Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
TALLY
Cameron's going out with Willow tonight. Their first date. I've been staring at the bottle of Tito's in my cabinet for twenty minutes, wondering if vodka might dull the ache of watching him get ready to see her. And goddamn it, if I weren’t nursing Brinley, I’d be into that bottle of vodka so fast…
Willow is like some cosmic joke the universe played on me—beautiful, brilliant, and worst of all, genuinely likable.
She even called me earlier, apologizing profusely for the way she got my phone number - Celeste gave it to Max, who gave it to Silas, and then to her.
The brothers seem suspiciously enthusiastic about pushing Cameron and Willow together—and me firmly out of the picture.
When my phone rang and I heard, "Tally, this is Willow," I managed a casual "Oh, hey, what's going on?
" while my pulse thundered in my ears and I blinked back tears.
And it's not hormones making me emotional—it's pure self-loathing.
Here's Cameron, this incredible man who wants commitment, and what am I doing?
Practically gift-wrapping him for another woman.
If there were an award for self-sabotage, I'd be accepting that trophy with both hands.
Willow's voice is melodious on the phone. "I just wanted to check if you're comfortable with Cameron and me dating. Given your... arrangement with him and little Brinley, I'd hate to cause problems. I've always believed in women supporting women, you know? So if you have any reservations..."
I catch myself mid-eye-roll. One word from me and she'd retreat.
But to what end? The mere thought of committing to Cameron makes my chest tighten, like being trapped in a shrinking box.
What right do I have to say, "Don't date him, Willow—even though I won't either"?
That would be beyond selfish. Cameron deserves better.
I need to put his happiness first, even as I feel the first crack spreading across my heart.
I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "You and Cam have fun with whatever you're doing. Take pictures. Text them to me. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Oh, thank you!" Her voice jumps an octave, practically vibrating with relief. "The last thing I wanted was to get between—I mean—and you're absolutely sure?"
"I'm sure." My fingernails dig crescents into my palm.
Not sure. Not even close. Every cell in my body screams for Cameron to wait for me, to pause his entire goddamn life while I figure out mine.
But if I never get my shit together, he might as well be chasing a mirage across the desert until he drops dead of thirst.
So, yeah. Cameron is taking Willow to fucking Somni.
Five hundred dollars per person just to eat.
PER PERSON. And that's before the wine pairings that cost more than my weekly grocery budget.
My stomach actually clenches when I hear this, like someone's twisting my insides with pliers.
Not because I'm dying to eat gold-flecked whatever-the-hell they serve there.
God, I'd probably use the wrong fork and get escorted out by security.
That place is for people who own islands, not people like me.
But Cameron? CAMERON? Mr. I-Don't-Care-About-Material-Things is blowing the equivalent of one of my mortgage payments on dinner?
He must be gone for her. I want to vomit.
I want to scream. I want to throw myself into traffic.
Cameron appears in the doorway, ready to leave for his date. My eyes narrow at his outfit—distressed jeans paired with that gray blazer and t-shirt he always wears. Not exactly fine dining attire.
"Enjoy Somni," I call out, shifting Brinley against my breast as she nurses. My smile feels plastered on while my chest constricts watching him leave to wine and dine someone else.
He stops, turns. "Somni? Who said anything about Somni?"
"Celeste mentioned it. I think that Max told her that’s where you were going.”
He laughs, shaking his head. "My brothers are trying way too hard with this Willow thing. Now they’re wish-casting my date. But I'm not spending fifteen hundred on dinner with someone I barely know."
I exhale slowly. "So where are you taking her?"
"Girl and the Goat."
Still nice. Not break-the-bank expensive, but he'll probably drop a couple hundred once cocktails and dessert are factored in.
"After dinner?" The question catches in my throat.
"Tally—do you really want these details?"
"I need to know. Otherwise, I'll just picture you back at her place."
"Just an art gallery opening Asher told me about."
An art gallery. My stomach drops. He knows how much I love those—the hushed conversations, the wine in plastic cups, the electric feeling of discovery. That should be me tonight.
