Chapter 47 #3
Of these animals, the kangaroos fascinate me the most. Their powerful hind legs propel them in graceful bounds across the yellowing grass, their alert eyes tracking our every movement from beneath furrowed brows.
Two males suddenly rear up on their tails, balancing perfectly as they swat at each other with gloved paws, their muscular torsos gleaming copper.
Max's laughter mingles with mine as we watch this primal dance of dominance unfold mere yards away.
The zoo closes at ten, and as we make our final loop past the flamingos, Max turns to Mom. "Patricia, what do you think about heading back for something sweet?"
Mom's eyes light up. "I've been saving room," she says, patting her stomach. "Giorgio mentioned tiramisu earlier, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since."
Max's lips curve into a smile. Earlier, he'd quietly asked me what dessert Mom loves most. "Tiramisu," I'd answered without hesitation.
Now we're making our way back to our table beneath the canopy of stars, still savoring the memory of Giorgio's pizza—hands down the most incredible any of us had ever tasted.
I catch Mom's eye and see my own anticipation mirrored there; we're all wondering what magic Giorgio might work with ladyfingers and mascarpone.
Giorgio emerges from the kitchen carrying a tiramisu the size of a small suitcase, a single flickering candle standing tall in its center.
Our voices blend together in the familiar birthday melody as Mom leans forward, closes her eyes for a wish, and extinguishes the flame with a gentle puff.
Applause ripples around the table. Giorgio's knife glides through the layers of mascarpone and coffee-soaked ladyfingers, and when my first bite dissolves on my tongue, I can't help but close my eyes and let out a small, involuntary moan.
Heaven has a taste after all. The mascarpone cream melts into a silken cloud against my palate, each delicate layer of espresso-drenched ladyfingers yielding beneath my fork with the gentlest pressure.
The bitter cocoa dusting mingles with the sweet marsala undertones, creating a perfect harmony that makes my shoulders drop in surrender.
This isn't just dessert—it's Giorgio's masterpiece.
Mom's face lights up as she takes another bite of the tiramisu, her eyes closing briefly in that way they always do when she's savoring something delicious.
The dessert's cocoa dusting leaves a faint brown smudge on her upper lip that she doesn't notice.
I'm scraping the last creamy remnants from my own plate when she suddenly pushes back her chair.
The legs scrape against the hardwood floor as she rises, reaching for her crystal wine glass.
The delicate ping of her spoon against the glass silences the dinner conversation, and all eyes turn to her as she fixes her gaze on Max.
Patricia raises her glass. "To Max," she says, her voice carrying across the room.
"When Celeste first told me about you, I thought she'd gone completely crazy.
" She gives a small laugh, shaking her head.
"A man she barely mentioned, suddenly her husband?
I hadn't even met you! But now—" her eyes soften as she looks between them, "—I see you're the perfect match for my daughter's particular brand of insanity. "
I plaster on a smile and sneak a glance at Max, who's practically glowing as he talks to Mom.
Something twists in my chest. Mom's looking at him like he hangs the moon—and why wouldn't she?
The man's making her mountain of medical bills disappear like some financial magician.
Great for her. For me? I keep seeing that merger date circled on the calendar.
Once my scripts actually pay the bills, what's left?
Our little Malibu playhouse gets packed up.
This whole fantasy comes with a timer that's ticking down, even if no one else can hear it.
I've been stealing moments with Max like they're samples at Costco, knowing damn well I can't afford the full-size version.
When our time's up, Mom's heart will crack in two right along with mine.
Better she doesn't get too attached to my temporary husband.
Later, we fall into bed, both of us buzzing from the day's emotional rollercoaster.
After sex, Max conks out immediately, his face all peaceful, those stress lines vanished.
I prop myself up, memorizing him—the stubborn jaw, those ridiculous eyelashes—like I'm cramming for a test I'll have to take alone.
"Max," I whisper, my voice barely disturbing the darkness between us.
"What you did for Mom today..." My throat tightens.
The treatment might fail—I know this—but he gave her something insurance statements and medical jargon couldn't: hope.
"You didn't just give her a birthday. You might have given her more birthdays. "
His lips curve slightly upward, and I wonder if somewhere in his dreams, he hears me.