Chapter 46
Chapter Forty-Six
TALLY
I dial Celeste's number. Since she writes screenplays from her home office, her schedule's usually pretty flexible.
Sure, she's got deadlines hanging over her head, but I'm betting she can spare a day to join Brinley and me for our Santa visit.
At least it's Friday—weekdays mean fewer screaming kids and mile-long lines.
The Westfield mall’s something of a unicorn.
While shopping centers across America are turning into ghost towns, ours is packed year-round.
It's got that outdoor layout with actual walkways and fountains, not just some fancy street of disconnected boutiques like Rodeo Drive.
A real mall, and easily the hottest shopping spot for fifty miles.
Celeste balks at first—Century City means a twenty-mile drive for her, fifteen for me—and I know interrupting her workday is asking a lot. Writers don't exactly appreciate being yanked out of their fictional worlds mid-sentence.
"Fine. But Cameron's gone. I kicked him out last night."
The line goes silent. Then I hear rustling, like she’s already changing clothes.
"Shit, Tally. I shouldn't have told you about the ring. Max is going to murder me when he finds out."
I roll my eyes. "Please. It's not like I wouldn't find out eventually. What was your plan—wait until I got a wedding invitation? You just ripped the Band-Aid off early. I'm not mad, and Max won't be either."
“Max wanted you and Cameron to have a good Christmas with little Brinley together."
"Right, and drop the bomb after we've taken those perfect family Santa photos for Instagram.
" I snort, looking at my blood red nail polish.
"Whatever. Perfect Willow gets perfect Cameron in his perfect Brentwood mansion.
Timing's irrelevant." My voice cracks despite my best efforts.
"At least I won't be standing there like a dumbass in line at the mall while they hold hands behind my back. "
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images flood in anyway.
Cameron helping Willow unpack her designer suitcases.
Her manicured hand on his kitchen counter.
The two of them curled up on his couch, planning their future—her voice syrupy sweet as she talks about "our daughter" and the siblings she wants to give her.
My stomach knots. That bastard better make one thing crystal fucking clear to her—Brinley is MY daughter. Mine. The only good thing I've got left in this dumpster fire of a life. And nobody—especially not some country-club Barbie—is taking that from me.
We converge at the mall—me, my mother, Celeste with little Violet in tow, and Brinley strapped to my chest. Violet, all of two years old, bounces with excitement about seeing Santa, while Brinley just drools on my shirt, completely oblivious to the holiday chaos we're about to subject her to.
Celeste adjusts the sunshade on Violet's stroller. "So. Cameron's gone?"
"Kicked his ass straight to the curb," I say, watching Violet babble something that sounds suspiciously like "molecular structure" to her stuffed bunny.
Kid's vocabulary is freaky for twenty-six months.
"And before you ask—I'm done talking about him and Willow.
Filed that shit away like the Ark at the end of Raiders.
You know that scene? Giant warehouse, endless boxes?
I'm storing this whole clusterfuck in the mental equivalent of that giant warehouse, because otherwise I might actually murder someone. "
Violet looks up at me and smiles, all baby teeth. "Aunt Tally. Bunny for you.” She pushes her small stuffed bunny into my hands, its fur matted from being dragged around all day.
"Thanks, Vi," I say, trying to hand it back, but she shoves it at me again. Her blue eyes lock onto mine with that weird intensity only toddlers have, like she can see straight through my bullshit.
Fine. I clutch the rabbit against my chest, and something in me cracks a little. This tiny human offering me her most prized possession because she somehow knows I'm falling apart? Fuck. I swallow hard and pat her head. Kids, man. They see everything.
"That one's got a good heart," I tell Celeste.
"I know," Celeste says, beaming. "Last week at Gymboree, she spotted this boy hiding behind his mom's legs.
Wouldn't talk to anyone. By the end of class, she had him building a block tower with her.
" Celeste tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes never leaving her daughter.
"And there was this other little girl whose parents were screaming at each other during pickup.
My Violet just walked over and held her hand until they were done. "
I nod, feeling something warm in my chest despite myself. All the degrees and achievements in the world don't mean shit without a heart.
