Page 12 of The Malibu Secret

I nod. "Yeah." My throat tightens. "Juilliard. IMG Artists was her agent. The whole package." I want to stop talking but can't. "She'd play these haunting Chopin nocturnes that would make you cry, then laugh at me for crying. Called it weakness." I trace a pattern on his skin. "When my dad was deployed, she'd book these fancy L.A. gigs, drag me 3-year-old me along, make me sit perfectly still for hours." I swallow hard. "After Dad died, she... God, I still miss her music sometimes. Even knowing what came after." My voice breaks. “Beautiful things don't last in our family."

I can't believe how much I'm spilling on him. Shit I've locked away for years, never told a soul—not even Celeste and Liv. Sure, they know the headlines—Mom's Oxy addiction, the parade of foster homes, the revolving door of rehab centers. But they don't know how I ache for her beauty. Not her face, though God knows that was stunning before the drugs hollowed her out. I'm talking about when her fingers hit those keys. That piano wasn't just an instrument—it was her goddamn religion. She worshipped at those ivory keys, loved them more fiercely than she ever loved me or my father. I've never told anyone how it gutted me when she lost it. Because when those repo men dragged that baby grand across our living room floor, leaving gouges in the hardwood like open wounds—this was long after IMG dumped her —they weren't just taking furniture. They were ripping out her voice box. And mine too.

Cameron's silent, just running his fingers through my hair. What the hell could he say? One wrong word that sounds like pity, and I'd bite his head off. But now I've dumped my mom's story on him—this beautiful, brilliant, talented woman who could've been anything, now just another addict with nowhere to go. She bounces between the streets and whatever loser's couch she can crash on. Keeps her phone, though. Always the damn phone. I've called her a dozen times in the past few months, offering her my spare room. She always refused. Maybe she thinks I'd cage her somehow. Lock her in and throw away the key. Christ. What am I supposed to do with that?

His voice drops to a whisper. "Tally, I⁠—"

"Let's go back into the club," I cut him off, my heart hammering against my ribs. Whatever's coming next—some bullshit sympathy or worse, something real—I'm not ready. My throat tightens. I just handed him a piece of me I can barely hold myself, and now his eyes have that look. That fucking look. My fingers twitch toward the door handle. Classic Tally escape plan: shatter the moment before it shatters me.

Back at the club, something's different. The vibe's shifted between us. Cameron's eyes follow me across the room, holding something heavy I've never seen there before. I pretend not to notice, but fuck—he's catching feelings. I can see it plain as the ink on my arms.

And damn it all to hell, I’m not mad about it.

Chapter Nine

CAMERON

Back at work after staying with Tally for two days straight, and I have to put my head down and deal. The ER doors whoosh open every few minutes, bringing the metallic scent of blood from gunshot wounds, the acrid stench of burnt rubber clinging to car accident victims, elderly women clutching their lower backs from bladder infections, and wide-eyed ladies in labor whose knuckles turn white as they grip their partners' hands. An appendicitis or two comes through the door, faces flushed with fever and twisted in pain. I do what I do—assess vital signs with steady fingers, order CTs with a few quick taps on the keyboard, and deliver news with the practiced calm that comes from years of practice. "You'll be the proud recipient of an emergency appendectomy," I tell a college kid, trying to ease his fear with a touch of humor, before sending another patient upstairs to bring new life into the world.

After my shift ends, I exhale deeply and head to Tally's place. It feels strange having something genuine to anticipate after leaving the chaos of the ER. Getting off at 3 PM has always felt odd—my brothers are still grinding away at their desks, Elias is still buried in paperwork at that time. I discovered Tally's shop, Manic Muse on Mateo, is open from 7 to midnight. It's conveniently close to her apartment in the Arts District. Once she returns to work, I plan to suggest aligning our schedules. Not because I'm clingy—I'm practical. Sicily looms just weeks away, and I'm desperate to bank every possible moment with her.

