Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
TALLY
Mom clears her throat one afternoon while I'm standing in her kitchen, my baby bump now unmistakable beneath my tank top. "So..."
I glare at the sushi menu I'd been eyeing on my phone.
Deleted. I'd ranted for weeks about how women had babies for centuries without all these fucking restrictions, but here I am—no raw fish, no alcohol, no coffee.
My copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting sits dog-eared on my nightstand, and my fridge is packed with enough spinach, avocados, and almonds to choke a horse.
All for the folate. My tattoo clients have started bringing me decaf as a joke after I nearly bit someone's head off during a consultation.
"Brinley," I whisper, touching my stomach. The ultrasound tech had shown me last week—definitely a girl. Brinley Steele. Sounds like someone who could kick ass.
Mom tries again. "So... I've been researching. There are tests now—DNA markers that might indicate if Brinley could inherit my bi-polar disorder. Not guaranteed, but it might help you decide about telling Cameron he's the father."
I shrug. "Yeah, been there, done that research. But what's the point? So I can freak myself out every time she sneezes? The doc said even with the markers, she might never get it. And I'm still not telling Cameron. End of story."
I've made up my mind about him. Mom's little heart-to-heart last month almost cracked me, but I've cemented that wall back up.
Poor guy. Not like it's his fault. Since I dropped the baby bomb on him, we haven't spoken.
His name lights up my phone at least twice a week, but my finger hovers over "decline" every time.
One conversation leads to another, leads to me spilling everything, and then what? Some bells you can't unring.
Mom shakes her head and I point at her. "Spill it to him and you're back on the streets." Total bullshit, obviously. She knows damn well I'd never kick her out.
It's wild seeing her so stable on these meds.
Like someone flipped a switch. I've got plans, too—clearing out that old desk and bookshelf in the living room.
Who needs paperbacks when everything's on my Kindle?
That space is begging for a baby grand. She's got the chops to play again, maybe even make some real money at it.
There's gigs all over—events, session work with local bands, clubs.
She could actually support herself doing what she loves instead of suffocating me with attention.
Funny how she's morphed into this hovering mama bear now, when she was practically a ghost during my childhood.
Like she's cramming 29 years of parenting into six months.
She just laughs and shakes her head. "You're going out with the girls tonight?”
I sigh. Yeah, I'm meeting up with Celeste and Liv tonight.
Haven't told them about Brinley yet. Been telling myself I'm just waiting for that second trimester safety zone, but who am I kidding?
The second I open my mouth, I'll blurt out who knocked me up, and Celeste will lose her damn mind.
Can't even blame her. She'll see it like I seduced some innocent lamb and now I'm going to wreck him like I wreck everything.
She knows my relationship track record is a dumpster fire, and she's protective of Cameron.
But I've gotta come clean eventually. The real question is whether she can keep her mouth shut around Max.
If Max finds out, he'll tell Cameron in a heartbeat, and then I'm completely screwed.
“Then have fun.”
I nod, no longer terrified she'll vanish into thin air while I'm out.
Those first weeks after she showed up, I'd rush home from the shop, heart in my throat until I spotted her on the couch.
Now I know better. She's sticking around—acting like an actual mother for once.
And damn if I don't need that right now.
Never in a million years did I picture myself pregnant, let alone grateful for my mom's presence.
She's hardly winning parenting awards—the woman who taught me to forge her signature in third grade isn't exactly Dr. Spock—but having her here, watching her fold my laundry, somehow makes this whole baby thing feel possible.
I step into the bar and spot the girls already nestled in a booth.
For months I’ve been dodging drinks with flimsy excuses—“I don’t feel well,” “I’m just tired”—which aren’t outright lies, since I am usually wiped out and sicker than fucking hell.
Still, it’s hardly the whole truth, and they’ve started to notice.
After all, our ritual is a glass of wine, a plate of appetizers, and at least a couple hours of catch-up, every few weeks if not more often.
Even Celeste, juggling Max and their new baby Violet, rarely misses our nights out.
I’ve loved having them in my back pocket, but tonight it’s time to come clean.
