Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
CAMERON
One day, I stumble back to my tent after eighteen straight hours at the clinic.
My scrubs are stained with blood that isn't mine, and the Sicilian sun beats down mercilessly.
Outside the medical tent, Amir waits for me, his weathered face breaking into a smile that reveals three missing teeth.
He presses a small loaf of bread into my hands—still warm, though I can't imagine where he found an oven in this camp.
Yesterday, Fatima brought me homemade wine in a plastic water bottle.
Last week, Youssef insisted I take a tiny wooden Christ figure, assuming I pray to the same God he does, just in a different way.
The Libyan man in the corner tent—I can never remember his name—gave me a Farmla, the traditional tunic now hanging in my quarters.
And my living arrangements are typical of Doctors Without Borders, too.
A canvas tent that sags when it rains, where seven of us doctors sleep on metal-framed cots with thin mattresses that leave my back aching.
The bathroom's a plywood stall with a hole in the ground that reeks by midday.
We eat whatever the cook manages with limited supplies—often beans and rice for days straight.
I've learned to shower with half a bucket of water and perform surgery by headlamp when the generators fail. So, yeah, this life is as far away from the glamorous life of my brothers as could possibly be imagined, but the work has been so exhilarating that I never mind the spartan conditions. Wouldn’t trade this experience for all the money in the world.
I'm greeted by an unexpected sight when I walk into my shared space—Tally's name flashing on my phone screen. My heart skips as I accept the video call. Her face fills my screen, but her usual confident smirk is missing.
"Tally!" I can't help the grin spreading across my face, even as I notice the way she's fidgeting with her rings—something she only does when she's nervous.
"Cam," she says, her voice softer than usual. She chews her bottom lip, her eyes darting away from the camera. "There's something I need to tell you."
“What is it?”
Tally's eyes dart away before meeting mine again.
"Well, here's the thing." She inhales deeply, her chest rising beneath her faded Wheezer concert t-shirt.
"I got really stupid one night. Right after you left.
Got sloppy drunk and...ended up with a new guy.
A one-nighter. And, well, I'm knocked up.
" Her fingers twist nervously at the frayed hem of her shirt. "Thought you should hear it from me."
My heart seizes like it's caught in a vise. The bustle and noise of the other doctors in this tent fades to white noise. Tally is pregnant? By some random stranger? "It was a one-nighter?" My voice sounds hollow in my ears. "Did you ever hear from the guy again?"
She shrugs one shoulder, the movement making her raven hair slide across her collarbone.
"Nope. I actually don't remember the whole thing.
That happens with me with tequila - I feel fine after four shots or whatever, and then by the fifth shot.
.." Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. That's me."
White-hot rage floods through me, my fingers curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack.
I imagine finding this faceless bastard and unleashing violence until he's unrecognizable.
Because what she's describing isn't consensual—it's predatory, calculated, criminal. This bastard took advantage of a passed out woman. That’s rape.
I close my eyes, feeling my pulse hammer in my temples.
And then it crashes over me like an icy wave. Tally is pregnant. Her hand rests protectively over her still-flat stomach. She's going to have a baby. Not mine—that thought twists in my gut like a serrated blade—but she'll need someone when I return. She'll need me.
But she hasn't asked for my help. Does she want it?
I have no idea. This is Tally, after all—the woman who once told a biker twice her size that his skull tattoo looked like a constipated hamster.
Yet...she's single, living in that cramped third-floor walkup with peeling paint and a bathroom sink that never stops dripping. She has a newly-sober mother who’s probably still trembling through each day.
She owns a tattoo studio with rent due on the first, payroll due on the fifteenth, and equipment that breaks down when she can least afford it.
She really has a lot on her plate—a plate that's cracking under the weight.
I could really help out, could steady that plate before it shatters completely. If only she'd let me.
"Tally," I say, watching her fingers nervously twist the silver rings on her hands. "Is this why you've been avoiding my calls and texts all along? You've been afraid of telling me about the baby?"
She shakes her head. "No. That's not why at all."
Something cold slides through my chest. There's more to this—something keeping her at a distance while I'm stuck in Sicily and she's back in Los Angeles.
