Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
TALLY
Christmas is coming, and Willow is still around - so Cam and Willow have been hanging out for the past three months or so.
I've been watching her with Cam—the way she touches his arm when she laughs, how she remembers exactly how he takes his coffee.
I still hate that someone else occupies the space beside him, but I can't deny she's good to Brinley.
Tonight she's bringing over her box of heirloom ornaments for our tree.
I want Brinley to have these moments—the pine needle smell, the tangle of lights, the careful unwrapping of decorations.
My foster families gave me Christmases: the Johnson's neighborhood light tours, the Martinez's matching pajamas, the Petersons' midnight mass where I dozed against Mrs. Peterson's wool coat.
But watching other families' traditions always felt like pressing my nose against a window, looking in.
Those Christmases were borrowed, like everything else.
I mean, yeah, we did the whole Christmas thing with Mom too, back before Dad bit it and Mom went off the deep end.
Can't say I remember much—I was just a tiny kid—but there's photographic evidence somewhere: little me sandwiched between Mom and Dad, who apparently always dragged his ass home for December 25th.
Sometimes I stare at those pictures like they might suddenly start moving, you know?
Like maybe I could catch some detail I missed, some memory that isn't just a blur of lights and noise.
Brinley army-crawls across the living room floor, her tiny hands slapping against the hardwood as she makes a beeline for the remote control.
When I move it, she points and lets out a string of "ba-ba-da" sounds that somehow manage to convey complete outrage.
Christ. Between her father's money, my attitude, that face and those dimples, this kid's going to own the world if I don't watch it.
I can already picture the kindergarten playground, some poor five-year-old boy offering her his juice box while she bats those eyelashes. God help us all.
I scoop up Brinley mid-lunge toward Kitty's swishing tail. "So," I say to Cameron, balancing my squirming daughter on my hip. "Think we should take the munchkin to see Santa? You, me, and Willow?"
The cat—named Kitty because creativity isn't my strong suit—darts under the couch, probably convinced my daughter is some kind of pint-sized predator.
Can't blame her. Brinley's obsessed with that poor animal, always crawling at top speed after her, and when she catches up?
Full-body tackle accompanied by high-pitched babbling that I'm pretty sure translates to "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I MUST SQUISH YOU. "
I'm weirdly excited about the Santa photo.
There's something hilarious about those first-visit meltdowns—the red-faced screaming, the terror in their eyes.
My own baby picture with Santa is framed evidence: six-month-old me howling like I'm being murdered, clutching a torn chunk of synthetic beard in my tiny fist. Apparently, I've always had trust issues with men in disguise.
“Sure,” Cameron says. “Next Saturday afternoon would be good.”
So, we're all set to ask Willow about the Santa visit when she arrives to help decorate.
She shows up in one of those "ugly" Christmas sweaters that's actually cute as hell—Jack and Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas dancing under a moon surrounded by tiny skulls and pumpkins. Of course she'd wear my favorite Christmas movie. Damn her.
She's brought Brinley a silver bell ornament, engraved with "Brinley's First Christmas.
" When she hugs me and then Cameron, my stomach twists the same way it always does.
I've just gotten Brinley weaned, which means I can finally drink again—and watching them together makes me want to.
If Cameron pulls out a diamond ring tonight, I'll need a whole bottle.
I tell myself I'm fine with their relationship.
I'm not. But whenever I imagine confessing to Cameron—telling him I love him—I panic.
Because I know exactly what would happen: he'd drop Willow in a heartbeat and that ring would end up on my finger instead.
And then what? The walls would close in, and I'd be trapped.
How could I ask him to dump her, only to realize I'm too scared to follow through?
That would be beyond cruel. So I'll paste on my smile and deal with whatever happens, even if it kills me inside.
"Oh, I'd love to take Brinley to see Santa!
" Willow says, clapping her hands with such enthusiasm her silver bangles jingle against her wrists.
Brinley, with her wispy dark curls bouncing, immediately mimics the motion, clapping her chubby little hands, her rosebud mouth stretching into a gummy smile that reveals her two tiny bottom teeth.
