Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
TALLY
"So the Peninsula penthouse suite shower wasn't enough?" I'd snapped at Celeste when I saw the pictures from Spago. "She needed TWO fucking showers?"
"You asked," Celeste had sighed, showing me photos of Willow unwrapping Hermès boxes at Spago while wearing a white sundress that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage.
Jesus Christ. Could it all be any more pretentious?
I always knew he'd end up with someone like her—little Miss Connections, whose mommy and daddy have famous designer friends on speed dial because heaven forbid she shop retail like a peasant.
The kind who casually drops "Let's just book out Spago" like she's ordering pizza.
Meanwhile, Cameron jets off to Paris with the boys.
What a predictable asshole he turned into.
I slam my phone down after seeing Celeste's latest Instagram post: Cameron and Willow toasting with champagne flutes at 71Above, the L.A. skyline twinkling behind them. Their rehearsal dinner. My stomach knots. Five days until their wedding. I need to be anywhere but here.
I glance at Mom. "You're still okay watching Brinley for the week, right?"
"Absolutely," she says, waving her hand dismissively. "The band can survive without me for a few days."
"Just remember I'll be calling every night from the campsite.
Gotta make sure you're taking your pills and handling the baby okay.
If it gets to be too much, I've got cash set aside for one of those Nanny Pod sitters.
" I've got it all planned out—days hiking through the Sierra Nevadas near Mammoth Lake, nights at the RV park where I can get decent reception.
No way I'm going completely off-grid while leaving my kid and my recovering mom behind.
Mom's face softens. "Tally, honey, we'll be fine. After everything you've done for me..." She reaches for my hand. "Six days with my grandbaby is nothing. You deserve a break."
Later, I watch Brinley toddle across my living room, her chubby legs moving with surprising confidence for someone who's only been walking a few weeks.
"Mama up!" she demands, raising her arms, marinara sauce still smeared across one cheek.
I scoop her up, breathing in her baby-shampoo smell, and think about how Cameron has never heard her laugh—that full-body giggle that starts in her belly and explodes out like she's discovered the funniest thing in the universe.
The next early morning, I get up at 4 and take the Jeep - I finally came up with a name for her, and it’s Sophie, don’t ask me why, it just seems to fit her - and head up to the Sierra Mountains, right back to Mammoth—yeah, that Mammoth.
Ground zero for this whole mess. Where Cameron and I started circling the drain that ended with him putting a ring on someone else's finger.
If I could hijack a DeLorean and blast back to that weekend, would I play it different?
Now that I know he's marrying the chick I practically shoved into his arms, even though his eyes were on me the whole damn time?
Shit. Million-dollar question right there.
Part of me wants to curl up and die knowing he's with her.
But I genuinely want the guy happy, you know?
I just wish to hell I could be the one to do it.
Maybe I could be, eventually. Or maybe that's the real problem—I don't know if I've got what it takes to make anyone happy, and that's the black hole I can't escape.
I pull into a gas station halfway up the mountain to fill my tank and grab some road snacks. When I come back out, there it is—another rubber duck perched on my bumper. Number twenty for my collection. They're all lined up across my dash now like some kind of weird rubber army.
This Jeep duck thing, whoever started it deserves a kiss.
Nothing like finding a tiny surprise that doesn't cost anything but makes your whole day better.
I've got the whole celebrity squad—an Elvis duck with his slick hair and rhinestone vest, a Marilyn duck in that white dress, an R2D2 duck, a Dolly duck with her big blonde hair, even a pirate duck with an eye patch.
Each one makes me snort-laugh when I find it, which, considering the weekend I'm facing, is exactly the kind of stupid little joy I need right now.
The new duck bobbing on my dashboard makes me smile, and I crank the volume on Lithium—my go-to Sirius station for 90s grunge.
The Red Hot Chili Peppers blast through the speakers with "Give It Away," not exactly matching my dark mood (that would be Pearl Jam territory), but maybe the upbeat rhythm will lift my spirits.
I gnaw on a Twizzler, feeling the wind whip through my hair with the Jeep's top down.
Goddamn it, it is a beautiful day. Mammoth Mountain awaits—cooler temps, 60s during the day, 30s at night.
My backpack's stuffed with layers and a tent for the nightly campground stay.
I need this time to myself. I need anything to keep my mind off what's happening back in LA: that fancy-ass wedding at Greystone Mansion, the historic Beverly Hills Tudor estate. Garden ceremony, courtyard reception, and an open bar I won't be drinking from.
The scent of pine and mountain air hits me as I reach the trailhead.
Not like that disaster weekend in Mammoth—today I've got real hiking boots and a pack that doesn't dig into my shoulders.
Convict Canyon Trail is 14 miles round trip of rocky terrain with steep drop offs to the river below, with those killer switchbacks that make your calves scream.
The trail guide calls it "difficult" with that cute little black diamond next to it.
Four alpine lakes. Thin air that'll make my lungs burn.
Perfect. After everything with Cameron, I need something that hurts in a way I can actually handle.
Three hours later, I'm sitting by one of the lakes, gnawing on beef jerky and washing it down with lukewarm coffee from my thermos.
The mountain air fills my lungs, and for a moment, everything feels.
.. okay. That'll change when I get back to LA and open that email from Celeste—the one with Cameron's wedding photos that I practically begged her to send, despite her protests.
I need to see them like I need oxygen. Without photographic evidence, I can pretend it never happened.
With them? Maybe I'll finally stop checking his Instagram at 2 AM.
Maybe I can finally move on with my life.
Still, every time I picture his hand without that gold band, this stupid hope flares up.
What if he bailed? What if he's waiting for me to unfuck my life?
God, that would be perfect—him making the choice without me wrecking anything.
Then someday—after enough therapy sessions to build a fortress and then demolish it—if he's still out there. .. maybe we'd get our shot.
Yeah, right. And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with a unicorn in my backyard.