Chapter 59
Chapter Fifty-Nine
MEETING MY FATHER
Max
The Rolls purrs beneath us as Celeste and I speed towards Woodland Hills.
My father—a man I haven't seen since I was seven—is staying in some sponsor's garage apartment in the Valley.
He's working at Whole Foods now. Whole Foods.
The man who once ran international operations for Kensington Pictures is bagging organic produce.
My knuckles whiten against the leather steering wheel.
My heart hammers so hard I can barely breathe.
After twenty-two years, I'm finally going to see him.
The man whose absence carved out everything inside me.
According to Celeste, he completely unraveled after Mom died—drank himself into oblivion while living with Uncle Thomas in England. An uncle I've never even met.
What surprises me most is how little anger I feel. Just this desperate, childlike need to see his face again.
We pull up to the house—a single-story ranch that makes our old ten-bedroom estate look like Versailles—and I'm still processing the transformation.
My father, who once commanded boardrooms and private jets, now lives in a converted garage and scans organic produce for a living.
At Kensington, his signature authorized million-dollar marketing campaigns across six continents.
His strategies determined which films thrived internationally and which died quiet deaths.
Now he wears a green apron and asks if people found everything they were looking for today.
The strangest part? According to Celeste, he seems content.
I doubt Celeste has any idea she befriended a fallen titan of the industry. He wouldn't have mentioned it.
Well, as long as he’s happy…
My pulse races as Celeste and I approach Greg's front door.
When it swings open, the man standing there—Greg, I assume—brightens at the sight of Celeste.
"There you are!" He pulls her into an embrace.
"You've got to come in. Michael's been beside himself.
He's been searching accident reports online, calling hospitals—the works.
Couldn't figure out why you went radio silent on him. "
Celeste hangs her head, obviously ashamed. “It’s…a long story.”
That's when I really see her—her collarbone jutting out like a knife's edge, her wrists so delicate I could snap them with one hand.
Christ, how did I miss this? Six times we've made love since morning and I never felt the sharp angles of her hipbones against mine?
I was drowning in the euphoria of having her back, blind to everything else.
She's been starving herself. Wasting away while I wasn't there.
Dad couldn't reach her because she was disappearing.
I've been a different kind of ghost—walking, talking, breathing, but hollowed out, every emotion cauterized to survive the searing pain of losing her.
For six weeks I've been a man incinerated from the inside out.
Greg leads us through his living room—which would only seem modest to someone who'd grown up in a mansion—and into what used to be the garage.
The transformation is impressive: gleaming hardwood has replaced concrete, framed photos line the walls, and potted succulents sit in perfect formation on a reclaimed wood shelf.
A gray sectional holds court in the center, complete with a throw pillow with the serenity prayer stitched on it.
Pendant lights hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over a neatly made bed.
Sunlight streams through French doors at the far end.
Every inch of the space speaks to Greg's careful attention.
Dad isn't here—bathroom break, I assume.
A man emerges from the bathroom, and I watch his green eyes—the same shade as mine—widen in shock.
His gaze darts between Celeste and me, his jaw slackening.
"Celeste," he breathes, crossing to her and pulling her into an embrace that seems almost paternal.
"I was so worried." Then his attention shifts to me.
Twenty-two years have passed since he walked out of my life, yet I know him instantly.
Time has threaded silver through his dark hair and etched a few more lines around his eyes, but otherwise, he's preserved in my memory like a photograph.
A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. At least I can look forward to aging well.
He stares at me, his eyes widening with recognition.
I can almost see the thoughts clicking into place behind them—the mirror of his younger self staring back.
"Max?" The word escapes his lips, hopeful yet fragile, before his gaze drops to the floor.
His shoulders curve inward. I want to reach out, to bridge this gap between us.
What would anger solve now? Nothing. It would only push him back to the bottle, erase all the progress he's made.
He's here. He's sober. The past is written, but this moment—this is ours to shape.
I take a deep breath and decide: I won't be the one to break him again.
I whisper "Dad," and open my arms. He collapses against me, his body shaking with sobs.
His grip crushes my ribs, or maybe that's just the pressure building in my chest as I fight back tears.
Twenty-two years dissolve in an instant.
The ghost who haunted my childhood stands solid before me—the same man whose absence carved out the part of me that could trust, could risk loving someone who might vanish.
Yet here he stands. Real. Present. His fingers dig into my shoulders like he's anchoring himself to earth.
