Chapter 22 #2
I can't take it anymore. The elephant in the room is about to suffocate me. "Say something about your daughter, please." My pulse is going like a jackhammer. I've really screwed myself this time, haven't I?
He nods. "Processing it.” He shakes his head.
"Why would you lie?” And then he narrows his eyes, and my heart sinks.
Yeah. I probably really did screw up here.
What if I screwed it up for good? What if he feels like he can't trust me?
I guess I should think about that as a distinct possibility. Why would he trust me after this?
I take a sip of apple juice from a wine glass, my fingers trembling against the delicate stem.
"Not my finest hour," I say, swirling the amber liquid like it's a fine Chardonnay. I always drink apple juice out of a wine glass because I like to pretend it’s wine.
As if this pathetic ritual could fool my brain into thinking I haven't surrendered every last pleasure to the tiny dictator laying beside me.
But the glass doesn't change the taste, and it doesn't change the facts.
This kid has hijacked my body, my identity, my whole damn life—and there's no escape clause in this contract.
His jaw tightens as he stares at me. "Not your finest hour?
" The words come out clipped, controlled.
"While I was in Sicily, I kept thinking about coming back here to find the man who—" He stops, swallows hard.
"The man you claimed took advantage of you when you couldn't remember.
I wanted to make him pay." His voice drops lower, trembling with barely contained emotion.
"Do you have any idea what that was like?
I've treated actual assault victims, women who've been through hell, and here you are.
.." He looks away, his knuckles white. "Using something that devastating as a convenient story to explain away our child. "
Shit. I'd basically told him I was date-raped and knocked up.
Who does that? But the thought of him picturing me willingly climbing into bed with some random dude felt worse somehow—like I'd cheated on him, even though we weren't together.
My fingers trace the outline of the tattoo on my wrist, the one I'd gotten after my last epic screwup.
Should've learned my lesson then. This lie was even worse than the truth, and now I was stuck with it, watching his face fall as he tries to be the good guy. Again.
I swallow hard. "Cam, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I just..." My voice catches. "I freaked out."
"Freaked out." He doesn't look at me, just stares at his empty glass before reaching for the bottle. "And why exactly would telling me the truth be so terrifying? Is sharing a child with me really that unbearable?"
"Yes," I blurt. The word hangs between us like a slap. His shoulders stiffen, jaw clenching as he absorbs the blow. I watch his eyes go flat, distant. Shit. No taking that back. Idiot, idiot, idiot. "Wait, I didn't?—"
"Save it," he cuts me off. "Message received. Apparently the idea of me in your life is your personal nightmare. Well, tough luck—we have a kid now. A kid whose name I never got to choose, by the way. So I guess you're stuck with me, no matter how badly you wish I'd disappear."
How do I tell him that the last thing I want is for him to disappear?
I don't just see a lifeline when I look at him—someone to help with Brinley or take her off my hands like some kind of horseback-riding cavalry coming to save my ass.
I want him because...he's Cam. Beautiful, sweet Cam who brews me coffee with the best beans, knowing exactly how I take it.
Cam with his magic hands giving foot and back rubs that would make a massage therapist jealous.
He actually listens when I rant about clients, then offers advice that works.
Before Sicily, he taught me to cook so I wouldn't starve, but he'd rather be in the kitchen himself, putting Gordon Ramsay to shame.
That whiskey-tinged voice when he sings breaks my heart, and he plays piano better than my professional pianist mother.
When I forget my coat, his own is around my shoulders before I can shiver.
He runs bubble baths with water at the perfect temperature.
His heart is enormous—the man lived in a tent for a year helping the poorest of the poor.
Cameron will be an amazing dad, and goddamn it, I should just let down these walls and let him be that amazing dad.
And Jesus, he's incredible in bed.
But I just can't get past the fact that I love my own style, I'm set in my ways like concrete, and I'd rather eat glass than share my space with some dude's recliner and sports memorabilia.
My house is MY sanctuary—blood-red walls screaming with personality, a chandelier that explodes with bubbles of light, and a mural of jazz musicians so vibrant it practically bleeds sound.
Marilyn Monroe stares down with sleeve tattoos that would make a biker jealous.
My throw rug in the living room, right in front of my multi-colored couch, is a riot of swirly colors - pink, purple, blue, yellow.
My shower curtain? A psychedelic elephant that hits you like an acid trip every morning.
Every inch is me, raw and unfiltered. No compromise. No apologies.
And, of course, along with his no-doubt beige-on-beige bachelor furniture comes the death of everything that makes me ME.
I can already feel my tattoo ink fading at the thought.
I wasn't fucking built for this sharing-a-bathroom, compromise-on-dinner bullshit.
No way in hell. And now with Brinley? Christ. I'll be trapped, cornered like some wild animal forced into domestication, watching my spirit shrivel up and die while I become some hollow-eyed version of myself serving goddamn pot roast on Sundays. I'd rather set myself on fire.
My brain's spinning with all this crap about how I don't need someone barging into my life, trying to sand down my edges and stuff me into some cookie-cutter mold.
Then my mouth just opens, and I swear on every tattoo I've ever inked that it's the sleep deprivation talking.
The hormones. The fact that my life's gone completely sideways.
"Don't leave," I hear myself say. "Just... take her. Take her away so I don't have to look at her anymore." The words hang there like cigarette smoke. Christ. That's exactly how I feel, but did I really just say that out loud?
I've just blown it completely. No guy—not even Cameron—would stick around after hearing that.
"Take my daughter away so I never have to see her face again"?
Who even says something that cruel? In other words, I not only want to be rid of her but be rid of him too.
After everything else I've put him through, this is definitely his breaking point.
Those words can't be unsaid. They're hanging between us now like a goddamn neon sign of my deepest, darkest thoughts.
