Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
TALLY
These past few weeks have flown by, and I've shocked myself by not wanting to kick Cameron out of my apartment.
And it's not just because he's good in bed.
It's the way he is—how he actually listens when I talk.
Most nights after he comes over, after the takeout containers are empty and the sheets are rumpled, we end up dangling our legs off my fire escape, city lights blinking below us.
Tonight, we’re again on my fire escape, sharing a bottle of wine, passing it back and forth, not even bothering with glasses.
We’re talking about me right now, and I’m explaining how I came to become an artist. "Art saved me.
Every time they moved me to a new foster home, I'd find something to draw with.
Didn't matter if it was crayons or a ballpoint pen stolen from some social worker's desk.
I'd make these little Play-Doh figures and hide them under my bed so they wouldn't get thrown out.
" I met his eyes briefly before looking away.
"Couldn't exactly tell Mrs. Whatever-her-name-was how terrified I was that my mom would never get clean, you know?
But somehow I'd paint this storm, or this broken bird, and later I'd look at it and think, 'Oh. That's how I feel.'"
And then he puts his arm around me, and I let him. "You're worried about your mother, now, aren't you?"
Cameron gets it. Gets that I should probably hate the woman who turned my childhood into a three-ring circus, but I don't. I fucking love her.
Not some TV fantasy mom, but mine—messy, real, mine.
I've spent my whole life trying to see past her chaos to the love I know is there.
Even now, when she can't be bothered to visit her daughter in the hospital after a goddamn car wreck, I'm not mad.
Just see a broken woman doing her broken best.
"Yes," I say, nodding as I take another pull on the wine bottle.
"Every day I wonder if she's dead in an alley somewhere.
Homeless people get treated like garbage—beaten, burned, worse.
Or maybe this time she'll finally OD. Or some random hookup will put her in the ground.
" I swallow hard. "And I keep thinking I should protect her somehow, you know?
But how the hell do you protect someone who's basically a ghost? "
I swallow hard. Cameron's arm stays wrapped around me, warm and steady.
"You know what's funny? I actually tried the whole prayer thing once.
My first foster family—I was seven—they were super religious.
Dragged me to this huge church with stained glass windows that made the light look like it was bleeding.
Every Sunday for a year, I'd kneel there in my stupid frilly dress and beg God to fix my mom.
Like, please make her stop taking pills, please make her stop bringing home these creeps, please just make her.
..my mom again." I let out a short laugh. "Spoiler alert: God ghosted me."
A few more sips of wine and I dangle my legs over the sides of the fire escape. “So, tell me what drew you into medicine.”
He smiles. "I've always been the black sheep.
While my grandfather built his empire and most of my brothers climbed the corporate ladder after him, I wanted something different.
" He counts off on his fingers. "Kalen's got platinum records, Connor's got movie premieres, and the rest—Max, Roman, Silas, Asher, Ansel—they've all got corner offices and stock portfolios.
" His smile softens. "After Dad left, I spent years patching up my brothers' emotional wounds.
Made me realize I wanted to heal people for real.
" He shrugs. "Thought about psychiatry until I learned it was more about prescriptions than conversations.
So I packed my bags for Somalia, then Syria with Doctors Without Borders.
Now I'm at Cedars, putting people back together after their worst days—gunshots, car wrecks, whatever comes through those ER doors. "
I swirl my wine glass. "So what's next after Sicily?"
"Sports medicine fellowship." He leans back. "I'm done with the ER after this."
"Sports medicine?" My eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"
He shrugs, those broad shoulders moving under his shirt.
"The ER's killing me, honestly. And Caspian—he's Roman's best friend—wants a doctor for his chain of MMA gyms. Professional fighters need someone who understands their bodies.
" He takes a long sip of wine, his throat working.
"Plus," he adds, voice softening, "I'd get to see my brothers more. Roman and Max both train there."
And we talked like that until the sun slashed through the blinds, bleeding gold across his face.
It's moments like this—his fingers tracing my tattoos, his voice wrapping around me—that will fucking haunt me when he's gone.
Because when he leaves for Sicily, he won't come back to me. That truth burns in my gut, carved deeper than any ink under my skin.