Something shifts inside me—a hairline fracture in the wall I've built.
Not trust, not yet. But possibility. A door left slightly ajar.
Dad and I finally break apart, and he holds me at arm's length, his weathered hands gripping my shoulders.
"My God," he whispers, reaching up to muss my hair the way he did when I was eight.
"A man now. And tall. So tall.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Not that I haven't kept tabs. Got scrapbooks for you boys—every magazine spread, every newspaper mention.
" He squeezes my shoulders, then drops his hands.
"Pictures never quite capture it though, do they?
" A smile spreads across his face before he glances away.
"Listen to me go on. Somebody shut me up, Celeste. "
He must have known who I was right away.
I never imagined he'd been collecting photos of me and my brothers all these years—that he'd recognize my face immediately.
I'd convinced myself that walking out that door meant erasing us from his memory too.
But he'd been watching from a distance the whole time, collecting fragments of the lives he abandoned.
We were blind to his presence, but he never stopped seeing us.
Celeste, who was sobbing during our embrace, naturally - this is Celeste, after all - slips her arm around Dad with the easy familiarity of someone who's known him forever.
Her head finds his shoulder like it belongs there, and his face breaks into a grin that reaches his eyes.
Something twists in my chest watching them—she gazes up at him with that particular daughter-shine, and he's looking at her like he's already memorized her birthday.
I wonder if she's filling some void left by her own father.
"Michael," she says, her voice soft but certain. "Remember your promise not to filter yourself? What was that saying from group—keep your feelings bottled up and the bottle starts looking good?”
It's not a phrase I've heard before, but truth rings in it. Dad's generation of men were taught to swallow their emotions, to equate vulnerability with weakness. No wonder so many of them drowned themselves trying to stay afloat.
Dad nods once. "Right." His eyes find mine, weighted with something unsaid. "Son, I love you. All of you. I need you to know I didn't leave because I didn't care." His chin dips toward his chest. "I left because I thought you deserved better than the mess I'd become."
Celeste bumps his arm gently with hers. "Not a mess," she corrects. "Someone with a genetic predisposition to addiction facing unbearable grief. Look around you now—this beautiful home, your new position. You clawed your way back. That takes extraordinary strength."
Watching them together, my heart swells. She's become essential to both of us, a bridge I never knew we needed.
He gestures to the modest space, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"It's just a garage apartment." I exhale slowly.
Sure, we once lived in that sprawling Bel-Air mansion—ten bedrooms, that ridiculous pool that flowed from outside to in.
But that was before the drinking swallowed him whole, before he lost it all.
Now he's standing here, three months sober, with a roof over his head and a steady job.
How do I tell him that this garage apartment means more than that mansion ever did without making him feel like I'm patting him on the head?
My voice cracks. "Dad." I grip his forearm, my fingers digging in.
"I'm not just proud—I'm in awe of you. You could have disappeared forever into that bottle, hidden away on that farm until the day you died.
But you clawed your way back from hell. You got sober.
You're facing everyone you hurt." Tears burn my eyes.
"Most men would rather die than do what you're doing right now. Do you understand that? Not one ounce of shame belongs to you. Not. One. Ounce.”
Dad just nods and tears form in his eyes again. Something ruptures inside me. My chest heaves, and suddenly I'm drowning, gasping for air as twenty-two years of locked-away grief floods my lungs. When Celeste left, I'd turned to stone. Now I'm shattering—breaking apart in violent, jagged pieces.
I crush him against me, my fingers digging into his back like I'm afraid he'll vanish again.
My body convulses with each sob. The pain is exquisite—raw and electric—memories of Mom - only available to me through videotapes - mixed with memories of empty birthdays, phantom phone calls slicing through me like broken glass.
But God, the relief. It's better than pummeling Steve until my knuckles bled.
Better than lifting until my muscles screamed.
Better than catching that perfect wave at dawn.
But better than Celeste? Nope. Nothing—nothing—compares to her. She’s oxygen after decades of suffocation.
The tears have dried on my cheeks when my father's face cracks into that familiar smile. "What do you think about me returning to Kensington? Head of international operations again?"
Our eyes meet, and somehow we both know what the other is thinking. "Maybe not," we chorus, the words tumbling out in perfect unison. His laugh joins mine, filling the space between us, and in that moment, I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders.
I know that everything will be okay. More than okay. We’re going to be great.