Chapter 38 #2
Max's smile breaks into a soft laugh. "God, that clip.
The skier who eats it on the jump and goes flying off the ramp?
'The agony of defeat' they called it on ABC.
My dad used to pull out those old Wide World of Sports tapes when I was just a little grom about to get my first board.
Thought watching the surf championships would fire me up.
" His smile fades as he shakes his head.
"Man, every time I saw that poor guy crash, I felt it right in my bones. "
I flash a grin. "I know, I know. Poor guy. But ABC clearly set him up as the joke. Hope they at least cut him a decent check for turning his face-plant into America's favorite blooper. That clip ran for years and became iconic.”
Max shrugs. "That skier never seemed bitter about becoming famous for wiping out.
I doubt ABC paid him much for replaying his crash thousands of times.
" He exhales slowly, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
"Anyway, I'm getting off topic." The car sits idle in the Getty Museum parking lot.
When Max turns to face me, something in his gaze catches me off guard.
Those green eyes I've always dismissed as calculating suddenly seem...
different. Warmer. More human. My pulse quickens as he says, "About what happened with your father... "
"Yeah, so... when my dad crashed, they sent over some paramedics to check him out. Standard procedure on the slopes. But he just brushed snow off his jacket and told them, 'Nothing broken but my pride. You folks can head back now.'"
I shake my head. "The doctors later told us it's called 'talk and die syndrome.' Someone gets a head injury that looks minor—just a bump, maybe a little dizziness—so they brush it off. Hours later, the brain swells and..." My voice catches. I stare at my hands. "That's what took my dad."
"You blame yourself?"
"How could I not? There I was on that blue slope—so proud of myself for graduating from the bunny hill to blue in just days—and Dad standing there coaching me through every turn. 'Weight on your downhill ski, Celeste!' Those were his last words before the accident."
He nods, and something passes between us.
A shadow. The weight of parents gone too soon—his mother, my father—and the irrational conviction that somehow we could have prevented it.
Logic whispers we couldn't have, but guilt doesn't listen to reason.
It burrows deeper than thought, settles in marrow.
I see it in the tight line of his mouth, the same tension I feel in my own jaw when memories surface.
I recognize his pain like I'd recognize my reflection, though he has no idea how clearly I can see it.
"Your mother's cancer—you think that's your fault too?"
"That's more of a stretch than my dad guilt.
" I rub my temples. "After Dad died, Mom barely slept.
Just worked and worked. He was only 38—one of those guys who could run for miles without breaking a sweat.
Training for an Iron Man when it happened.
The possibility of dying young? Never crossed his mind.
Life insurance wasn't even on his radar. "
"What kind of work did he do?"
"Roofing. His own business. Some months we had steak, others we had ramen. He was always chasing the next job. When he died, the bank account was as empty as our fridge."
He nods, a gesture that bridges nothing.
What would Max Kensington understand about my mother hunched over coupons at 2 a.m., scissors trembling in her hand as she calculated pennies saved on toilet paper?
Or her dragging herself from cashiering to waitressing to night cleaning, the smell of industrial disinfectant becoming her perfume?
Or those nights I'd find her at the kitchen table, calculator in hand, eyes red-rimmed as she juggled which bill to pay and which to let slide another month?
How we were always looking out for the tow truck that would come and take our car away?
His childhood home probably had a name, not just an apartment number.
Still, he’s trying to understand. Trying to relate. I have to give him that.
I twist my hands in my lap. "Mom was always working.
I'd wake up for school, and she'd already be gone—cleaning office buildings since 5 AM.
Then she'd serve lunch at Denny's, come home just long enough to check our homework, and head to the night shift at Wal-Mart.
" I swallow hard. "Every penny went to keeping us fed, clothed, in school.
If she didn't have us to worry about..." My voice catches.
"Maybe she could've rested sometimes. Maybe her body wouldn't have... " I shrug, unable to finish.
