Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
TALLY
Once the last box is unpacked, I wheel in Mom's surprise—a baby grand piano for my new sun porch.
God, I fucking love that porch. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the backyard where this massive pepper tree towers like it's been there since dinosaurs roamed.
I can already picture myself scaling its branches, not just when Brinley's old enough to join me, but next week if I feel like it.
I'll build a "treehouse" for her that'll double as my sketching sanctuary.
The yard's already decked out with birdhouses, feeders, and this fancy raised garden bed.
Mom can handle the planting—I kill cacti by looking at them—but she's itching to grow everything from cucumbers to kale.
Lately I've been craving veggies like crazy.
Brinley's turning me into some kind of health freak from the inside out.
When the movers position the piano, Mom descends the stairs and freezes. "Oh, Tally! You didn't!"
I just nod. "Sit. Play something."
She cracks her knuckles one by one, takes a deep breath that fills her lungs completely, and launches into Ravel's Gaspard de la Nuit.
Her fingers dance across the ivory keys, coaxing out the delicate, crystalline notes that patter like midnight rain against a windowpane.
The haunting melody hangs in the air, deceptively simple at first, before her hands begin to blur with the gathering complexity of the piece, her body swaying slightly as the tempo quickens and the music darkens.
Her fingers fly across the keys like she never stopped playing.
Eyes closed, body swaying, she navigates this insanely difficult piece like it's nothing.
Watching her, I'm seven years old again, cross-legged on the floor, wondering how those hands that make my sandwiches can create something so magical.
Just like when I was seven, I sit cross-legged on the floor while she plays, her fingers dancing over the keys.
Bach, then Chopin, then Debussy’s “Reverie” - a piece that I love even more than Debussy’s more familiar “Claire de Lune” - then something I don't recognize but sounds like raindrops.
Five grand for that baby grand—worth every penny I shouldn't have spent.
The shop's killing it lately, though. Blade turned out to be tattoo gold, drawing crowds that spill over to my chair.
Even Maya finally got her act together, her line work tight as hell now.
Between the three of us, we're booked solid for months.
Then there's the celebrity factor—I still get goosebumps remembering how I nearly fumbled my machine when Chris freaking Hemsworth walked in.
One A-lister and suddenly everyone wants ink from the same shop.
I'm grinding harder these days, banking hours and cash.
Baby girl's coming, and babies aren't cheap.
College funds, art classes if she's got my creative streak, maybe private school with those fancy enrichment programs. My mind runs the numbers, making plans that oddly don't include Cam's wallet.
Stupid, really. He could pay for four years of Juilliard without blinking.
But something in my gut says he'll do the bare minimum—cut the required checks but nothing more.
Wouldn't stretch far if he pushes for that joint custody he'll probably demand.
I look at my mom and smile. "You've still got it. Why don't you ring up that agent at IAG? He'd book you in a heartbeat."
"You really think I can handle that kind of pressure again?" She twists her hands together.
"Absolutely. You're?—"
The pain slices through me mid-sentence, hot and sharp.
My first contraction. I double over, gasping for air.
Shit. Should've dragged my ass to those Lamaze classes after all.
Couldn't stomach it though—all those beaming couples with their matching outfits and synchronized breathing.
Would've twisted the knife, especially with these damn pregnancy hormones making me fantasize about Cam moving in, the three of us becoming this perfect little family.
Pure fucking delusion. Because right behind that cozy picture comes the panic—walls closing in, choking the life out of me.
Gotta remember that feeling when I see him.
Can't let some biological chemical trick convince me it's love.
Mom's face goes serious. "Come on," she says, grabbing the pre-packed hospital bag from beside the door.
"Time to go to LA General." It's the closest hospital, just off the freeway.
I never bothered with a proper birth plan—what was the point?
—and now I'm picturing myself screaming on some cold metal table, legs splayed like in those ridiculous movies where women give birth in five minutes flat. Giving birth doesn't seem like?—
Another contraction rips through me like barbed wire being dragged through my insides.
And then—a warm gush between my legs soaks my sweatpants and puddles on the hardwood floor.
What the actual fuck? It's my first birth.
I'm supposed to have hours of contractions, time to get settled at the hospital before this happens, yet here I am, standing in my living room in a puddle of amniotic fluid.
My mother watches me with those knowing eyes and nods.
"Happened exactly like this when I had you," she says, already guiding me toward the door with one hand while grabbing towels with the other. "Water broke right away. Steele women don't mess around. Let's get you to the hospital before you drop that baby on your new floor."
She drives me to LA General in her ancient Camry that smells like vanilla air freshener, weaving through mid-morning traffic like she's qualifying for NASCAR.
Twelve excruciating hours later, after cursing every deity and male human who ever existed, Brinley enters the world.