Cameron glances at his watch, but his eyes linger on me. He gestures toward the couch, and I sink into the cushions with Brinley nestled against my chest. I tuck the blanket around her tiny form, and she drifts off, oblivious to the ache spreading through my chest.
"Tally," he says, voice low. "Just say it, and I'll cancel with Willow."
My throat tightens. "God, I've been wrestling with this all day. If I'm honest? The thought of you with her—with anyone—kills me."
His phone appears in his hand. "She'll understand." His thumb hovers over the screen until I reach out.
"Don't. You deserve someone who can make you happy. And she's perfect, isn't she? Beautiful, young widow just like you, another doctor. The whole package."
"Tally—"
"Please go."
He rises slowly, reluctance in every movement. "I'll... see you later, then?"
I force my lips into what must be a brittle smile. "Have fun." I wave him away, watching as he hesitates at the door. "Don't worry about me. I won't wait up."
He leaves and my mother glides into the living room, dressed up for her gig that night at Indigo, all sequins and red lipstick like she's twenty-five instead of fifty-five. "Tally," she says, voice razor-sharp. "I need to talk to you."
I nod, my jaw already clenching. "Let me put Brinley down," I say. "Be right back."
I put Brinley in her latest onesie, bright yellow with a duck face, and press my lips to her forehead, breathing in her baby-powder smell, trying to steady myself.
"Okay, Mom, what's up?" I drop onto the couch, bracing for impact.
She slams her hand over mine. "Aren't you carrying this whole thing with Cameron a bit too far?"
"What are you talking about?" My voice comes out like broken glass.
"He just went out on a date with somebody else, that's what I'm talking about." She shakes her head, earrings swinging violently. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Mom," I say, squeezing my eyes shut so hard I see stars. "I'm sending him off to be happy with somebody because he sure as hell won't be happy with me."
"Tally," she hisses, "You need therapy. You need to talk to somebody before you blow the best thing that ever happened to you."
"Mom, I've had therapy, remember?" My laugh is bitter acid. "It was court mandated therapy when I was a kid and being shuffled around from one home to the next." I slam my fist against my thigh. "The last thing I want to do is talk to somebody who'll bring up all this shit."
"Tally, that's what therapy is for."
"Well, I'm not ready for that," I snap, my voice cracking.
And then I shake my head, rage boiling up from somewhere deep and dark.
Goddamn it. This is her fault. If she didn't make my childhood such a fucking nightmare, I wouldn't have the baggage I have now and I'd be able to give Cameron what he wants from me, which is to be his wife.
But life doesn' t work that way, does it?
It's not a choose-your-own-adventure book where you can flip back to page 47 and pick door number two instead. My whole life is a tangled web of consequences, and when I think about it, I never would’ve met Cam, period, if I had had a normal childhood.
After all, I met Celeste because I took that Soul Cycle class in West Hollywood when I was 23.
I only lived in West Hollywood because I'd stayed with a foster family there when I was 16—six months of actual stability that felt like heaven.
After college, I wanted to recapture that feeling, so I got an apartment three blocks from their old place.
Without that foster family, without that particular neighborhood, I never meet Celeste at that class.
Without Celeste, I'm not at that specific Happy Hour on that specific night, which means no car accident.
And even if by some cosmic joke I still somehow crossed paths with Cameron, he never would have given me a second glance if I wasn't Celeste's friend who'd just been hospitalized.
Guess there's a silver lining to every dark cloud. If I hadn't such a shit show of a childhood, I might never have crossed paths with Cameron. Or found Celeste, the sister life never gave me but somehow delivered anyway. Maybe I should be sending Mom a thank-you note instead of getting mad at her.
"Mom," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I hear you. I do. But I've got this handled."
Her eyebrows lift. "And if they click over dinner? If they laugh and talk for hours and then?—"
"End up at her place..." The words stick in my throat. My mind floods with images I can't bear: Cameron's lips on someone else's, his hands tracing unfamiliar curves, his eyes—those eyes that make me feel like the center of the universe—focused on another woman.
Christ. Maybe I do need that therapist after all.