Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
NEW HOPE?
Celeste
"Celeste," she says, her voice carrying a spark I haven't heard in months. "I've been approved for that immunotherapy!"
I press my back against the chaise lounge and close my eyes, my free hand involuntarily covering my mouth.
For weeks I'd been bracing myself for that dreaded conversation with her oncologist—the one where words like “palliative care" would replace "treatment plan" and "remission.
" I'd memorized the survival statistics, could recite them in my sleep: months, not years.
But this—this was the treatment I'd highlighted in all those medical journals, the one that showed promise in cases exactly like hers.
The one her insurance had flat-out refused to cover, no matter how many appeals we filed.
"Mom," I whisper, my voice breaking. "How?"
Mom’s voice rises excitedly. "Someone anonymous paid for the entire treatment."
My heart skips. Max. Has to be. He'd shake his head if I asked, look away with that half-smile he thinks hides everything. He’s the kind of man who'd write a check for six figures then bury the evidence. Who else could afford experimental immunotherapy like it was takeout sushi?
I can't get the words out. "Mom, that's..." My voice catches as something swells in my throat. Hope? Terror? Both? "What if we celebrate your birthday properly this year?"
Her birthday's next Saturday, and I've been racking my brain for ways to make it special without endangering her. With her immune system shot from the treatments, even a restaurant dinner could be a death sentence. But now, with this new treatment...
Mom's laugh is gentle. "Let's not count our chickens, Celeste. We'll celebrate next year, I promise."
Next year. The words hang between us. No one gets promises like that—not really. People walk out their front doors on ordinary Tuesdays and get hit by trucks or have aneurysms or—I press my fingertips against my temples. This spiral of morbid thoughts won't help anyone, least of all Mom.
I spin around at the sound of a throat clearing.
Max is leaning against the outdoor kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, and something in my chest flutters.
Those green eyes catch the terrace lights, crinkling at the corners in a way they never did during those first icy weeks.
My fingers twitch with the urge to trace the line of his jaw, to make sure he's actually real and not some mirage my desperate imagination conjured up.
A few months ago, I'd have laughed if someone told me I'd feel this way about Max Kensington.
I cut my mother off mid-sentence. "Mom, I need to call you back.
Max just walked in and it's—" I glance at my watch, blinking twice.
"Six o'clock?" I don’t think he's ever been home before eight.
"I'll call you back in a few minutes," I whisper, ending the call.
When I look up, our eyes meet, and my lips curl into an involuntary smile.
The word still catches in my throat sometimes. Husband.
He settles beside me on the outdoor couch, his fingers finding mine.
The quiet stretches between us like a cat in sunlight—languid, warm, requiring nothing.
I watch his profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and realize I've never felt this peaceful with anyone else.
Mom's voice echoes in my memory: "When you can sit with someone and the silence feels like home, that's when you know.
" Looking at our intertwined hands, I think she might have been right.
Max settles back into the cushions and draws me against him, tucking me into the hollow beneath his shoulder. "Hungry?" he asks, his fingers wandering between mine, a lazy dance of touch and release.
"Rosa and I were planning to start dinner soon—curried goat from her homeland. I didn't expect you until later, so we haven't begun prepping yet. She's teaching me the recipe. Says nothing reminds her more of home."
He presses his fingertips to his lips in a chef's kiss. "Rosa's curried goat is divine. Most people think it sounds strange, but honestly, it's not far off from lamb. Though I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who'd eat it. You have that petting zoo energy about you."
"Can't deny that," I say with a laugh. "I'm the one holding up the line at every petting zoo, buying those little ice cream cones of feed pellets.
There's something so satisfying about tiny hooves stepping on your shoes while they eat from your palm.
" I pause, my smile fading slightly. "I compartmentalize when it comes to food.
One mental box for the adorable animals I coo over, another for what's on my plate.
Otherwise, I'd never make it through a meal. "
Max runs his hand through his hair. "Let me check with Rosa about changing the menu. I'm sure she won't mind. Actually, there's something I wanted to discuss with you anyway."
I nod, watching him disappear into the kitchen.
When he returns a few minutes later, his expression has softened.
"Rosa's making something else. Guess she wants to show you how to make her favorite dish, so she wants you in the kitchen with her when she makes it.
So don't worry—no goats were harmed in the making of tonight's dinner.
" The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile.
"I'm not teasing you. It's... nice to meet someone who still cares that much. Rare in Hollywood."
“Oh, that’s too bad. I was kind of looking forward to curried goat. What’s she making instead?”
He sniffs the air. "Curried paneer with sweet potatoes," he says, nodding with approval.
"Smells like she's making her special blend again—the one with that red chili oil that hits you in the back of the throat.
Not restaurant-hot, but damn good. You can actually taste the food instead of just surviving it.
And she does something with cardamom that I've never figured out. "
Saliva pools under my tongue at the thought of dinner.
Living here has made me soft—in all the right ways.
Max and I have decided to only go out to eat once a week, mainly because it’s a pain in the ass dodging the paparazzi, so I’ve decided to cook three nights a week and Rosa cook the other three nights a week.