She lets out a string of delighted babbles that sound almost musical.
So we make plans to take Brinley to the Westfield mall in Century City, with its gleaming marble floors and soaring glass ceilings that capture the California sunshine.
The place drips money—Gucci handbags displayed like museum pieces, the unmistakable orange of Hermès boxes, Rolex watches glinting under spotlights, and mannequins draped in Prada that cost more than my monthly rent.
It's not one of those dingy strip malls with flickering fluorescents and discount stores; this place is all polished brass, designer perfume wafting through the air, and shoppers carrying those stiff paper bags with fancy rope handles.
We have a blast trimming the tree while Mariah Carey belts out Christmas tunes from my Amazon Music playlist. Willow's Christmas cookies—the bitch can bake, I'll give her that—disappear almost as fast as we can frost them with red and green buttercream.
Brinley's chubby little fist mashes the cookie into her cherub cheek, leaving a trail of sticky brown crumbs down Rudolph's shiny red nose on her crimson holiday onesie.
When I reach for her with the damp washcloth, her rosebud mouth twists, her face scrunches up like a wadded paper bag, turns the color of an overripe tomato, and she lets out a glass-shattering shriek that makes my eardrums throb.
Mrs. Henderson next door, with her collection of ceramic cats and paper-thin walls, probably thinks I'm performing some sort of ritualistic sacrifice instead of just wiping cookie goop off my daughter's dimpled face.
No matter. I scoop her up, feeling her warm, squirming weight against my chest, and take her upstairs to change her, her howls of indignant protest—worthy of an opera diva—echoing down the hardwood stairs the entire time.
Crisis averted and Brinley in a new onesie with a new cookie - apparently I’m a glutton for punishment - we all decorate the tree.
The seven-foot Douglas fir transforms under our hands, first with classic white lights, then my signature touch—a strand of pale pink ones.
Cameron's life story dangles from the branches: the family photo with Stephanie and Alecia; the miniature hockey skates from his Harvard Westlake days; that handblown glass football helmet; even his crew team ornament.
Father Christmas watches it all from his perch at the top.
His face crumples when he pulls out the Clara ornament from The Nutcracker, followed by the Sugar Plum Fairy, the delicate figurines dangling from his trembling fingers.
"Alecia and I took Stephanie to see The Nutcracker," he chokes out. "She screamed with joy when Clara appeared. We'd already signed her up for ballet lessons the next morning. And maybe she would've been a star if—" His voice shatters.
My chest feels like it's being crushed in a vise.
Jesus Christ. A child ripped away forever.
All those firsts stolen—first heartbreak, first rebellious tattoo, first time telling her parents to fuck off.
I can't tear my eyes from Cameron as he white-knuckles that tiny Clara ornament like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
My arms ache to hold him, to absorb some of that grief, but Willow beats me to it, wrapping herself around him while he pinches the bridge of his nose so hard I can see the skin blanch, fighting a tsunami of tears.
He nods. "Don't worry about it. These ornaments just..
. they get to me every time." His voice catches slightly as he exhales, blinking away the moisture gathering at his lashes.
"I was thinking—maybe I could get that photo of Brinley with Santa framed.
Turn it into one of these." He taps a glass ball gently with his fingertip.
"Or if it turns out really well, we could use it for Christmas cards this year. "
I plaster on a smile, frozen in place. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach for him, to offer comfort the way I always have.
But Willow's already there, her arm sliding around his shoulders as they settle onto the couch.
Cameron pulls out a worn photo album, their heads tilting together over the pages.
No glance my way, no patting the empty cushion beside him.
Just the two of them in their bubble while I hover on the outskirts.
My stomach knots as I watch them. Shit. I always thought he'd be waiting in the wings for me, ready whenever I finally made up my mind.
The realization hits like a slap—he might actually choose her, even if I confess to him how I really feel.
My chest tightens, panic rising in my throat.
I wish Mom was home instead of playing piano at that fancy-ass club. I'm just a third wheel here, and I can't take another second of it.
"I'm out," I announce to the lovebirds on the couch with their precious photo albums.