Chapter 36 #2
But Max. Just the two of us. For hours. In wetsuits.
God help me, I'm actually giddy about this, which is beyond pathetic.
The guy's carrying around enough emotional baggage to fill a 747—dead mom, vanished dad, guilt complex the size of Montana, probably a healthy dose of survivor’s guilt, too.
And it's not like Rosa said he's secretly pining for me.
Though he did show up at the hospital even though I ran him off, so...
Get it together, Celeste. The man probably has his breakfast cereal imported from Milan.
You're the charity case he married for his grandfather's approval.
This surf invite is just rich-person politeness.
I'm not setting myself up for another emotional face-plant.
This is just an adventure. A bucket list item. Nothing more.
I catch myself humming as I pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans that probably cost more than my mortgage, a soft long-sleeve tee, and these ridiculous white Prada sneakers, all items that Max's credit card paid for.
I twist my hair into a messy bun, swipe on some Chapstick and call it good.
Why bother with makeup when the ocean's just going to wash it off anyway?
When I check the mirror, some rich woman's reflection stares back. The clothes scream money in that quiet, expensive way I used to envy from across the studio lot. Not my money—never my money—but at least these designer threads are mine to keep. I think. God, I hope.
I deserve this. After spending 24 hours on pins and needles, wondering if Mom would see another sunrise, I need to breathe.
Just one day where I'm not memorizing medication names or pretending I understand what her oncologist is saying.
Tomorrow I'll be back at Cedars, nodding along to whatever new treatment protocol they've concocted, but today?
It's just me, Max, a surfboard, and waves that don't give a damn about white blood cell counts.
I shouldn't feel this flutter in my chest—like I'm stealing something good from a universe that's been nothing but cruel lately—but screw it, I'm practically vibrating with anticipation.
I make my way to the main house and find Max in the kitchen, waiting.
Rosa sits at the breakfast nook, her face lighting up when I enter.
That smile of hers—the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners—washes over me like a warm tide.
With Rosa here, I can breathe easier; her presence alone makes this arrangement bearable. Then Max's lips curve upward too.
Max gestures toward the shoreline. "Let's get you set up at the surf shop first. Then we can come back to this stretch of beach—it's more private. Perfect for beginners. You won’t find anybody to crash into here.”
I raise an eyebrow. "Bold of you to assume I'll make it past the paddling stage. I'll consider it a victory if I can stand up for more than two seconds without face-planting into the water."
“I have faith in you.”
“Glad somebody does.”
And then we go to his garage—a cavernous space that could swallow my entire apartment ten times over, with gleaming sports cars lined up like exotic animals in a zoo.
He leads me to an enormous Rolls Royce Cullinan SUV that sits like a throne at the end.
I slide onto buttery leather seats that cradle my body, my fingers tracing the hand-stitched details while breathing in that unmistakable new-car scent mixed with sandalwood cologne.
Outside, California sunshine catches on the vehicle's misty grey exterior, giving it an almost ethereal glow as we pull away.
He slides on a pair of Ray Ban aviators, the ocean reflecting in the lenses.
"Let's talk boards. Mine's short, fiberglass—twenty years of experience earns you that.
You'll start with something longer, softer—something that forgives mistakes.
" He gestures toward the shore. "We'll begin on dry land.
Master the basics first: paddling position, the pop-up.
Once you've got the mechanics down, then we hit the water.
" His voice softens. "And hey—nobody rides a perfect wave their first time out.
The ocean's patient. She'll wait for you to learn her rhythms."
Max's Rolls purrs down the driveway as we head towards the Pacific Coast Highway.
Our destination: some legendary surf shop where I'm supposed to find the perfect wetsuit to keep me from turning into an icicle in the frigid Pacific.
Apparently, I need the perfect surfboard too, and Max insists on helping me pick one out.
I already know how this will go—I'll reach for my credit card and he'll wave it away with that casual rich-guy gesture.
Part of me wants to protest, to not be the charity case in this relationship, but my bank account has other ideas.
Four hundred dollars for a neoprene wetsuit?
Five hundred minimum for a foam board that I'll probably crash into the sand repeatedly?
What if I hate surfing? I'll give it three honest tries before deciding, but I'm not about to become one of those girlfriends who pretends to love her crush’s hobbies.
I wouldn't fake enthusiasm for rock climbing while secretly terrified of heights, or pretend to love snowboarding when I'd rather be inside with hot chocolate.
If the surfing experiment fails, I'll just be straight with Max and we can consign the whole expensive experiment to Second Chance Sports, who’ll buy back the surf board and wet suit.
We pull up to Sea N Soul, a weathered blue clapboard shop with a hand-painted sign swinging in the salt breeze off the Pacific Coast Highway.
Inside smells of neoprene and coconut wax, surfboards stacked like colorful dominos against the walls.
Two hours later, after squeezing into seven different wetsuits—each one making me feel like an overstuffed sausage—Max finally helps me find a sleek black and teal longboard with a single blue stripe down the center along with the perfect black suit that hopefully will keep me from not freezing to death in the water.
We're heading back to Max's beachfront house where I'll apparently spend the afternoon awkwardly flopping onto the board on his private beach, practicing the "pop-up" move until my arms quiver, before, gulp, venturing into the actual churning Pacific where I'll try not to become another statistic in the "city girl drowns trying to impress rich crush” category.
My knees wobble as I step onto the beach in my new suit, the sand shifting beneath my feet like my confidence.
The ocean roars ahead—massive walls of water that must be ten feet high crashing down with enough force to snap a surfboard in half.
This stretch of Malibu coastline isn't for beginners.
I glance at Max descending toward the shoreline and force my lips into what I hope passes for a brave smile. You've faced scarier things, Celeste.
Like that ex who dragged me onto ATVs with those impossible manual gears—nothing like driving a stick shift in a car.
I still have the scar from when I flipped one and landed on my skull.
Same guy zoomed down Double Black Diamond slopes while I stayed firmly on the blues with Mom and Lexi at Big Bear.
He'd veer off-trail too, practically begging for an avalanche.
When we broke up, my first thought wasn't heartbreak—it was relief that I'd never have to choose between a death-wish ski run or an hour of his disappointment.
Bad examples. I inhale slowly, searching my memory for a single instance when fear transformed into joy. My mind draws a blank. Well, there's a first for everything, right? Maybe surfing will break the pattern.
My arms flail in awkward circles as Max flashes that grin—the one that makes my stomach flip in the good way.
I cling to the warmth of his smile instead of picturing myself smacking my head on fiberglass and sinking like a stone, or becoming shark breakfast, or wiping out so spectacularly that I spend six months in a full-body cast. At least the laws of physics prevent all three disasters from happening simultaneously.
Maybe. Then again, I could manage the trifecta - hitting my head on the board and sinking, then becoming shark brunch.
No, wait. That’s only two of the three. So, it would be impossible to manage all three disasters. Small comfort.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”