Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
TALLY
This weekend is turning into my personal hell. Every time I look over, Cameron's laughing at something Willow said, or Willow's touching Cameron's arm, or they're sharing some private joke. And all the brothers are eating it up—not just Silas with his knowing smirks, but even Max, the traitor.
Case in point - the activity for that first morning, kayaking.
"Tally, you're with Celeste," Max announces when we reach the dock, pointing to the blue kayak while practically shoving Cameron and Willow toward the red one.
I try to bail—I hate kayaking, always end up soaked, and someone needs to watch Brinley anyway.
But Rosa's already bouncing my daughter on her hip, waving us off like we're teenagers at prom.
Celeste grabs my arm, whining about needing a partner since Max and Roman has already claimed the green kayak for themselves.
Apparently Lilith's off at some crystal-waving convention in Big Sur, teaching baby psychics how to separate fools from their money.
Those two—Max and Roman—are the oddest bromance I've ever seen, but whatever. At least someone's having fun.
Kayaking done, we move on to mixed doubles tennis. And once again, the master of ceremonies for the day, Max, unsubtly pairs Cameron and Willow with each other.
Meanwhile, I’m stuck with Asher. Just my luck. I can barely hit the ball over the net, and Asher, while in as great of shape as his brothers, apparently has the coordination of a newborn giraffe. We’re gonna get destroyed
Cameron—that golden boy—plays like he's auditioning for Wimbledon. Willow's no slouch either. They absolutely destroy Connor and Alys in the first match—not exactly a shocker. Connor holds his own, but Alys acts like she doesn’t want to break a nail so she doesn’t even try.
Next up, the dynamic duo of Cameron and Willow take down Max and Celeste, who actually put up a decent fight.
Then it's our turn. Poor Asher—brilliant mind, killer abs, terrible backhand and forehand, for that matter. Between my wild swings and his awkward lunges, we didn’t stand a chance. Game, set, and total humiliation.
So yeah. Between the kayak thing, the doubles tennis thing and just the way that Silas keeps shooting me the stink eye while looking at Cameron and Willow approvingly, I couldn't miss what was happening between Willow and Cameron if I tried.
The after-dinner show is what clinches it.
Two fucking baby grands sitting side by side in the old man's palace—who lives like that?
Cameron and Willow slide onto the benches like they'd been itching for this moment all night.
She hits every note he does, both of them criminally wasting their musical gifts on regular paychecks.
They volley lyrics back and forth—from Elton's heartbreakers to Billy's ballads, then Tori Amos’ raw confessions and Radiohead's beautiful misery.
Her voice pours out sweet and smooth against his perfect whiskey-rough edges.
I watch them lean into each other between verses, their hands flying across ivory, and thought: shit, that's what belonging to someone looks like.
Watching them together hurts like someone's taking a cheese grater to my insides.
Cameron and this Willow chick—they just fit.
Their voices blend on "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" like they were born to harmonize, their fingers dancing across the piano keys in perfect sync.
Fuck. I can already see how this plays out: them building their little love nest while I'm home alone with Brinley, Cam and I passing her back and forth like some kind of human baton.
I never thought I'd be another statistic, another mom with a custody agreement. But here we are. Game over.
I tell myself this was what I wanted.
But that's bullshit. What I really want is to wake up one day as someone who doesn't break out in a cold sweat when Cameron talks about picking out china patterns. Someone who sees his kind eyes and steady hands and thinks "forever" instead of "trapped." Someone better than me.
The ink on my skin tells my story, but I can't tattoo myself a new personality. Cameron deserves his white picket fence dream.
So I'll smile and nod when he mentions Willow's name, even while my stomach twists into knots that would make a sailor proud.