Freudian slip or whatever—that shit came from somewhere inside me.
But Cameron's reaction catches me off guard. His granite jaw unclenches. Those ice-chip blue eyes of his thaw right in front of me.
"Tally," he says, voice gentler than I deserve. "Are you saying you want me to take Brinley? That you never want to see her again?"
Shit. Cat's out of the bag now. This is Cam. My Cam. If I can't tell him the ugly truth, who can I tell? These feelings are eating me alive anyway.
"I feel nothing when I look at her," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Nothing good, anyway." My throat tightens.
"Fuck, Cameron. Where's that magical mom-glow everyone promised?
That rush of love that's supposed to make everything worth it?
I keep waiting and waiting and—nothing. Just this.
.. resentment. Like I'm staring at this tiny wrecking ball that demolished my entire life.
Some days I fantasize about leaving her on someone's doorstep with a note pinned to her blanket, like I'm living in some Dickens novel. "
He nods. "Do you have thoughts about hurting yourself or Brinley?"
I nod back. "Yeah. Not hurt her, but myself.” I stare at a coffee stain on the floor.
"Last night I counted ceiling cracks at 3 AM while she screamed in the next room.
My tattoo gun slipped yesterday—client jerked away just in time.
One bad Yelp review about burns, and my shop's done.
" I take a breath that catches in my throat.
"Sometimes I'm driving along the coast, and I think about just..
. walking into the ocean until there's nothing but blue.
" I look up at him. "I won't though. Mom's finally sober, finally got a diagnosis.
If I disappeared, she'd be back on the Oxy before my body washed up.
She needs me to count her pills, drive her to therapy, be her goddamn lifeline.
" My voice shrinks. “So Brinley isn't why I don’t go through with drowning myself.
Just Mom. Sometimes when Brinley cries, all I see is this tiny thief who took everything from me. And I fucking hate myself for it."
I suck in air like I'm drowning while Cam's eyes bore into mine. His fingers brush the hair from my face—so gentle it hurts. That same gesture I used to flinch away from now feels like the only thing keeping me from shattering. It screams that he sees me—really sees me—and hasn't run for the hills.
“Tally," his voice cuts through the roaring in my ears.
"This isn't you. It's postpartum depression ripping you apart.
" His jaw tightens. "The statistics don't lie.
Women who've been through hell like you have—bounced between foster homes, abandoned, neglected—they're prime targets.
Add your mother's bi-polar disorder into the mix, and you're fighting a war on multiple fronts, because the family history of mental illness might make you vulnerable.
We need to get you help before this thing devours you whole. "
"Worse than this?" My voice cracks.
"Remember Andrea Yates?" His words hit like ice water.
"Five children. One bathtub. Five tiny bodies, one drowned after another.
That's postpartum psychosis—when the depression mutates into something monstrous.
I'm not saying you'd ever—" His voice breaks.
"But I refuse to watch this disorder consume the woman I love. Not when we can kill it first."
The woman he…loves? My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape. His words hang in the air between us, casual as a grenade with its pin pulled.
"How do you know so much about this?"
"Psych rotation," he says, his eyes darkening.
"Had mothers grip my wrists until their nails drew blood, begging me to take their babies away before they did something unforgivable.
Women who couldn't sleep because every time they closed their eyes, they saw themselves dropping their newborns from tenth-story windows.
Mothers who'd wake up with their hands hovering over their child's throat, terrified of what they might do if they blacked out for even a second.
These weren't monsters, Tally. They were just women whose own minds had turned against them. Like yours is doing now."
The tears come without warning, hot and fast down my cheeks. Something inside me cracks open at Cam's words. Not broken. Not a terrible mother. Just a woman with a chemical imbalance—something fixable, something with a name.
His arms encircle me, solid and warm as I dampen his shirt with my crying. "Shhh," he murmurs against my hair. "We're getting you help. Tonight."
I pull back just enough to see his face. "Tonight? Without appointments or waiting lists?"
"I can write the prescription myself." His voice is steady, certain. "There's a new medication specifically for postpartum depression—Zuranolone. Two weeks of daily pills that work differently than standard antidepressants. The success rate is remarkable."
When he brushes my bangs aside, his fingertips linger against my skin. Then his lips press against my forehead—gentle, reverent. Every instinct screams to push him away, to maintain my walls, but I find myself leaning into his touch instead, releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding.
“Aren’t all pharmacies closed right now?” I ask, looking at the clock.
“I’ll get it from the hospital,” he says. “Matter of fact, going right now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
He leaves, and I stare at the door before my eyes drift to Brinley, who's actually giving me a break for once.
Her face looks almost angelic when she's not screaming—right fist curled over her belly, head tilted like she's listening to something far away.
The Green Day American Idiot onesie I special-ordered rises and falls with each tiny breath.
That stubborn tuft of dark hair sticks straight up from her crown, a cowlick identical to Cameron's.
Something tightens in my chest, not quite love, but maybe its distant cousin.
When she sighs in her sleep, I catch myself wondering what she's dreaming about.
I have my own dream too—that someday I'll scoop her up and finally feel that thunderbolt everyone promised.
That she'll transform from this life-hijacking tiny tyrant into something else entirely: my daughter. For real this time.
Cameron returns after what feels like forever, prescription bag in hand.
"Got it," he says, shaking out a small pill.
"The pharmacist said this stuff is pretty potent—you might notice a difference by morning. Give it a couple weeks, and the postpartum fog should lift and you’ll be back to yourself. "
I attempt a smile. "Not sure the world's ready for the return of regular Tally."
His expression softens. "The world might not be, but we are. That little girl in that bassinet needs the real you—tattoos, attitude, and all. The meds just help clear the path back."
I sigh. I hope he’s right. Because if he’s not, I’ll feel more hopeless than ever.