Malibu Rising: A Novel

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  The tabloids caught Carrie and him celebrating their wins together that night outside the Wimbledon ball. He was in a tux. Carrie was in a navy blue gown. They were kissing beside a car. His hand was on her ass.

  Carrie saw the photos first and bought off the photographer and the magazine. She traded the photos for an exclusive with her. But afterward, she told Brandon that she was in love with him and it was time to “shit or get off the pot.”

  Brandon felt rushed. He wasn’t sure he was ready to commit to leaving Nina. But he was at a crossroads in more ways than one, and he suspected that if he stayed with Nina, happiness and satisfaction might just soften him too much, enough that he might not fight hard enough against the descent of his talent.

  If he stayed with Carrie, the best of his times on the court might be yet to come.

  So, Brandon flew home. He walked into his massive house and headed right up the stairs to get his things.

  He was hoping Nina wasn’t home. But he found her in the bedroom, reading a travel guide to Bora-Bora. She was wearing his boxer shorts. He could barely look at her.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, sweetly.

  He went straight to the closet. He had to move fast; he had to get this over with quickly for the both of them. And he did not think he could bear to look at her. He was not sure he’d keep his nerve. “I’m sorry, Nina,” he said. “But I’m leaving.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, the bubbliness still in her voice.

  He did not remember what she said after that. He had simply run away.

  He went right to the Beverly Hills Hotel. And when he got to Carrie’s suite, he kissed her at her front door and said, “I love you. I choose you.”

  The whole thing with Nina had been hideous and unbearable. But it had been necessary. And it was done.

  • • •

  Brandon stayed with Carrie and found that an entire new life had been mapped out for him within days.

  In the mornings, they would both have protein smoothies and a handful of raw almonds and then go to the gym together. They started training at the same courts side by side at the Bel-Air Country Club. Brandon’s cortisone shot was wearing off sooner than he’d anticipated, but if at any time Brandon started to slow down his serves or miss a few volleys in a row, Carrie would notice and yell to him from her court, without missing a beat of her own, “Get it together, Randall! You’re either a champion or a fuckup. There is no in-between!” And he would run faster, hit more cleanly.

  In the afternoon, they dealt with business, calling their agents, discussing endorsement deals, approving travel, sending correspondence.

  By seven every evening, they were out the door, ready to go to dinner. The two of them were usually at a party, charity function, or gala by nine. They talked almost exclusively about how much Carrie hated her rival, Paulina Stepanova.

  One night, in the middle of the night, Brandon woke up with his shoulder throbbing. They’d had an intense practice in the morning and a gala for Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in the evening, and then they’d come home and made love before turning out the lights.

  Suddenly, at three in the morning, the pain was excruciating. He called down for ice but it did not do much to help. He popped a few meds. But the pain was getting sharper, throbbing harder.

  He woke Carrie up, in a panic. “What if Wimbledon was my last slam?” he asked her.

  “That would be catastrophic,” Carrie said. “You only have twelve.” And then she turned her body away from his and went to bed.

  He ached for the tenderness of Nina.

  He fell asleep just in time to wake up to Carrie throwing a towel at him. “Do we cry about the pain? Or do we man up and play through it? Car leaves for the court in fifteen.”

  He got up, got dressed, and kept her pace all day. And then the next and the next and on it went.

  Brandon had lived his life beside Carrie for another four weeks and two days.

  But then, again last night, the ache in his shoulder had woken him up. This time it was a searing, burning pain. Every second before the meds kicked in was agonizing. He had made an appointment for another shot and he knew that would help for a little while. But he understood, in some disturbingly clear way, that the clock was ticking. Even if he staved off the decline as long as possible, even if he won more championships than any other human in history, someday, his body was going to break down, because everyone’s did.

  And who would love him then?

  It took him two and a half hours to fall asleep. And then that morning, he had been woken up at 6:00 to hear Carrie talking to room service saying, “Don’t send salted nuts. I don’t want salt in the morning. You sent salted nuts yesterday after I asked you three times not to! If you can’t send the right type of nuts, maybe you should be in another field of work.” Then she hung up the phone.

  Brandon had laid his head back on his pillow. She was not a kind person. He wasn’t even sure she was a good person. Before he knew what he was doing he opened his mouth. “Oh my God,” he said. “You’re awful. What the fuck have I done?”

  He got out of bed and started gesticulating wildly, going on about what an uptight ice woman she was. “I’ve made every wrong turn a person could make!” he said, standing in his boxers. “I don’t think I love you. I’m not sure I have ever loved you. Why would I think this was where I wanted to be? I don’t want to be with a woman who screams at people!”

  Carrie stared at him like he had two heads. And then she said, “No one is making you stay here, you gigantic fucking prick.”

  Brandon considered her words and realized she was right. No one had made him sleep with her. No one had made him leave his wife for her. He’d done it all himself. But he simply could not, for the life of him, remember why any of that had felt like such a good idea.

  “I think I should go,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” Carrie said, gesturing to the door. “And feel free to fuck right off.”

  Brandon grabbed his things, and left.