She's awakened something in me that's been dormant for years. Call it selfish, but I need to stockpile memories of her to sustain me through twelve months with Doctors Without Borders. And selfishly, I want to leave such an impression that when I return a year later, she'll still be waiting.

When I arrive at her place, Tally yanks open the door, her head tilting to one side. “’Bout time," she says. "I'm fucking starving."

Progress—she's actually standing at the door instead of hollering for me to let myself in. Her left hand, the one she needs for her tattoo work, flexes repeatedly at her side. I catch the deliberate demonstration, the silent argument that she's healing.

"Don't even start," I tell her, watching her fingers curl and straighten. "Another week minimum. Rush back to those needles now and you'll regret it for months."

She shakes her head. "Shit. Maya's calendar is packed solid. Blade could take more clients, but my regulars are loyal as hell. They'll wait for me or nobody."

I nod. "Because you're that good. Hey, what about your painting? Give it a couple days, then try that. Doesn't demand the same precision grip as tattooing. Might actually help rehabilitate that left hand. Baby steps back to your art, you know?"

“Yeah. I guess that’s something.”

I go into the kitchen and whip up a quick dinner - grilled salmon and asparagus with a big green salad - and open a bottle of wine. As we sit and eat at her dining room table - distressed wood because Tally has excellent taste in furnishings - Tally shakes her head. “You know, I could get used to this, but I don’t want to. You’re leaving soon, so I have to figure out how to eat once you’re gone. Been thinking about taking a cooking class in my spare time.”

I laugh and take a sip of the wine. “Glad I could inspire you.”

“It’s not that you inspired me so much as I realize how pathetic I’ve been, not knowing how to cook. And if there’s one thing I don’t like to feel like is pathetic. So, yeah. Have to be self-sufficient, so…”

“I could teach you to cook,” I say. “Just the basics, and then you can get some good cookbooks to continue on.”

She shrugs, but I can see that she’d like me to teach her a few things.

So, for the next two weeks, I arrive after my ER shifts with grocery bags and patience. I guide her hands as she butterflies chicken breasts, show her how to test salmon with a fork's edge, and demonstrate the perfect poached egg wobble. I teach her how to make risotto the right way—standing at the stove for what feels like forever, adding broth one ladle at a time, stirring until her arm aches. When she tastes that first creamy, perfect bite, the look on her face makes every minute worth it.

We create a rainbow of sauces—velvety béchamel transformed with cheese, onions, or tomatoes; pungent pesto; rich ragout; creamy Alfredo; bright Romesco, made from almonds, sun-dried tomatoes and red peppers. She curses when her hollandaise breaks but beams with pride when the second attempt turns silky. I teach her the subtle variations of the basic Hollandaise sauce—mornay with its nutty cheese, soubise's sweet onion undertones, nantua's delicate seafood essence, aurora's vibrant tomato hue, and English sauce's herbaceous brightness. Tally absorbs it all, her questions as sharp as her chef's knife, her practice sessions becoming increasingly confident.

"See?" I say, watching her drizzle golden hollandaise over perfectly grilled salmon. "Master the foundations, and everything else is just creative combinations. That sauce works magic on practically anything."

She sighs, licking a drop of sauce from her thumb. "Holy shit. I actually made hollandaise that didn't break. And mayonnaise from scratch. You're like a culinary Gandalf or something."

"Just passing on the basics," I say, watching her taste the sauce again. My chest tightens as I imagine her making these recipes after I've left for Sicily. I picture her standing here alone, nourishing herself with something I taught her, and it soothes an ache I didn't know was there. But I swallow those thoughts before they reach my lips—Tally would roll her eyes if she knew I was worried about her eating properly without me.

I catch myself thinking she'll fall apart without me and roll my eyes at my own arrogance. This is Tally we're talking about—the woman who told me that she stitched up her own forearm after a motorcycle accident. She survived twenty-nine years before I stumbled into her ER bay.

Still, I can't shake this urge to be the one who brings her coffee in the morning, who makes sure she eats something besides takeout. A year in Sicily stretches before me like an ocean I have to cross alone.