Page 17 of The Malibu Secret

Better he hates me than learn the truth and smother me. He’d fly home early from Sicily and start bossing me around: “Tally, have you taken your vitamins?” “Don’t eat sushi.” “Working till midnight again?” “Your mom shouldn’t be around little Liam—or Vanessa.” “Don’t meet the girls; you’ll drink.” He’d turn into my dad—who I barely knew—and hell no, I’m not letting that happen.

And anyway, women drank and smoked constantly in the ’50s and ’60s, and guess what—there weren’t more birth defects from booze than there are now. The spike back then in birth defects was from missing vaccines and taking toxic shit like Thalidomide, not wine. So if I need a glass after a crappy day, nobody’s grabbing it from my hand.

But goddamn it, having a kid means giving someone veto power over everything I do. A baby will own my life just as surely as any diamond ring ever could.

I hold up my hand. "Mom," I say, my voice already cracking. "Don't. Fucking. Move."

She freezes.

The scream rips out of me like something feral, tearing my throat raw. I slam my fists against the wall, kick over the coffee table, sending magazines flying. My lungs burn but I can't stop—won't stop—until every cell in my body is vibrating with it. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" I shriek at the ceiling. "CONDOMS! THE GODDAMN PILL! WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?" My knees hit the floor as I pound my fists against the carpet. "We weren't some drunk teenagers fumbling in daddy's car! WE DID EVERYTHING RIGHT!" Tears stream hot down my face, mascara probably turning me into some horror-show clown. "This is punishment, isn't it? For screwing Cam? Well FUCK YOU!" I'm not even sure who I'm screaming at anymore—God, the universe, my own stupid body betraying me.

Mom sighs. "Tally," she says. "I just want you to know that I support you in whatever you do." She nods meaningfully, and I catch her drift.

This is the Mom I remember from the good days—the sober stretches between pill bottles and strange men in our house. The one who squeezed my sweaty little hand on the first day of kindergarten when I was too scared to let go. Who didn't bat an eye when I watched Simba's dad die for the fortieth time in one weekend. Who'd crack open The Giving Tree night after night until the spine was worn through. Who never, ever questioned my desire to get an art degree from UCLA. When other parents would've pushed me toward something "practical," Mom helped me research art careers on our ancient desktop. That's how the tattoo studio dream was born.

And oh, The Giving Tree! That damn book still wrecks me. A tree giving everything—apples, branches, trunk—until she's nothing but a stump for some ungrateful old man to sit on. Some see that story as beautiful sacrifice; others see a toxic relationship. All I know is I still cry every time, just like when I was four and somehow already understood that love sometimes means giving everything to someone who might never say “thank you.”

My hand drifts to my stomach. Soon I'll be giving pieces of myself away too. I wonder if I'm setting myself up for the same raw deal as that tree, making sacrifices for someone who might never appreciate them. But then I remember my mother reading to me, her voice steady even on the hundredth time through, and I think maybe there's something beautiful in the giving after all.

“No, Mom,” I say, feeling calmer now after I threw my fit. “Not an option.” I sigh. “I’ll march in the streets for the rights of others to choose, but for me…no. I’ll have this kid and somehow, someway, I’ll make it work.” I sigh. “Even though I’ll obviously have to find a bigger place.”

Chapter Fourteen

CAMERON

One day, I stumble back to my tent after eighteen straight hours at the clinic. My scrubs are stained with blood that isn't mine, and the Sicilian sun beats down mercilessly. Outside the medical tent, Amir waits for me, his weathered face breaking into a smile that reveals three missing teeth. He presses a small loaf of bread into my hands—still warm, though I can't imagine where he found an oven in this camp. Yesterday, Fatima brought me homemade wine in a plastic water bottle. Last week, Youssef insisted I take a tiny wooden Christ figure, assuming I pray to the same God he does, just in a different way. The Libyan man in the corner tent—I can never remember his name—gave me a Farmla, the traditional tunic now hanging in my quarters.

