Page 67 of The Malibu Destiny

During those brief windows of sobriety in my childhood, I caught glimpses of who he could be. Now I have to accept what remains: a man hollowed out by two decades of regret and the crater my mother's death left behind. He'll never be whole again. But maybe I can stop being an asshole long enough to let him piece together whatever life he has left.

My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. "Dad," I finally say, my voice like gravel. "Mom's death destroyed you. Broke you. And you just kept drinking. You never even tried to get help—not rehab, not AA, nothing." I look him straight in the eyes, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. "You could have fought for us. Your sons. But you didn't even try."

He shakes his head. "Son, there's something I never told you boys. Well, Max knows. I've battled depression my whole life." His eyes drift to some middle distance. "Growing up was hell. My folks thought depression was just weakness. 'Man up, Michael. Stop your bellyaching.' When I was fifteen, I attempted suicide - swallowed a whole bottle of my mother’s sleeping pills." He swallows hard. "After my attempt, doctors recommended medication, but my parents shipped me off to military school instead." A heavy sigh escapes him. "It wasn't until college—sitting in Psych 101—that everything clicked. Got myself to a doctor, started meds. My physician finally called my parents, broke it down for them. 'Michael's brain chemistry is off. He needs these pills like a diabetic needs insulin.' That's when they finally got it."

I bow my head. This is the first I’m hearing this. “So, when Mom died….”

Michael's hands trembled as he spoke. "After Catherine passed, I...I stopped taking care of myself. My medication—I just couldn't remember to take it. Or maybe I didn't want to." He swallowed hard. "The dark thoughts came every day after that. Every single day. It wasn't just grief—it was the SSRI withdrawal, the drinking. God, I convinced myself the whiskey was medicine - why did I need Prozac when I had Jack Daniels?” His voice softened. "Patricia saved me. She understood what it means to stare death in the face—her battle with breast cancer taught her that. She connected me with her therapist." A fragile smile crossed his face. "For the first time in decades, I can see daylight breaking through."

I stare at him for a moment. "Oh." My jaw tightens as I consider what I really need to know. "So, Dad," I finally say, my voice steadier than I feel. "What happens if Patricia leaves you? Or if she—I don't know—gets hit by a bus tomorrow? Are you going to crawl back into a bottle and disappear for another twenty years? Because that's your pattern. That's what you did when things got hard before. Why should I believe anything's different now?"

Christ. How am I supposed to trust him again? If I let him back in and he bails a second time, I won't just feel like an idiot—I'll be destroyed. He needs to give me more than some bullshit about how he's a changed man. Uncle Thomas's farm is still running, and I'd bet my flagship resort that Thomas would welcome him back tomorrow without a single question. And there's no way my brothers haven't grilled him about this already. Especially Silas.

He nods. "Trust isn't something I expect from you, Roman. Not after I vanished for twenty-two years." He rubs his thumb against his sobriety chip. "You deserve concrete reasons to believe I'm different now. And here they are - I’ve got a therapist who doesn't let me hide from myself—three sessions every week. Never bothered with that before." His voice softens. "My sponsor answers my calls at three in the morning when the old demons visit. The whole AA group—they see me clearly and still choose to stand beside me." He sighs. "Patricia and I are good together. She fills some of the emptiness your mother's death left. But you're right to question that too. Life offers no certainties. The difference is, this time I've built myself a lifeboat before sailing into rough waters."

I nod. The therapist and AA—that's new. My jaw clenches. If he'd gotten help twenty-two years ago...but that's not how it went down. The past is the past. Now I'm staring at two doors: behind one, I believe he's changed, that he won't detonate our lives again. Behind the other, I let him back in without promises. I run my hand through my hair, suddenly realizing there's no third door anymore—the one where I keep telling him to go to hell and never look back. Somewhere along the line, I've already made the choice to have him in my life, one way or another.

Dad's eyes find mine. "Roman, I've noticed something. You hold Max responsible, don't you? For everything that happened."

I don't bother denying it. The truth sits between us like a third person.

"I want to show you something I never leave behind." Dad gestures toward a battered leather satchel in the corner. "Would you mind?"

The bag feels heavier than it should as I pass it to him. He reaches inside and withdraws a journal bound in faded burgundy leather, its spine cracked from years of handling. My breath catches—Mom's handwriting on the cover.