And God, Rosa's cooking. The way she transforms ordinary ingredients into treasures from Jamaica—spicy jerk chicken that makes my lips tingle, plantains caramelized to sticky-sweet perfection, dumplings that somehow taste like clouds, and saltfish that's briny and complex.
Before moving here, I couldn't have pointed to Jamaica on a map of Caribbean cuisine. Now I dream about it.
“So,” Max says. “Your mother’s birthday…”
I smile. “You heard me talking to her.” I take a deep breath. “We can’t do much this year, I’m afraid. She’s still immunocompromised, so we’ll have to wait until next year to do the zoo.”
“The zoo?”
I nod. Oh, Mom loves the zoo. The wrinkled gray elephants with their gentle, swaying trunks.
The silverback gorillas, so human-like in their movements, watching us with deep, knowing eyes.
The hippos, deceptively graceful as they glide through murky water despite their massive bulk.
The playful sea lions, sleek and agile, barking and clapping as they perform.
They fascinate her. Like me, she's drawn to creatures with souls in their eyes. So, we’ve gone to the zoo every year on her birthday for the past 20 years.
“Hmmmm….” Max says.
“What?”
“Well. I think I have an idea. Maybe, maybe not. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“What do you have up your sleeve?”
Max just shrugs. “Not saying anything.”
But the next day, I find out what Max has in mind.
Max's eyes sparkle with excitement. "I've arranged a private tour of the zoo for your mother's birthday. The whole family—you, me, Patricia. And of course Tally and Olivia can join us, plus anyone else your mother would like."
"Max, that's incredibly thoughtful, but she can’t be in crowds while she’s immunocompromised.”
"Already considered," he says, squeezing my hand. "We'll go at 5:30, after closing. The head of private events owes me a favor—we went to prep school together."
I bite my lip, thinking of the expense. "This must be costing—"
"Not another word about that," he says softly. "If the zoo makes your mother happy, then that's what she deserves on her birthday."
Something hot and sharp pricks behind my eyelids. Mom's birthday wish—watching the elephants spray each other at the new habitat—might actually come true.
Max's arms encircle me, and I exhale deeply. "Thank you," is all I can manage.
His lips brush against my hair, and I melt into the shelter of his embrace.
"You're home early," I murmur, pulling back to look at him. "Everything okay?"
"Just rearranged some things," he says with a half-smile.
"Figured dinner with you and Rosa shouldn't be something I miss every night.
Real dinner, not just reheating plates at ten o'clock.
" He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I'll still need to tackle some emails later, but first...
" His voice drops to a whisper, eyes darkening with promise.
The heat in his gaze makes my cheeks flush, and I can't help but mirror his smile.
I give him a playful smile. "Let's save that for after dinner.
" But his lips find mine, and the kiss is so tender and thorough that suddenly dessert seems too far away.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, reminding me.
"I should call Mom back first, though. Tell her about our zoo adventure and—" I pause, watching his face carefully.
"The good news about her treatment. Apparently some mystery benefactor is covering the immunotherapy her insurance wouldn't touch.
" I tilt my head. "Any ideas who that might be? "
His face breaks into that sunshine grin I've come to love. "The treatment was approved? That's incredible news." He takes my hand, squeezing it gently. "I looked into that Keytruda regimen. The success rates are really promising for her type of cancer."
I nod. "Yes, I agree. It does seem..." I shake my head.
No. I can't do this again. I've watched her hair fall out in clumps on her pillow.
I've held the pink plastic basin while she retched after treatments.
I've seen the radiation burns bloom across her chest like some terrible flower.
Each time the doctors switched protocols, their voices lifted with that cautious optimism I've grown to hate.
"This combination shows promise," they'd say, while Mom just grew thinner, grayer.
Sometimes I want to scream at them all. What's the point of poisoning her if it doesn't work?
Even this new drug—Keytruda—I can't bear to hope.
What if we're just stealing her good days?
What if instead of sitting in infusion chairs, she could have been watching sunsets, or tasting wine, or just sleeping in her own bed without pain?
Max waits for me to finish my sentence, his eyes searching mine.
The words lodge in my throat like a fist. My mind flashes to Mom's nightstand drawer—pill bottles arranged in neat rows, the calendar marked with red X's counting failed treatments.
I open my mouth, but all that escapes is a shaky breath.
The possibility lurks there, just beyond what I can bear to name.
A world without her laugh, her voice, her amazing cooking, her wicked sense of humor. Her playfulness, her wisdom.
I shake my head. "Nothing." The aroma of Rosa's signature curried paneer wafts from the kitchen, mingling with the sweet earthiness of roasted sweet potatoes.
My stomach growls in response. "Dinner smells ready.
" Right on cue, the delicate sound of Rosa's dinner chime echoes through the house.
Max offers his arm, and I take it, our steps falling into rhythm as we make our way to the kitchen.
Just for now, I'll savor each bite of this perfectly seasoned curried paneer and sweet potatoes.
Just for now, I'll push away the image of Mom's thinning hair against the hospital pillow, the way hope and dread have become tangled like IV lines.
Just for now, I'll picture only her smile when she sees the giraffes at the zoo on Friday—her favorites since I was little.
Just for now, I'll silence the voice whispering that I should be planning not just a birthday but a goodbye.