Shit. Seeing that look on Violet's face—that pure-hearted concern for others—it's like a knife to the gut.
Cameron has that same look. The one I pushed away.
The one who's probably making breakfast for little Miss Perfect right now, his shirt unbuttoned to show just a bit of his gorgeous and perfect chest. Cameron, who looked at me like I was his forever person.
Who showed up when he said he would. Who called when he was running late.
Who wouldn't have just disappeared one day like my mom’s loser guys.
I run my tongue over the sharp edge of my incisor and taste blood as we get closer to Santa.
We reach the front of the line and place both girls on Santa's lap.
Violet's an old pro at this—she sits there grinning like she's reuniting with a beloved uncle.
Brinley, though? Her little face crumples, then she lets out a wail that probably has elves covering their ears at the North Pole.
Click. Anndddd there's our Christmas memory preserved forever.
I can already picture teenage Brinley rolling her eyes when this photo makes its annual appearance.
Maybe she'll laugh about it someday. Or maybe she'll add it to her list of childhood traumas to discuss in therapy, right after "Mom forced me to wear matching Christmas sweaters" and before "Mom wouldn't let me get a belly button ring at twelve.
" Whatever. As long as she doesn't end up preferring Willow over me—though honestly, I just want her to be happy. Santa's lap trauma and all.
Brinley's still screaming bloody murder as I pry her off Santa's lap. So much for holiday magic. We head to Javier's for overpriced tacos while Mom keeps staring at the photo, beaming like Brinley isn't having a complete meltdown.
"This would make the perfect Christmas card," Mom says, pointing to the picture.
"Right. And who exactly would I send it to? Everyone I care about is sitting at this table." I pause. "Well, maybe Olivia."
Mom gives me that look. "What about Cameron? Don't you think he'd want?—"
"Not. Another. Word." I stab my fork into a chunk of avocado. "And hell no."
The truth hits me like a hangover. Part of me knew Cameron was dying to take Brinley to see Santa himself.
And maybe—okay, definitely—I rushed to do it first so he couldn't have that moment with her.
I don't know why I'm being such a bitch about it, but the thought of him and Willow creating Christmas memories with my daughter makes something twist inside me that I'm not ready to examine.
Celeste methodically hands animal crackers to Violet, who's washing them down with apple juice. Brinley's passed out in her carrier after her Santa meltdown, having gone from 60 to 0 like she does. I catch Celeste's eyes darting to me, then away. Shit. That look means trouble.
"Tally," she finally says, voice too careful. "You know Cameron's not just Max's brother—they're practically joined at the hip."
My stomach drops. "Yeah?"
"The wedding stuff will be starting. Engagement dinner at the Patrician next month, then the shower, bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner…” She trails off, twisting her wedding ring.
My hands go cold. Here it comes—my best friend asking permission to celebrate the marriage of the man I'm desperately in love with to someone else. And what can I say? Of course she has to go to all these things. Willow will be her sister-in-law or something like that - I’m never good at who’s a sister or brother-in-law, let alone who’s a second cousin twice removed.
But Max and Cameron are brothers. All the Kensington men stick together like glue. It's just how it is.
I shrug. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to follow your socials for a while. That shit's gonna be all over my feed—tagged photos, group selfies, the works. I don't need to see it."
Celeste's shoulders drop. "God, Tally. This sucks. I feel like I'm betraying you just by going to these things. You know you come first with me, right? But it's happening whether we like it or not."
I force a smile and jingle my car keys. "Yeah, yeah. Anyway... you up for a good Marvel flick at the Cineplex?"
“You good?”
I nod. “Fine.”
Fine? I'm about as fine as a fresh tattoo in salt water.
Every time I picture Celeste getting dragged to all these wedding events, it's like someone's twisting a knife right in my gut.
God knows how many parties these people have planned.
The Kensingtons don't do anything small—they're throwing the engagement party at some fancy-ass country club, for Christ's sake.
And the bachelorette party? Probably jetting off to some exotic locale.
I don't know if Willow's family has a mansion in Italy or whatever, but the Kensingtons sure as hell do—some sprawling villa on Lake Como.
If they end up having the bachelorette party there, I'm literally going to vomit.