Page 64 of The Malibu Arrangement

I reach across and place my hand over his weathered one. "I'll help you."

"But Max can't know," he says quickly. "Not yet."

"He'll wonder where I'm disappearing to every evening."

Michael's face falls. "I'm putting you in a terrible position."

I bite my lip, weighing the options. Telling Max means risking Michael fleeing back to England. Lying to Max means betraying his trust. The scale tips easily—Max deserves a chance to reconnect with his father, even if I have to manufacture late nights at the office for a while.

I glance at my watch. "When do the meetings start and end?"

"Seven to nine," Michael says.

"That means I won't be home until almost ten each night."

"Just for the first few weeks," he says, leaning forward. "Until I get my footing in recovery. Then I can scale back to two or three meetings a week." His eyes search mine. "Is that going to be an issue?"

"Not at all," I say, the lie sticking in my throat. "I'll tell Max I'm working late."

Michael's weathered hand covers mine. "You're somebody special, you know that? Helping a stranger like this."

I shake my head. "I'm not just doing it for you. I'm doing it for your sons—for Max and his brothers. For your parents too." I meet his gaze. "They deserve to see you sober. They deserve to have you present in their lives again."

As I jog home, a knot forms in my stomach. Max isn't stupid. How long before my nightly "work sessions" raise suspicions? This could explode in my face.

I take a deep breath and push the thought away.

Chapter Fifty-One

HELPING MICHAEL RECOVER

Celeste

That Monday, I accompany Michael Kensington to his first AA meeting. I phone Max with a fabricated story about an urgent project with Elaine keeping me at the office until ten. I cushion the news that this late schedule will continue for two weeks. Michael's decades-long relationship with the bottle means he'll need fourteen consecutive nights of meetings before we can scale back to a few sessions weekly.

Is that realistic? I'm not sure, but it's my hope. I’ll repeat the work excuse to Max, day after day, explaining my delayed homecomings. At least right now, he accepts the excuse without complaint—naturally. His own schedule often stretches well beyond mine. Still, these AA meetings with Michael will disrupt the rhythm Max and I have established. I've grown fond of arriving home by seven, preparing dinner together. Now we'll each be on our own.

Just temporary, I reassure myself. This won't damage what Max and I have built.

The church basement in Topanga Canyon is already filling with people when I arrive at 7 o'clock. I spot Michael immediately—hunched on a hard plastic chair, head hanging down, coffee cup trembling between his palms. The violent shaking in his hands makes my chest tighten, though I recognize it as progress. Withdrawal, not intoxication.

I slide into the empty seat beside him, reaching into my bag for the provisions I'd packed: a Lara bar dense with dates and cherries, and a small jar of macadamia nuts. While the donuts and coffee being offered might temporarily comfort him, what his recovering body needed was real nutrition—healthy fats to stabilize his crashing blood sugar.

"Here," I whisper, pressing them into his quivering hands. "Eat something."

His eyes meet mine, relief washing over his face. "You came," he says softly. "I convinced myself you wouldn't."

I squeeze his arm gently. "I said I would, didn't I?"

The room fills quickly with people from all walks of life. Once everyone is seated, Miguel, the meeting leader, calls the group to order. We all rise, join hands, and recite the serenity prayer in unison. The words hang in the air like a promise.

"Welcome, everyone," Miguel says warmly. "Any first-timers tonight?"

Michael raises his hand tentatively alongside a few others. Miguel acknowledges them with a nod. "As is our tradition, we'll hear from our newcomers first, if you're comfortable sharing."

After two others speak, Michael's turn arrives. Miguel's voice softens. "No pressure to share, but we're here to listen if you'd like to."

Michael inhales deeply, his chest expanding with the effort. "My name is Michael," he begins, voice barely above a whisper, "and I'm an alcoholic. Twenty-four hours sober."