Page 39 of The Malibu Arrangement

"Babe," Hugh says, voice tight. "We could pay off the mortgage. Set up college funds."

Gail's expression softens toward him but remains resolute. "Hugh, I've fallen for this dog, and so have Abigail and Charlotte. You're not the one who'll deal with their heartbreak when Piper disappears. We were managing fine without a million dollars before today."

I can only nod. Her logic is unassailable, and... Hugh finally seems to understand. His shoulders drop as he reaches out to touch mine. "We appreciate the offer, Mr. Kensington, but would you mind taking a picture with us instead?"

So I pose with them in a smiling selfie and am on my way.

I'm still working on a plan B, because I need to cheer Celeste up. Iris says Celeste barely speaks at work anymore, skips the office celebrations, hides behind her closed door. The thought of her sadness gnaws at me, but I can't be the one to comfort her. Not yet.

Not when being near her makes me forget every reason I shouldn't love her.

I can't shake her. She's like a splinter that's worked its way too deep to extract. Some mornings, I round the corner toward the breakfast nook and freeze—there she is with Rosa, laughing over coffee. I retreat before she notices me, but not before her scent hits me. That Hermés perfume from the welcome basket I had delivered—candied oranges and patchouli—mixed with the vanilla in her shampoo. Last week, I called a boutique candlemaker in Venice Beach. "I need something specific," I said, describing the exact notes. Now my office smells like her. Johnson from Legal raised an eyebrow yesterday. "Candles, Kensington?" I just shrugged.

Ansel's words echo in my head: "You're in love with her." Ridiculous. I simply rearrange my entire schedule to avoid spending more than twenty minutes in her presence. I merely commissioned artisanal reproductions of her scent so I could breathe it in private. I unsuccessfully offered $1 million for a shelter pit bull that she fell in love with. Nothing about that suggests love.

Or does it?

Chapter Thirty-Two

TURNING POINT

Celeste

I've lived in my new house for three weeks now, and, while the place is a Mediterranean masterpiece perched on the cliffside, it echoes with emptiness. Only Rosa, with her gentle humming and the scent of lemon polish that follows her, is keeping me sane, but I can't lean on her weathered shoulders all the time. And it's been a soul-crushing few weeks.

My mother got the results back from her last scans and the news crashed down like a wrecking ball. The cancer has spread like ivy through her lymph nodes and nearby tissues. Her tumors sit stubborn and defiant, refusing to shrink under the assault of chemicals that leave her skin sallow and her bathroom floor littered with strands of once-vibrant hair. Her doctors keep trying different cocktails of medicine with names I can barely pronounce, but they haven't yet found the key that will unlock her healing. And it's only a matter of time before the disease, hungry and relentless, spreads to a distant organ like her bones, lungs, liver or brain and becomes metastatic cancer —medical shorthand for "prepare yourself."

I've been carrying this knowledge like stones in my pockets. Every night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until dawn breaks. I feel like I’m living alone on the moon when I'm at the Malibu house, floating in a vacuum of silence. The nearest neighbor is hidden behind a mile of twisted cypress trees, their shadows stretching like fingers across Max's manicured lawn at sunset. I come home every evening to a dark and quiet house—my wing with its separate entrance might as well be on another continent—and sit on my balcony, where the railing is always cold against my bare feet. The Pacific stretches before me, black and bottomless, its waves hissing secrets I can't decipher while I huddle under a cashmere throw that costs more than my first car. I keep waiting for those rhythmic crashes to lull me into peace. But they don't.

And I've never in my life felt so thoroughly, completely alone.

Of course, people at work have noticed the change. I catch Elaine's concerned glances through the glass wall of my office, where I've been hiding behind my laptop screen like it's a shield. The fluorescent lights seem harsher now as I slink from my sanctuary only for mandatory meetings, my voice barely rising above a whisper when I present development notes.

The hallways echo with laughter I no longer contribute to. Bob turned 50 and the office went nuts—those stupid mylar balloons kept bumping against the ceiling all day, making that squeaky rubber sound that sets my teeth on edge. On another day, Symone wouldn't stop flashing her new three-carat princess cut, practically dislocating her wrist to make sure everyone noticed. Yesterday, Alicia's desk vanished under about fifty roses for her work anniversary, and I swear that sickly-sweet smell seeped under my door no matter how hard I tried to keep it out. The break room's basically a graveyard of half-eaten sheet cakes, that waxy frosting that glues your mouth shut. I used to be first in line for a corner piece, clinking plastic champagne flutes like I belonged. Now? I'd rather eat glass than join their little celebration circle. It's like I woke up one day and forgot all the steps to their office dance.

I can't lose her. She's been my rock my entire life. After my father died, when I was 15 and Lexi was 10, it was just the three of us against the world. Mom somehow made sure our fridge stayed full and the electricity never got cut off, but it was more than that. She's the woman who taught me to parallel park at midnight in an empty grocery store lot, who still sends me New Yorker cartoons that make me laugh, who knows exactly how to fold fitted sheets into perfect rectangles.

There are so many memories that would vanish with her—the three of us in Vegas, Mom in that sequined vintage dress she found at Goodwill, dancing under strobe lights until our feet blistered. She'd always walk away from the blackjack tables with more chips than she started with, her eyes gleaming. The three of us skiing in Big Bear, our breath clouding in the thin mountain air, Mom having saved all year for those precious forty-eight hours. Our sun-drenched Disneyland pilgrimages, sticky with cotton candy and exhaustion. But more than those postcard moments, I'd miss our book club for two—her curled on one end of our threadbare couch, me on the other, debating character motivations over mugs of Earl Grey until midnight, even though it's been fourteen months since we last dissected someone's prose together.

I remember all those nights she'd sit with me after yet another rejection letter arrived. "Screenplay number seventeen isn't dead," she'd say, pouring more wine. "It just needs revision." Then she would remind me to keep going. “Thomas Edison tried 2,774 different filaments before he got one to work," she'd say, squeezing my shoulder. Or she'd quote Babe Ruth about how each strikeout brought him closer to his next home run. If cancer takes her, will my dreams follow her into the darkness? Or would abandoning them be the real betrayal?

I'd miss those midnight talks on the porch swing, her arm around my shoulders while I sobbed over yet another breakup. "Listen to me," she'd whisper, her voice steady even at 3 AM. "That boy doesn't deserve a single second of your time. You only get so many seconds in this life, Celeste. Don't give them to people who won't treasure them." And now, I’m seeing the truth in her words - that you only get so many seconds in your life. They’re finite and will one day run out. And yet, I’m wasting precious seconds of my life with Max. Seconds that would be better spent with the people who love me.

It’s only a year. I have to tell myself that. But how many seconds will I have wasted on Max if I actually do make it through the year? I Google this and the answer is 31,536,000 seconds. Or, like the famous song from Rent, 525,600 minutes. I blink back tears. My mother told me not to waste a single second on people who don’t love me, who don’t treasure me, who don’t see me. And, goddamn it, I’ll be wasting over 31,000,000 seconds on somebody who, quite frankly, doesn’t deserve me.

Then, one night, I get a phone call that crystallizes everything for me. A call that puts things into such a perspective that I absolutely know it’s time to do whatever it takes to get out of this deal.

“Hi, Lex,” I say to my sister when she calls.

“Celeste,” she shrieks, hysterical. “I’m at Cedars. It’s Mom.”

My heart plummets to my shoes. No. No. No. NO!!!!!

“Is she-”

“She’s in critical condition, Celeste. A bladder infection that’s turned septic in a hurry. They’re giving her antibiotics, but-”

“On my way.”