescent male would inch onto the dock, and I'd narrate the alpha's thunderous barks: "Scram, punk! This here dock is invitation-only, and your name ain't on the clipboard!" Then I'd make little splashing noises as the youngster retreats, complete with tiny sea lion tears.

But today, I just watch them silently.

Tally pokes me with her elbow. "Come on, Celeste. What's that big male sea lion's deal? Is he all, 'Bernice, if I catch you with Larry one more time, I swear I'm changing the Netflix password,' or more like, 'Hey ladies, check out these whiskers—I condition them twice daily with kelp extract'?" She wiggles her eyebrows at me in what I assume is her impression of a seductive bull sea lion. I just smile and shake my head. My sea lion impression is gone for now. Just one more quirk that Max has managed to steal from me.

Olivia's arm loops around my shoulders like a safety harness. "You'll get back to you, Celeste. Eventually. But this is a good step, coming out here with us."

I manage a weak nod. "Let's be real—I'm only here because Tally threatened to drag me out of bed by my hair," I say. "Otherwise I'd still be in my pajamas watching Gretchen rip Tamra's fake eyelashes off one by one. Which, honestly? The woman deserves for what she pulled last episode."

We head down to the beach where I spot something nestled in the sand—a piece of sea glass! Pink, smooth, and glossy. I've scoured countless beaches my whole life without finding a single piece of sea glass. Any other day, I'd be ecstatic. I'd craft some elaborate backstory about its journey, explaining how ordinary glass transforms into these treasures after decades in the churning ocean.

I can picture exactly how it would’ve gone with Tally and Liv. "This? Oh, definitely from a French Can-Can dancer's perfume bottle, circa 1870. She hurled it at her cheating lover, missed, a shard ended up in the toilet, where it ended up flushed out to sea." Tally would immediately poke holes in my geography: "A French bottle on the West Coast?" I'd double down with some nonsense about it drifting around South America via the Cape of Good Hope, and she'd counter with facts about how currents along Los Angeles come from the north, not south. And then I'd just grin and tell her to shut up and stop ruining my fantasy.

I stare at the piece of sea glass, my lips curving upward. An actual smile. First one in twenty-three days. Tally slides her arm around my shoulders, her eyes on the frosted pink shard in my palm. "There she is," she says. "My Celeste, mesmerized by sea glass. You're finding your way back."

I nod slightly. Perhaps. This sea glass has sparked something in me that isn't the hollow ache I've been carrying. It's not much, but it's not nothing.

We make our way to Old Tony's on the pier, the three of us. A steaming plate of seafood Alfredo waits in my future. Maybe I'll taste it—really taste it—and for those few bites, remember what pleasure feels like. These small moments might be all I get now: a weathered piece of glass, a forkful of pasta, brief respites in an otherwise barren landscape.

But true happiness? The kind I knew before? That's a country I've been exiled from, my passport shredded. My heart lies in too many pieces, and I'm learning to navigate around the edges of this new, diminished life.