Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
TALLY
Tonight's our last real night together before Cameron ships out for a year—if he ever comes back at all.
We've had a good run though. Mind-blowing sex.
Food that makes me moan. He didn't just cook for me; he dragged my ass into the kitchen and showed me how.
"Give a girl a fish, feed her for a day; teach a girl to fish, feed her for life," he'd say with that stupid grin.
And Jesus, the way he makes my coffee. Better than any barista.
He gets these beans from some hipster roaster I can't even pronounce, grinds them in that fancy machine he bought me (which I'm definitely keeping), and adds cream and sugar like he's got my taste buds mapped.
That first sip every morning? That's another thing I'll miss when he's gone.
At least when Cam's gone I can finally see my girls again.
I've been dodging them because the minute I walk in with this stupid grin plastered on my face, Celeste will know.
And I can't lie to her—I'd have to spill that I've been screwing Cameron Kensington, Dr. Perfect himself, and she'd lose her shit.
First, she'd say I'm corrupting him (trust me, that ship has sailed), and second, she'd remind me I'm just going to break his heart and the last thing Cam needs is another fucking tragedy.
She'd be right about that part. I'm still not relationship material, and Cam deserves someone who doesn't have my particular talent for disaster.
Celeste's been blowing up my phone about Happy Hour, but I keep making excuses.
I don't lie, but damn, I'm Olympic-level at leaving shit out.
If I can see them without bringing up where I've been, maybe I can dodge the whole truth bomb.
So yeah, the only upside to Cam leaving is getting my friends back.
Tonight, I'm going to bring him into my world.
There's an exhibit in a warehouse downtown—one of those industrial spaces with exposed brick and steel beams where the hipsters hang out.
It's a pop-up tattoo art thing that's only running this weekend.
They've got these massive blown-up photographs of intricate back pieces hanging from the ceiling, flash sheets from the 1950s under glass, and this badass chick from Seattle doing live sessions right in the middle of the floor.
You can literally watch skin transform while sipping overpriced craft beer from the makeshift bar.
I'm pumped for tonight with Cameron. Last time, he dragged me to this hole-in-the-wall jazz club where he absolutely killed it on stage—his voice and that piano? Pure magic. But of course, my phone has to ring right now.
"Tal," Mom's voice wavers on the line. When her number pops up, I always answer.
Could be anything—she's passed out somewhere, or some dickhead boyfriend put her in the ER, or maybe—just maybe—she's finally ready to get clean.
And if it's that last one? I'd drop everything.
In a heartbeat. Yeah, she turned my childhood into a shit show of foster homes and chaos, but she's still my mom.
She's still the woman whose fingers could make a piano weep, who almost played with the fucking LA Philharmonic before Oxy stole her away.
The same woman who somehow traps my king every damn time we play chess, even though I'm ranked 1700 and she just plays for fun.
My brilliant, broken mother. So when she calls, I answer. “I need help.”
I ask where she is.
"Cedars," she says. "ER. I'll explain later. But could you come and get me?"
Cedars-Sinai. Where Cam is still on shift.
What if he's the one who treated her? Would he even know who she is?
He's only ever seen her in my paintings, never in person or photos.
Doesn't matter. I'll have to cancel with him tonight—it's his last night before leaving, but my mother comes first. Besides, maybe I need the distance.
He's flying out tomorrow anyway. No point prioritizing him over my mother who actually "needs me" for once.
She's never needed me before—always had some loser boyfriend to lean on, one right after another.
Never alone long enough to ask me for anything.
But now she's calling for help. Cam will understand.
Of course he will. He'll board that plane to Sicily tomorrow and forget I exist before they even retract the landing gear.
I sigh into the phone. "I'll be right there.
" At least I'm not at the shop today. Mom's never been one for patience.
If I'd told her I couldn't come until after my shift, she'd be hitchhiking before I hung up, thumb out on the highway, looking for her next temporary savior with a couch and a bottle of pills.
I get to Cedars and see my mother waiting for me in the waiting room, her coat draped over her arm even though it’s fucking July. I don’t see Cam anywhere, of course - I’m sure he’s busy on his shift.