They’re mid-conversation when I arrive. Celeste is careful not to ramble on about Max and Violet—she knows how boring that can gets, even if her husband really is the gorgeous billionaire goddess-worshipper of her dreams.
“Hey, bitches,” I greet them, sliding into the booth. Hugs all around. My heart pounds: it’s go-time.
“Tally,” Celeste says, leaning forward. “We’ve already ordered a bottle of wine in your honor. No more lame excuses about why you can’t join us.”
“About that…” I clear my throat. “There’s something I’ve been hiding.”
Liv perks up. “What is it? You knocked up or something?” She laughs—until my silence makes her realize she hit the nail on the head.
She shoots a look at Celeste. “We were actually teasing about that before you showed up. We’ve been scratching our heads over your no-drinking streak.
I mean, none of us go crazy except when we’re all together, so… spill. What gives?”
“I’m pregnant.” I close my eyes for a second, then open them again.
I’d rehearsed a whole different story—that the father was an avant-garde artist I hooked up with after a gallery opening, that he tragically overdosed, so there’d be no awkward co-parenting questions.
I killed him off in my head to dodge the “What about the dad?” interrogation. But suddenly, the truth feels right.
Celeste holds her hand out to Liv, her crimson nails gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Liv reluctantly slaps a crumpled five dollar bill into her palm.
"Told you," she says with a smug smile that crinkles the corners of her cat-like eyes.
"Bow down to the queen. If I say something, it's usually the gospel truth. "
Oh great, they've been making bets about the state of my uterus. Not that I can blame them. I would do the same thing if I were in their position, probably wagering a twenty instead of a measly five. I would treat the whole thing like a joke too, while secretly dying to know every juicy detail.
Olivia leans forward, her honey-blonde hair falling across her shoulder as concern floods her deep blue eyes.
"Don't be offended," she says, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur.
"We're not trying to make a joke out of this.
But we did make a bet. I lost that bet, by the way, because I can't imagine you with a kid—you who once said you'd rather swallow razor blades than change a diaper.
But what I don't know is whether congratulations are in order or something else. How do you feel about this?"
I glare at them both. "How do you think I feel? I'm freaking the hell out."
Celeste's smile turns apologetic. "The bet was a dick move.
I'm sorry. But I've suspected for weeks.
And remember Roman's wife, Lilith? She did that tarot reading and said you had a baby in your cards.
That's why we ordered wine—to see your reaction. Not exactly BFF behavior, I know. But seriously, what can we do to help you, anything at all?”
I appreciate their concern, I really do, but Mom's already on this.
She's been googling morning sickness remedies non-stop.
Spoiler alert: nothing actually works except ginger, peppermint, and choking down bland food.
She even found some research on acupuncture and dragged me to appointments.
It helps... barely. Mom's been to every doctor visit too.
The girls couldn't go to doctor’s appointments anyway with their crazy work schedules, which is partly why I haven't leaned on them.
No point making them feel guilty about something they can't change.
“I’ll let you ladies know if there’s anything I need.” But they both know I won’t actually tell them about anything I need because I don’t do that.
Celeste puts her hand on mine. “I’m serious, Tally. Anything at all.”
I just nod.
"Who's the father?" Liv blurts out, because of course that's what they're really dying to know.
Shit. Here we go. If I lie, that lie's gonna boomerang back and smack me right in the face someday.
Not maybe—definitely. What if the baby pops out with Cameron's dimples or that weird cowlick he's got?
What if Mom loses her cool and spills to one of his buddies or brothers?
She's been giving me the silent treatment for days over this whole "don't tell Cameron" thing.
And if this all blows up? I'll have Cameron breathing fire down my neck plus Celeste and Liv looking at me like I just keyed their cars. Can't afford to lose my girls. Not now.
They're both staring at me, waiting. My brain's spinning like a slot machine, no jackpot in sight.
I chew my lip raw before finally asking, "Vault worthy?
" They know what that means. Our sacred pact: anything in the vault stays buried.
Period. Break that trust, and the betrayed gets to air one of your dirty secrets as payback.
Works like a charm since we've all got skeletons we'd rather keep closeted.
Mutually assured destruction—the cornerstone of any solid friendship.