  He trained that morning at a different court. He took a long, punishingly hot shower. Then he sat in the locker room in his towel for an hour, immobile, considering what to do.

  All he could think of was how good it felt when Nina rubbed her hands through his hair, or the look on her face when she told him she’d love him forever.

  Right then and there, he had made up his mind to get her back.

  And he had! And now everything would be OK. As long as Carrie Soto left them alone.

  Nina and Casey were sitting in silence when someone opened the door.

  “Nina?”

  They both turned to see Tarine. “You need to come downstairs,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “It is Carrie Soto.”

  Nina was already tired. “What about her?”

  “She is on your front lawn throwing clothes and threatening to light them on fire.”

  • • •

  Nina started down the stairs, making her way through the crowd with Tarine.

  Greg Robinson had the music up so loud it was shaking the ground, vibrating the very foundation of the house. People were dancing with such fervor in the living room that the picture frames were bouncing against the walls.

  It was Nina’s house, Nina’s carpet they were standing on, her stairs supporting them, her booze they were drinking, her food they were eating. And yet, each person in Nina’s way remained in her way until she tapped them on the shoulder, or nudged herself through. She found herself growing more and more annoyed. Her husband’s mistress was on the front lawn and she couldn’t even get outside to deal with it because there was a group of pro surfers smoking pot in her foyer.

  “Excuse me!” Tarine said. “Get out of the way!” The surfers moved immediately.

  When Nina finally made her way to the front of the house, she looked out to the driveway to see her husband trying to calm a woman who was waving her arms around and ranting.

  Carrie Soto,
in white track pants and a white-and-green T-shirt, was standing on the gravel in her driveway with Brandon’s clothes dumped in a pile. Nina could see Brandon’s favorite black Ralph Lauren polo off to the side, saw his lucky white sweatband lying on the rocks. He loved that sweatband.

  He came back to me but left his sweatband with her?

  “Brandon, I swear to God, you need to stop being such an asshole. I really might just burn all of your shit to the ground,” Carrie said.

  The crowd outside was entirely focused on Carrie, giving her a wide berth. People were coming around from the sides of the house to see what the commotion was. Nina could feel the people behind her peering over her head to see more.

  “Carrie, please,” Brandon was saying. He was standing just at the foot of the steps, his arms up in defense. “Let’s talk about this like adults.”

  Carrie started laughing. Not maniacally, not angrily, but rather with genuine amusement. “I am the adult, Brandon. I am the one who told you not to leave your wife unless you were serious about us, do you remember that?” Brandon started to say more but Carrie interrupted. “Do you remember me telling you that I would not allow myself to be a home wrecker unless you and I were truly in love? That this was forever? Do you remember me telling you that?”

  Brandon nodded. “Yes, but Carrie—”

  “No, don’t ‘yes, but’ me. You’re an asshole, Brandon. Do you get that?”

  “Carrie—”

  “What did I tell you when we first slept together, Brandon? What did I say? Did I say to you that I wasn’t going to sleep with another woman’s husband unless it was for something real?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And did I tell you that you better not fuck with my heart? Did I tell you that, Brandon?”

  “Carrie—”

  “I believe my exact words, you son of a bitch, were ‘If I fall in love with you, don’t fuck me over.’”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “No, don’t argue with me. That is what I said.”

  “OK, that is what you said. But—”

  “You woke up this morning after making love to me the night before and when I got off the phone with room service to order us raw almonds, you said, and I quote, ‘Oh my God. You’re awful. What the fuck have I done?’ And then you left.”

  “Carrie, please. Can we talk about this in private?”

  Carrie looked around, taking in the crowd that was forming. Then she looked behind Brandon, to the front door, where she saw Nina. Her face fell.

  Brandon turned and saw Nina, too. “Nina—” he said.

  “Nina,” Carrie interrupted. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have taken up with him and I shouldn’t be airing all of this dirty laundry and ruining your party.”

  Nina continued staring at Carrie but didn’t say anything. How was it that this woman could shout out every thought running through her head? Why was it that Carrie Soto felt entitled to scream?

  In that moment, Nina was not mad or jealous or embarrassed or anything else she might have expected. Nina was sad. Sad that she’d never lived a fraction of a second like Carrie Soto. What a world she must live in, Nina thought, where you can piss and moan and stomp your feet and cry in public and yell at the people who hurt you. That you can dictate what you will and will not accept.

  Nina, her entire life, had been programmed to accept. Accept that your father left. Accept that your mother is gone. Accept that you must take care of your siblings. Accept that the world wants to lust after you. Accept accept accept. For so long, Nina had believed it was her greatest strength—that she could withstand, that she could endure, that she would accept it all and keep going. It was so foreign to her, the idea of declaring that something was unacceptable.

  Nina thought of herself driving to someone else’s house to scream on their front lawn while a whole party’s worth of people watched. It was so impossible that she couldn’t even summon a mental picture.

  But Carrie had this fire within her. Where was Nina’s fire? Had it ever been there? And if so, when did it go out?

  Her husband had slept with Carrie last night and then Nina had taken him back this evening. What was wrong with her? Was she just going to accept it all? Just accept every piece of bullshit thrown at her for the rest of her life?