“Mom,” I say. “Let’s go.”
She nods. "Thanks for coming to get me, Tally."
I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. The question burns in my throat: Why not call one of your deadbeat boyfriends?
But the image of her empty bedroom flashes through my mind—drawers yanked open, closet bare, not even a goddamn note.
Been there before. So I swallow the words, knowing they'd send her running faster than anything.
From now on, I'll tiptoe around her moods like I'm crossing a minefield.
That's my life now. Every day I'll come home wondering if her shit's still there or if she's ghosted me again.
If she even agrees to crash at my place for any period of time. Fuck. No way out of this one.
“Sure, Mom,” I say. “Listen, maybe you could crash with me for awhile?”
To my astonishment, she nods. “Thank you, I’d like that.”
I slide behind the wheel of my new Jeep, Sophie—RIP Jaspress—and steal glances at Mom as we drive to my place. Her face is blank, unreadable.
At my apartment, she does a slow spin in the living room. "Fancy digs, Tal. Arts District must cost an arm and a leg, huh?"
"It's not cheap," I admit. "You can have the spare bedroom. And I actually cook now, so we can save some cash eating in."
Mom's eyes light up. "I know every food bank in the area. Good stuff too—fresh strawberries, potatoes. You cook, I'll forage."
I try not to roll my eyes. Like she'll stick around long enough to make a single food bank run.
I need to accept the truth: she could vanish in the middle of the night or while I'm inking someone's bicep.
No warning, no goodbye note. Can't exactly handcuff her to the radiator.
She's like one of those stray cats that lets you pet it but keeps one eye on the exit.
Physically present, mentally halfway gone already.
Mom sits down at the dining room table, running her hand over the distressed grain like she's caressing a lover. "Beautiful table," she says, her eyes gleaming with something I can't quite place. "You always had the eye for beauty, Tally. Guess I'm not surprised that you're an artist."
"Tattoo artist," I snap, my jaw clenching.
Maybe she didn't know what I did. After all, growing up, I was just an artist, period.
On those rare fucking occasions when Mom got her shit together and somehow convinced a judge to give her custody, she'd marvel at what I created—right before disappearing on another bender.
I busted my ass at UCLA, got my BA in Art while working two jobs.
I can make canvas bleed with acrylics and watercolors, and I've always been a badass sculptor, but tattooing?
That's where I found my goddamn salvation.
"Tattoo artist," she echoes, her voice hollow. "Why did you decide to become a tattoo artist?"
I shrug, my shoulders tight as piano wire.
"Not much money being a regular artist, so I took my talent where I could make enough money to eat and pay for utilities.
I own the studio down the street." I lock eyes with her.
"Used the money the government gave me when Dad was blown to pieces in Iraq to open the shop.
" I raise an eyebrow, daring her to comment.
My blood boils thinking about how she pissed away not just $100,000, which is what I got, but a half-million dollars of death money.
Plus the monthly survivor's benefits. All of it gone down her throat while I, the fucking daughter, was smart enough to build something lasting.
Then I shake my head, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I have to stop this toxic comparison shit.
She's Mom and I'm me. Two different women, two different choices, one giant fucking gulf between us.
She nods. "I always knew you'd become somebody," she says, her head dropping. "Unlike me. I'm just a hot mess." Then come the tears, and fuck if that doesn't wreck me every time. Only sociopaths and liars claim they can watch a parent cry without feeling like they've been gutted.
"Mom," I say, wrapping an arm around her bony shoulders.
"We're both hot messes, so there's that.
" I exhale, memories flooding back—age 8, 9 and a half, 11, 13, 15—each time CPS yanked me from home because Mom was spiraling again.
But they never took me out of the house because I reported her.
She was always a disaster, but I'd rather die than report her.
I knew what foster care felt like. It was always some busybody neighbor spotting her tweaking in Ralph's, or cops catching her driving wasted.
That bitch teacher Ellen Davos called CPS just because Mom missed Parent-Teacher night.
Once, her own dealer reported to CPS because she owed him money and he was pissed.
But the CPS reporting never came from me. I never betrayed her.