Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TALLY
I walk in after visiting the girls and find Cameron in the living room, Brinley nestled against his chest in one of those baby slings I used to mock—yet seeing him like that makes me melt.
He’s folding laundry, and the instant our eyes meet, both his face and Brinley’s light up.
She kicks and reaches for me, as though she already knows me.
At barely three months old, she’s already showing personality, and, thanks to whatever is in my meds, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with love every time I look at her.
“How were the girls?” Cameron asks, unfastening Brinley from the sling and passing her to me. She cups my cheeks and coos; I choke back tears.
“They were… the girls,” I shrug. “They both think I’m nuts for our arrangement.
” I want to admit I feel insane too—only a madwoman would risk losing a man like Cameron.
“Who’s my beautiful girl?” I ask Brinley while she gurgles, coos, smiles and grabs my nose.
I shake my head at her. “Who’s my beautiful girl? ”
God, I’m doing the one thing I swore I wouldn’t - cooing at a baby in a sing-song baby-talk voice. But I can’t help it. She really is my beautiful girl and I need to tell her that.
Cameron watches us for a second, a huge grin on his face.
And then he motions to the piano. “Sit at the piano. I’ve written something for Brinley—a song I want to play at Indigo this Friday.
Tell me what you think. Oh, and don’t worry: I’ve asked Patricia to watch Brinley so we can have a night out. ”
I slide onto the piano bench beside him, confident this melody will be stunning; Cameron never does anything halfway.
He taps the keys and smiles. “Your mom actually helped me craft the melody. She’s an incredible composer with this offbeat perspective—something she shares with many creative minds who live with bipolar. Even under treatment, her creativity is as vivid as ever.”
As he plays, he talks about historical figures linked to bipolar: Beethoven, Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf, Tolstoy, Churchill, Hemingway, even Isaac Newton. “I really admire your mom,” he says softly. “Her courage to face her challenges and ask for help—that’s something extraordinary.”
I love the song, from its haunting minor-key melody to the raw, honest lyrics that catches in his throat.
The song isn't dripping with saccharine sentiment like some tracks famous musicians have written for their offspring.
Take "Isn't She Lovely" – those sparkling piano riffs had me hooked until I discovered Stevie Wonder penned it for his newborn daughter.
Suddenly all I could hear was the musical equivalent of a diaper commercial.
Don't even get me started on Creed's "With Arms Wide Open" with its overwrought vocals practically drowning in father-son tears.
But not all parent-to-child musical offerings make me want to gag.
Radiohead's Thom Yorke crafted that eerie, dissonant lullaby that feels more like a beautiful nightmare than a nursery rhyme, and Alanis Morissette's song for her kids, “Ablaze” has razor-sharp lyrics that cut through the typical baby-talk bullshit.
Cameron's song belongs in that rare category – it's got teeth and truth, with syncopated rhythms that make your hips move and lyrics that make your heart ache.
I clap when he's finished with it and Brinley, who's sitting next to us in a special high chair with little cartoon giraffes on the tray, starts pumping her tiny fists and chubby legs like she's auditioning for a baby mosh pit.
She doesn't laugh—apparently babies don't do that until they're around six months old—but she smiles so wide I can see her pink gums gleaming.
She gurgles and makes those wet, bubbly baby sounds that somehow sound like pure joy.
I scoop her up, feeling her warm weight against my chest, her baby powder scent filling my nose.
And it's such a revelation to look into those big blue eyes and actually feel that rush of warmth spreading through my chest that everyone talks about.
When she grabs my nose with sticky fingers and makes that hiccuping gurgle sound, I don't fantasize about flagging down the first person walking by and begging them to take her—I just want to hold her closer.
I stare at Cam, genuinely impressed. "That song... wow. When did you come up with it?"
"Just scribbled it down during the 4 AM feeding," he says with a modest shrug. "So you really think it's good enough for tomorrow at Indigo?"
Tomorrow. At Indigo. My stomach flips before I remind myself: not a date. Definitely not a date. We're nothing like that.
"Absolutely," I manage, my smile feeling stiff. "But listen, Cam?—"
He holds up a hand. "I get it. Just friends hanging out. No expectations."
"Right. And if some gorgeous woman catches your eye..." The words taste like vinegar, but I force them out anyway. "You should totally go for it."
Did those words actually leave my mouth? Christ, they did.
He just shrugs and says nothing.
Cameron changes the subject, thank God. "Tal, my family's doing our every ten years mountain thing next weekend.
Up at Mammoth. Granddad's place is ridiculous—calls it a cabin, but it's basically a mansion on a lake.
We do all the rich-people water sports." He hesitates.
"I want them to meet Brinley. You should both come. "
My throat tightens. Shit. The whole Kensington clan?
I could bullshit some excuse about the shop, but the truth is, I'm interviewing two new artists next week.
If I hire them both, we'd finally have enough coverage that I could actually take a weekend off.
God knows the three of us have been running ourselves ragged.
Plus, Celeste mentioned she's going. Having her there would make it less... intense.
But still. A weekend with his family? That's crossing into territory that feels dangerously.
.. couple-y. I shake my head at myself. This is exactly the kind of overthinking that makes me want to run.
Another fucking landmine in this arrangement I suggested and now regret—but still need.
I just can't dive headfirst into whatever this is without completely losing my shit.
I take a deep breath. "Okay, I'll go to your family's gathering.
" My stomach knots as I picture walking in with Brinley on my hip. Seven brothers, all staring daggers at the woman who lied about their niece being fathered by some rando instead of their beloved doctor brother. God, I'm going to need at least three shots of tequila to survive this. Too bad I’m breast-feeding, otherwise I’d have that tequila.
But Brinley deserves to know her father's side of the family, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.
Time to face the firing squad.