I've been picturing us together, building something real. Hell, I’m now even imagining myself helping raise her baby, regardless of who the father is.
But the wall in her voice tells me everything.
"Then why have you been avoiding me?"
She sighs. "Cameron. It's been fun?—"
The words hit like a slap. Fun? That's what she calls what happened between us?
I haven't felt this alive since before the accident took Alecia and Stephanie from me.
After losing my wife and daughter, I disappeared into myself, existing but not living.
My songs became my only voice—just scratching notes in journals between hospital shifts.
But with Tally, I started breathing again.
She's like oxygen after years of drowning.
"Tally," I say, my voice catching in my throat as I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "I haven't just been having fun. I feel that there's something here for us. I thought you might feel the same."
"Cam," she says, twisting one of her silver rings around her finger, her crimson lips pursing slightly.
"Here's the thing. You're all into me because I'm a bit wild, a bit different, I'm not your Malibu Barbie doll that you usually date.
" Then she shakes her head, her jet-black hair swinging across her shoulders, the purple tips catching the light.
"No. Not Malibu Barbie doll, sorry. That's an insult.
I think that was your brother Roman's type until he met Lilith.
And Max, too, until he was forced together with Celeste and, well, the rest is history there, isn't it?”
She looks up at the ceiling, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones, before turning to her sleek silver laptop.
Her fingers, adorned with blood red nail polish, fly across the keyboard.
She nods triumphantly as she brings up a picture of a Barbie doll wearing a cashmere sweater dress in a soft heather gray, with glossy chestnut hair cascading down her back, chocolate brown thigh-high boots hugging her plastic legs, and a buttery leather satchel hanging from her tiny arm.
I get the reference immediately - she doesn't see me with the Los Angeles plastic-surgery enhanced women with their platinum blonde hair and suspiciously perky assets, the super model types that some of my brothers admittedly pursued - Roman and Max mainly, although Ansel has certainly had his moments.
No, she sees me with the kind of woman who exudes Ivy-League elegance - more natural beauty with a hint of old money, dressed in crisp Ralph Lauren separates, pearl earrings glinting in her ears, weekends spent at a weathered cedar-shingled summer home on Nantucket.
I admit, with a pang in my chest, Alecia fit that mold perfectly, from her honey-blonde bob to her boat shoes to her house in the Hamptons, a house she inherited from her father.
She sighs. "Look, let's be real. We had amazing sex, but that high won’t last. And when it fades.
.." She makes a face. "You'll see me—really see me—and wonder what the hell you were thinking.
" She examines her fingers. "Face it, we're from different planets.
The only place we click is between the sheets.
" She shrugs one shoulder. "Eventually some socialite with a beach house who gets excited about organic kale will catch your eye, and I'll get the 'it's not you, it's me' speech. I'm just saving us both the trouble."
I narrow my eyes. "Tally, stop deciding for me.
I'm a grown man who can choose who I want to be with.
" I shake my head. "Have I dated pearl-clutching socialites who think tattoos are for criminals?
Women who drive overpriced eco-cars and treat organic kale like it's a religion?
Sure. But that's not what matters here." I lean closer, my voice softening.
"I see you, Tally. Really see you. And whatever's happening between us feels real.
Different doesn't mean wrong. Hell, I'm probably not what you pictured for yourself either. "
Tally's voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the static of the video call. "Cam. Don't make this harder than it is." Her fingers dance while she stares at them instead of looking at me through the screen.
Words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, my voice rising with each sentence.
"Let me help, Tally. The baby's coming, and with your mom's condition—I mean, the meds are working now, but bi-polar disorder is unpredictable.
Your apartment's tiny, that fire escape is a death trap, and there's so much to prepare for.
Baby-proofing, midnight feedings, diaper changes. I know how to?—"
Her eyes flash, emerald turning to jade. I'm still talking when the screen goes black, the abrupt silence deafening. She's hung up.
I call back immediately, my thumb jabbing the screen hard enough to hurt. Straight to voicemail. I fire off three texts in quick succession. No response, not even the dancing ellipsis of a reply being typed.
I rub my temples, feeling the throb of a headache forming beneath my fingertips.
Nice work, genius. Way to sound like a condescending ass.