Max's lips curl into a hesitant smile as he pokes a hole in my logic. "But how can you blame yourself for both your dad's death and your mom's cancer? I mean, if you hadn't been born..."
"I know, I know," I say, meeting his eyes briefly.
"If I hadn't existed, my father wouldn't have been teaching me to ski when that teenager plowed into him.
That's where logic and emotion part ways for me.
My head understands the contradiction, but my heart can't let go.
" I reach over and rest my fingers on his hand where it grips the steering wheel.
"That's why I get what you feel about your mother.
Deep down. Your rational mind knows you're blameless—you didn't choose to be born or ask her to sacrifice everything.
But that voice inside keeps whispering otherwise, and sometimes it's the loudest thing in the room. "
"How do you live with it?" The question comes soft and urgent, like he's searching for a remedy I might possess for his own guilt about his mother's death.
“I don’t live with it very well. I stare at the ceiling most nights, playing it over and over.
If I'd been a better skier—good enough for the black diamond runs—he wouldn't have been with me on that blue slope.
Or if I'd been worse, stuck on the green or even the bunny hill after four days of lessons, I also wouldn’t have been on the blue slope.
If I hadn't begged to go on that junior class trip like some entitled brat...
" I shake my head, swallowing hard. "Somewhere there's a universe where my father wasn't standing on that exact patch of snow at that exact moment.
A universe where he's still alive. That universe haunts me. "
He inhales deeply, giving a slight nod. "No escaping the guilt, is there?
" His eyes narrow against the sunlight. "We better get the tram now.” This time, he extends his hand with clear intention, and after a moment's pause, I slip my fingers between his.
"For appearances," he murmurs. "Someone's always watching these days.
Better convince them we're madly in love. "
His hand is warm and soft against mine, and I hate how I notice that.
I try to convince myself I'm not feeling anything—not the electricity shooting up my arm, not the way my pulse quickens traitorously with each step.
But my body betrays me, every nerve ending coming alive even as my mind screams in protest while we walk toward the museum grounds.
We shuffle forward in the snaking line for the tram, shoulder to shoulder with tourists in cargo shorts and fanny packs.
Max stands beside me, his Rolex glinting in the sun, yet he makes no move to bypass the queue.
He doesn't even flinch when a toddler's sticky fingers brush against his arm.
No whispers to security, no flashing of his black AmEx—just patience that surprises me.
The Getty Museum emerges into view as we ascend, its massive white travertine buildings gleaming like polished teeth against the cerulean Los Angeles sky, each slab imported from Italy and cut with mathematical precision.
The tram deposits us at the summit with a pneumatic hiss, and I find myself frozen between steps.
Below us, the sprawling city—a patchwork quilt of neighborhoods, highways, and swimming pools—stretches toward the Pacific, which shimmers like spilled mercury on the horizon.
For a moment, even the perpetual Los Angeles traffic seems to pause, as if the museum exists in its own pocket of suspended time.
The museum queue stretches even longer than the tram line had. I glance at Max, wondering if his patience has limits. Most billionaire CEOs with magazine covers and Hollywood empires don't wait in lines like commoners. I brace myself for him to flash his VIP status or make a call.
Instead, he tucks his hands into his pockets and catches my eye, eyebrows lifting with a genuine smile.
"I can't help it," he says softly. "This place is special to me.
" His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "After Dad vanished, Rosa would bring me, Ansel, and Roman here—we were her museum boys.
For a few precious hours inside these walls, I could forget everything else and just... breathe."
I nod, shocked to discover this shared ritual between us.
After Dad died, I'd ride the 720 bus here every Saturday morning for a year straight.
Always alone—I couldn't bear someone rushing me through the galleries or suggesting we skip a section.
I needed to lose myself completely, to stand motionless before each sculpture until I memorized every curve, to lean close to paintings until the brushstrokes became tiny universes.
I'd read every word on those little placards like they were sacred texts.
For those precious Saturday hours, I could step outside my grief and into a world where beauty still existed.