I don't ask where these gifts come from. I suspect family heirlooms, the last possessions they managed to save while fleeing. I accept them all with the reverence they deserve. These people who have lost everything—homes bombed, children murdered before their eyes—still laugh around campfires at night. Meanwhile, my brothers sit in Los Angeles penthouses and mansions worth much more than this entire camp, with Roman and Max together worth more than the entire Libyan GDP of $47 billion. All of us, even me, with half-billion-dollar trust funds, courtesy of Granddad. The contrast leaves me dizzy sometimes.

And my living arrangements are typical of Doctors Without Borders, too. A canvas tent that sags when it rains, where seven of us doctors sleep on metal-framed cots with thin mattresses that leave my back aching. The bathroom's a plywood stall with a hole in the ground that reeks by midday. We eat whatever the cook manages with limited supplies—often beans and rice for days straight. I've learned to shower with half a bucket of water and perform surgery by headlamp when the generators fail. So, yeah, this life is as far away from the glamorous life of my brothers as could possibly be imagined, but the work has been so exhilarating that I never mind the spartan conditions. Wouldn’t trade this experience for all the money in the world.

I'm greeted by an unexpected sight when I walk into my shared space—Tally's name flashing on my phone screen. My heart skips as I accept the video call. Her face fills my screen, but her usual confident smirk is missing.

"Tally!" I can't help the grin spreading across my face, even as I notice the way she's fidgeting with her rings—something she only does when she's nervous.

"Cam," she says, her voice softer than usual. She chews her bottom lip, her eyes darting away from the camera. "There's something I need to tell you."

“What is it?”

Tally's eyes dart away before meeting mine again. "Well, here's the thing." She inhales deeply, her chest rising beneath her faded Wheezer concert t-shirt. "I got really stupid one night. Right after you left. Got sloppy drunk and...ended up with a new guy. A one-nighter. And, well, I'm knocked up." Her fingers twist nervously at the frayed hem of her shirt. "Thought you should hear it from me."

My heart seizes like it's caught in a vise. The bustle and noise of the other doctors in this tent fades to white noise. Tally is pregnant? By some random stranger? "It was a one-nighter?" My voice sounds hollow in my ears. "Did you ever hear from the guy again?"

She shrugs one shoulder, the movement making her raven hair slide across her collarbone. "Nope. I actually don't remember the whole thing. That happens with me with tequila - I feel fine after four shots or whatever, and then by the fifth shot..." Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. That's me."

White-hot rage floods through me, my fingers curling into fists so tight my knuckles crack. I imagine finding this faceless bastard and unleashing violence until he's unrecognizable. Because what she's describing isn't consensual—it's predatory, calculated, criminal. This bastard took advantage of a passed out woman. That’s rape.

I close my eyes, feeling my pulse hammer in my temples.

And then it crashes over me like an icy wave. Tally is pregnant. Her hand rests protectively over her still-flat stomach. She's going to have a baby. Not mine—that thought twists in my gut like a serrated blade—but she'll need someone when I return. She'll need me.

But she hasn't asked for my help. Does she want it? I have no idea. This is Tally, after all—the woman who once told a biker twice her size that his skull tattoo looked like a constipated hamster. Yet...she's single, living in that cramped third-floor walkup with peeling paint and a bathroom sink that never stops dripping. She has a newly-sober mother who’s probably still trembling through each day. She owns a tattoo studio with rent due on the first, payroll due on the fifteenth, and equipment that breaks down when she can least afford it. She really has a lot on her plate—a plate that's cracking under the weight. I could really help out, could steady that plate before it shatters completely. If only she'd let me.

"Tally," I say, watching her fingers nervously twist the silver rings on her hands. "Is this why you've been avoiding my calls and texts all along? You've been afraid of telling me about the baby?"

She shakes her head. "No. That's not why at all."

Something cold slides through my chest. There's more to this—something keeping her at a distance while I'm stuck in Sicily and she's back in Los Angeles. I've been picturing us together, building something real. Hell, I’m now even imagining myself helping raise her baby, regardless of who the father is. But the wall in her voice tells me everything.