Dad's fingers move with practiced precision to a dog-eared page. "This part," he says, tapping a paragraph. "You need to see this."

I trace Mom's handwriting with my fingertips, a knot forming in my throat...

I've chosen my path. This choice will take my life, but I've already bonded with the miracle growing inside me. Another boy—my little Max. Last night I dreamed of him, a perfect reflection of Michael, my North Star, the man who's held my heart since the moment we met.

The weight of leaving behind seven other sons without their mother crushes me, but I cannot sacrifice my unborn child so that I might live for my seven other sons. Each of my boys carries a piece of my soul, though Roman—my stormy, complicated three-year-old—concerns me most. He reminds me so much of my father: brilliant and kind, yet harboring a tempest within. Dad found salvation in running endless miles; I hope Roman discovers his own sanctuary from the chaos in his mind. Above all, Roman needs reassurance of his worthiness of love, though he resists it fiercely.

Sweet Cameron wears his heart openly—may he never change. The twins, Kalen and Connor, are barely toddlers; I pray they find their way without memories of me to guide them. Little Ansel remains a beautiful mystery. As for six-year-old Asher, our prodigy who devoured Great Expectations at four and truly comprehended it—brilliance awaits him. And serious Silas, so thoughtful and deep even now…I hope they can all forgive me for the choice I made. And it is my choice. I love them all.

I read her words and my head drops like it's been cut from my body. She chose to die for Max—a choice I've crucified him for all these years. But now I understand. She did it for love of Max and, goddammit, she worried about me the most. She saw the hurricane raging inside me even then, and with her dying breath, begged me to find peace. And what have I done? Spat on everything she wanted. She'd be gutted if she knew how my temper has burned every bridge, poisoned every relationship.

The first tear hits my hand like acid. Then another. Then a flood breaks through a dam I built thirty years ago. I grab for the Kleenex on Dad's nightstand, but it's useless against this deluge.

Dad pats the bed, and something primal in me responds. I climb into his bed and collapse beside him, my body convulsing with each sob. And suddenly I'm drowning in a memory—I did cry once, didn't I? We all did, crawling into Dad’s gigantic bed, all of us seeking shelter. His arm wrapped around me then as it is now, and the fortress I've spent my life building crumbles to dust. I'm three years old again, my soul being ripped in half as I realize my mother is gone forever.

Dad grips my shoulder, his fingers digging in. "Roman," he says, voice breaking. "I love you. She loved you. She loves you still. I believe that with everything I am. When you die, that love burns on like a supernova—and right now, she's watching us.” His eyes glisten. "She's finally at peace. Because her son came back to me."

My throat closes completely. I can only nod as twenty-two years of rage and grief collapse inside me. I'm back with him. Finally. The weight of his arm across my shoulders anchors me to this moment—this is where I belong, where I've always belonged. And somewhere beyond this world, Mom is watching her broken men finally heal, her son allowing her husband to hold him together when he's been shattering apart for so fucking long.

The doctor comes in, interrupting this father-son bonding that’s finally happening. “We need to prep Mr. Kensington for surgery,” he says gently.

I nod, getting out of the bed and giving his hand a firm squeeze. "Dad, kick some ass in there," I tell him, my voice gruffer than I intended. "I'm not going anywhere. Well—" I clear my throat. "I mean, I won't be sitting in this exact chair the whole time, but when you open your eyes, you'll see me. Count on it."

He nods, tears in his eyes. “Roman, I can’t tell you how much this means to me that you’re here.”

I nod back, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "I am, Dad. And I always will be." The unspoken thought hangs between us: Don't disappoint me again. My fingers flex involuntarily, muscle memory from years in the ring. A realization washes over me like the tide at Palos Verdes—I'm not powerless anymore. If he vanishes like before, I have the resources to find him, the strength to confront him and I’ll bring his ass right back. I'm not that abandoned ten-year-old anymore. My shoulders relax slightly as this understanding settles in my chest, a strange comfort in this fragile reconciliation.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

LILITH

Roman's text about his father didn't reach me until after my last tarot reading of the day. Six back-to-back sessions had left me emotionally spent—the disappointment in a client's eyes when the cards reveal unwelcome truths always takes something out of me. My phone stayed buried in my bag until evening, when I finally saw Roman's hospital updates followed by a message saying he'd be at my place by 8.