Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
MEETING MICHAEL
Celeste
My ears ring. The man's face blurs in front of me as I try to process his words. Max's father. Here. Now.
"Um—" My mouth opens and closes. I grip the edge of the bench until my knuckles turn white. "I—" The words stick in my throat like sand. "Does Max—"
He shakes his head, eyes darting to the sidewalk.
"No." His weathered hands twist together in his lap, dirt crusted under his fingernails.
"I sleep in that blue Corolla." He points to a car parked across the street.
"Been parking it near the beach house for months now.
" His voice cracks. "Just hoping to catch a glimpse of him someday.
Haven't yet, but I've watched you jog past every morning at five. "
"How do you know who I am?”
He flashes a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Your wedding made headlines everywhere—couldn't escape it even tucked away on my little farm in the English countryside. Read about it after a hard day of milking cows.” His gaze drops to the floor, fingers fidgeting with his cuff.
"That's... well, that's another conversation entirely. "
My eyes widen. "The English countryside?
" I lean forward, coffee forgotten. The son of a California billionaire somehow ended up milking cows in rural England? There’s a story there.
But before I can stop myself, I'm picturing the Highclere Castle—that magnificent structure from Downton Abbey, a show I've watched religiously since college.
Every episode, every Christmas special, memorized like scripture.
I catch myself mid-fantasy, imagining this man—this stranger—somehow introducing me to the Earl of Grantham.
Maybe his farm is near Highclere, England, where the Highclere Castle is located?
I press my lips together, embarrassed. Sitting across from me is Michael Kensington, the man who abandoned Max two decades ago, and here I am daydreaming about using him as my personal tour guide to fictional aristocracy.
Classic Celeste, getting lost in fantasy when reality is sitting right across the table.
Now that I’m studying him, I realize that Michael Kensington’s face is how Max will look 30 years from now—if Max traded his Armani for a wrinkled department store clearance shirt and his protein shakes for bourbon.
The resemblance is there in the jawline, the slight arch of the eyebrow, and the eyes, but Michael's face has collapsed into something softer, sadder.
His salt-and-pepper hair sticks up in tufts like he's been running his hands through it all night, and when he exhales, I catch the layered scent of fresh whiskey over stale. His shirt is buttoned wrong.
I should hate this man for what he did to Max, but my fingers itch to straighten his collar instead. I've seen this before—people who pour drinks to quiet their demons, only to wake up with louder ones. He's not the villain in Max's story. He's just another casualty.
"So you've been hanging around Max’s home, living in your car. How come you're just hanging around Max’s place, not your other sons?”
He exhales slowly, his shoulders dropping.
"Max is the only one of my boys who's married.
When I heard the news, I did a little digging—found out you work at Dreamscape, climbing the ladder there.
Impressive." His eyes, weathered but sharp, study me.
"I figured you might be my best shot at reconnecting.
All I really want is to know they're okay, that they've found some happiness in their lives. "
I meet his gaze. "So I'm your only way in?"
“Right,” he says. "So can you tell me about Max?”
"What do you want to know?” I ask.
Michael's eyes drift to the floor. "I've read about him in the trades.
CEO of Kensington Entertainment. Tabloids always showing him with some new starlet or supermodel.
" His voice catches. "Then suddenly, he's married to you.
" He looks up, pain etched across his face.
"I did that to him, didn't I? Made him unable to trust anyone. "
I twist my wedding ring, choosing my words carefully.
"He was... guarded when we met. But he's different now.
" I study Michael's expression, wondering how much he can handle hearing.
The truth hovers between us—I can't erase the memory of finding Max alone in the dark, tears streaming down his face as home movies flickered on the screen, ghosts of a family that no longer exists.
Or how his fingers still trace the edges of that faded photograph—father and son balanced on surfboards, sun-kissed and laughing—before he tucks it away with a heaviness that fills the room.
But telling Michael everything feels cruel, even if he deserves to know what his absence created.
His eyes search mine. "Is he happy?"