  When Nina opened her mouth to speak, her voice was flat and calm and controlled. “I think you two need to leave,” she said.

  Brandon wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. Carrie didn’t hear her at all.

  “I think you two need to leave,” Nina said again, this time louder.

  “Honey, no,” Brandon said, trying to move toward her.

  Nina put up her hand. “No. Nope,” she said calmly. “Leave me out of this. You two can have each other.”

  “I don’t want him,” Carrie said. “I just wanted him to know that you can’t treat people like dirt and think they are just going to take it.”

  Nina hated how small she felt in that moment, for having taken him back.

  “How dare you come to this house?” Tarine said to Carrie. Her voice was loud and angry and when Nina looked at her, she could tell that Tarine had been seething for quite some time.

  “For what it’s worth, I hate myself,” Carrie said to Nina and Tarine. “And I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m just really sick and tired of people thinking they can treat me like I don’t have a heart. Like mine doesn’t break, too.”

  Nina looked at her and nodded. She understood Carrie Soto, understood she was heartbroken, understood that in another world they might even be friends. But they were in this world. And they were not friends.

  “You have no right going around acting like you’re Mr. Nice Guy. You’re an asshole,” Carrie said to Brandon. “All I wanted to do was give you back your stuff and tell you that. But then you pissed me off trying to shoo me away like some shameful secret. Like you didn’t come on to me. Like you didn’t start this whole thing.”

  Carrie turned around and walked back to her Bentley, which she’d left running, the driver’s door still open. “I’m sorry, everyone,” she said. “I really am.”

  She backed her car up, bumped against a palm tree, put it in drive, and took off.

  Brandon watched her drive out of sight, and then, wearing a look of shock and embarrassment, moved toward his wife.

  Nina put up her hands again, in front of everyone. “You need to go, too.”

  “Nina, honey, it’s over with Carrie.”

  “I don’t care. Please, Brandon, just go.”

  Nina was relieved to hear herself say it, relieved she was capable of this.

  “You can’t kick me out!” Brandon said. “It’s my house! This is my house.”

  “So then take the house,” Nina said. “It’s yours.”

  And the moment she relinquished that stupid cliffside monstrosity and the tennis star that came with it, Nina Riva felt one hundred times lighter.

  There was finally enough air within her for a fire to ignite.

  Casey Greens looked at herself in the mirror of Nina’s master bathroom, splashing her face with cold water and then drying it with a lush taupe towel. Everything in this house was so nice. The towels were so soft, the rooms were so big. She looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows and the mirrored walls and the thousand thread count pillowcases.

  But Casey ached for her old world, where the pillows were a little scratchy and the windows were small and always sort of stuck with humidity and old paint, where dinner was always a little overcooked. Where her mom got every question wrong on Jeopardy! every night, but they all sat on the couch together and had fun listening to her guess hopelessly anyway.

  If Casey could—if the devil ever bartered—she would have sold her soul to leave this place and have her parents back. She felt a wave of despair coming toward her, ready to take her under. This had been happening on and off since she lost them. Casey had learned that the best thing to do was to brace herself for every rush of grief. She would let the sad
ness and sorrow wash over her, smother her. She held on tight, knowing all she could do was feel the pain until it passed.

  She opened her eyes and looked at herself in the mirror once more.

  Maybe she didn’t belong here. Maybe she didn’t belong anywhere, wouldn’t belong anywhere. Ever again.

  Nina walked back into the house trying to pretend she had not just suffered the indignity of her husband’s mistress on her front lawn. And then she went right through the kitchen, opened up the pantry door, and walked in.

  There, among the bags of rice and the cans of tomato sauce, Nina closed her eyes and settled herself. While the pantry door hummed with the sounds of the Eurythmics and the noise of people talking and laughing still penetrated the space, it was quiet enough to find stillness. Nina rested her famous ass on a stack of paper towel rolls and pulled her shoulder blades in toward each other, fixing her posture, releasing some of the tension from her back.

  For fuck’s sake. Her husband had returned, his mistress had shown up, she might have a long-lost sister, and her brother was sleeping with her other brother’s ex-girlfriend. She just wanted the night to be over.

  The pantry door opened, showering Nina with light and sound. She looked up to see Tarine standing in front of her with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “Hi, doll,” Tarine said as she slipped in and shut the door behind her. She pulled on the cord hanging above their heads. The light went on.

  “Brandon is upstairs, packing up your things,” Tarine said. “He is drunk, obviously. And he thinks he is kicking you out of the house.”

  Nina laughed. She had no choice but to find it funny.

  Tarine sat down next to Nina and grabbed a corkscrew from her jacket pocket. She started opening up the bottle of sauvignon blanc. Once the cork was popped, she poured some wine into a glass and handed it to Nina, then poured one for herself.

  “Someone took the rest of the Opus One,” Tarine said. “These people are animals. I got us a white this time.”

  Nina took it but didn’t drink out of it yet.

  “Drink up,” Tarine said as she took a sip of her own. “We are celebrating your Declaration of Independence.”