"He's..." I fidget with my sleeve. "Happier than before, I think. I've only heard stories about how he used to be."
He nods slowly. "Good. That's all I want for my boys."
Words bubble up inside me, but I press my lips together. Something must show on my face, though.
"Whatever it is, just say it," he says, leaning forward.
I inhale, steadying myself. "Max puts on a good front, but there's this...
emptiness. He stares at fathers with their sons in restaurants.
Keeps a baseball glove in his closet that's never been used.
He doesn't talk about it, but your absence is like this wound that never closed.
And I don't think it will, not until you're actually there. "
He nods, his shoulders slumping. "I know.
I know. But I couldn't be the father they deserved while I was drowning in the bottle.
That's why I walked away. Every time I looked at those boys, I saw eight futures I was destroying day by day.
" His voice cracks. "I begged my parents to take them.
They refused—said it was my responsibility, not theirs. So I made the only choice I had left."
The pieces suddenly click into place. Michael hadn't abandoned his sons—he'd orchestrated their rescue.
By disappearing, he'd forced Joseph and Ruth's hand.
They couldn't let their grandsons end up in foster care, so they stepped in.
And looking at Max now—successful, driven, accomplished—wasn't that proof his plan had worked?
The boys had thrived under their grandparents' stable roof in ways they never could have with a father who probably couldn't stay sober enough to make breakfast. Michael hadn't run from responsibility; he'd embraced it in the only way he knew how—by removing himself from the equation.
"Tell me about the last time you saw Max," I say, leaning forward in the plush leather chair.
His weathered face crumples, eyes glistening with unshed tears that catch the afternoon light streaming through the coffee shop windows.
"It was my parents’ fortieth anniversary party at the lake house.
Crystal champagne flutes everywhere. I stayed stone-cold sober for three days beforehand—not even a drop of mouthwash.
I needed a clear head when I asked them to take my sons.
" His voice breaks. "I told them I couldn't handle it anymore.
Some mornings, I'd stare at my toothbrush for twenty minutes, unable to lift my arm.
The weight of everything... it was crushing me, like drowning in quicksand. "
"Didn't you have help with the boys?" I ask, watching him twist his gold wedding band—still there after all these years.
He nods, running a trembling hand through his silver-streaked hair.
"Rosa was there, bless her. But eight wild boys with their muddy cleats and science projects?
The woman already worked sixteen-hour days.
And they needed more than that—someone to teach them to bait a hook at dawn, to navigate the black diamond slopes, to become men worth becoming.
" His shoulders slump. "Instead, they got me—passed out by dinner, reeking of whiskey.
I was on my knees begging Mom and Dad to rescue them. "
"Your father's response?" I prompt gently.
He shakes his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips.
"Dad put his hand on my shoulder—that firm grip he always had. His eyes were kind but unyielding, like polished granite. ‘Use them as motivation to get off the sauce,’ he said. ’They’ll be your way off the bottle.
’ Classic Silent Generation talk. He believed willpower could overcome anything—just decide to stop drinking, like turning off a faucet.
He couldn't see the invisible chains, how they tightened every time I tried to break free. "
My chest tightens as I watch him. The hollows beneath his cheekbones seem to deepen with each word, like someone's scooping him out from the inside.
"It was a disease," he says, voice cracking.
“Dad couldn't see that. He thought I could just...
stop. For the boys." His fingers drum against his thigh in an anxious rhythm.
"But there were mornings when I'd open my eyes and the only reason—the only reason—I could force myself upright was knowing there was a bottle waiting.
Without that..." He swallows hard. "I'd have put a bullet in my head before noon. "
His hands shake so badly he has to press them flat against the table.
"I knew what was happening. I knew my sons deserved better than a father who chose the bottle over them every single day.
But I couldn't stop. So when I realized my father might refuse to take them...
" He stares at some invisible point beyond me. "England seemed far enough away."
I study his face. "Joseph knew your whereabouts the whole time, didn't he?"