Page 18 of The Malibu Secret

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

She sighs. "Cameron. It's been fun⁠—"

The words hit like a slap. Fun? That's what she calls what happened between us? I haven't felt this alive since before the accident took Alecia and Stephanie from me. After losing my wife and daughter, I disappeared into myself, existing but not living. My songs became my only voice—just scratching notes in journals between hospital shifts. But with Tally, I started breathing again. She's like oxygen after years of drowning.

"Tally," I say, my voice catching in my throat as I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "I haven't just been having fun. I feel that there's something here for us. I thought you might feel the same."

"Cam," she says, twisting one of her silver rings around her finger, her crimson lips pursing slightly. "Here's the thing. You're all into me because I'm a bit wild, a bit different, I'm not your Malibu Barbie doll that you usually date." Then she shakes her head, her jet-black hair swinging across her shoulders, the purple tips catching the light. "No. Not Malibu Barbie doll, sorry. That's an insult. I think that was your brother Roman's type until he met Lilith. And Max, too, until he was forced together with Celeste and, well, the rest is history there, isn't it?”

She looks up at the ceiling, her long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones, before turning to her sleek silver laptop. Her fingers, adorned with blood red nail polish, fly across the keyboard. She nods triumphantly as she brings up a picture of a Barbie doll wearing a cashmere sweater dress in a soft heather gray, with glossy chestnut hair cascading down her back, chocolate brown thigh-high boots hugging her plastic legs, and a buttery leather satchel hanging from her tiny arm.

I get the reference immediately - she doesn't see me with the Los Angeles plastic-surgery enhanced women with their platinum blonde hair and suspiciously perky assets, the super model types that some of my brothers admittedly pursued - Roman and Max mainly, although Ansel has certainly had his moments. No, she sees me with the kind of woman who exudes Ivy-League elegance - more natural beauty with a hint of old money, dressed in crisp Ralph Lauren separates, pearl earrings glinting in her ears, weekends spent at a weathered cedar-shingled summer home on Nantucket. I admit, with a pang in my chest, Alecia fit that mold perfectly, from her honey-blonde bob to her boat shoes to her house in the Hamptons, a house she inherited from her father.

She sighs. "Look, let's be real. We had amazing sex, but that high won’t last. And when it fades..." She makes a face. "You'll see me—really see me—and wonder what the hell you were thinking." She examines her fingers. "Face it, we're from different planets. The only place we click is between the sheets." She shrugs one shoulder. "Eventually some socialite with a beach house who gets excited about organic kale will catch your eye, and I'll get the 'it's not you, it's me' speech. I'm just saving us both the trouble."

I narrow my eyes. "Tally, stop deciding for me. I'm a grown man who can choose who I want to be with." I shake my head. "Have I dated pearl-clutching socialites who think tattoos are for criminals? Women who drive overpriced eco-cars and treat organic kale like it's a religion? Sure. But that's not what matters here." I lean closer, my voice softening. "I see you, Tally. Really see you. And whatever's happening between us feels real. Different doesn't mean wrong. Hell, I'm probably not what you pictured for yourself either."

Tally's voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the static of the video call. "Cam. Don't make this harder than it is." Her fingers dance while she stares at them instead of looking at me through the screen.

Words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, my voice rising with each sentence. "Let me help, Tally. The baby's coming, and with your mom's condition—I mean, the meds are working now, but bi-polar disorder is unpredictable. Your apartment's tiny, that fire escape is a death trap, and there's so much to prepare for. Baby-proofing, midnight feedings, diaper changes. I know how to⁠—"

Her eyes flash, emerald turning to jade. I'm still talking when the screen goes black, the abrupt silence deafening. She's hung up.

I call back immediately, my thumb jabbing the screen hard enough to hurt. Straight to voicemail. I fire off three texts in quick succession. No response, not even the dancing ellipsis of a reply being typed.

I rub my temples, feeling the throb of a headache forming beneath my fingertips.

Nice work, genius. Way to sound like a condescending ass.

Chapter Fifteen

TALLY

I glare at Mom when she cracks open my bedroom door. "Don't even."

She steps in anyway, her eyes knowing. Of course she heard me hang up on Cam. His whole "let me rescue you" bullshit had me seeing red. That's exactly why I'm keeping this baby situation to myself—I don't need him swooping in like some knight in shining armor.

My gaze drifts around my cramped bedroom. Baby gear will never fit in here. And with Mom staying until her meds stabilize, we're practically sardines. But whatever. My mess, my problem.

"Tallulah," Mom plants herself at the foot of my bed. "He deserves to know about his child."

"Nunya," I mutter, picking at my chipped nail polish.

"Excuse me?"

"None. Of. Your. Business."

Mom's arms fold across her chest. "Like hell it isn't. This affects me too." She ticks off on her fingers. "First, it's wrong and karma's a bitch. Second, that man seems decent—unlike the parade of losers you usually drag home. Third, have you looked around this shoebox lately? You need help." She gestures at the mess surrounding us. "I know you want me here, and honestly, I need to be here. Someone has to make sure I stay on my meds until I'm back on solid ground." Her voice softens. "I can't go back to that dark place, Tally. I just can't. So I need you—and I'm woman enough to admit it."

I know what she's getting at. At the very least, I need to figure out a way to get a bigger place. Because this shoebox with its cracked plaster ceiling and temperamental radiator won't work. And her calculating mind is thinking that Cameron will just buy me a bigger place. Maybe in the suburbs where I don't have to hear ambulances and police cars 24/7. I mean, this neighborhood, the Arts District of Los Angeles, is generally safe and I love it - it's walkable, full of galleries with their stark white walls and exposed beams, craft breweries serving hazy IPAs in Edison-bulb-lit spaces, vibrant murals splashed across brick buildings like a rainbow explosion. It's just my vibe.

But any time you get thousands of people crammed into these converted warehouses and lofts, sirens are gonna happen at all hours, their wailing echoing between buildings like trapped ghosts. It just is. So, I'll have to think of a sleeping infant who won't be asleep for long once he or she hears those ear-splitting sirens blaring through our paper-thin windows. But live in the suburbs? The baby will sleep, well, like a baby.

Which is another thing I'll be giving up for this kid - my apartment where the sirens and street noise blend with Jamal from upstair’s Ziggy Marley blasting through my ceiling at 2 AM. Last Tuesday he banged on my door with a paper bag that left grease stains on my fingers, and I ate still-warm scones while he showed me his latest canvas - all violent reds and cosmic purples that matched the yarn wrapped around his dreads. Yesterday, Bettina from downstairs buzzed me down to borrow tequila for margaritas, her septum ring catching the light as she talked about some French body horror flick, gesturing wildly with hands heavy with her own metal creations. And tonight the bass from the punks' apartment down the hall is making my coffee mug inch across the counter, their party spilling into the hallway where some guy with a green mohawk just offered me a joint through my cracked door.

These are my people, and I'll be trading all of that in for a cookie-cutter house on a tree-lined street where sirens are never heard, where there will be awkward block parties and men in pressed khaki shorts and pastel golf shirts with baseball caps covering their sunburned balding heads and wives with highlighted bobs who will be selling tacky costume jewelry through some multi-level marketing company or maybe be selling Pampered Chef stuff at wine-soaked home parties.

But I'll have to do it for her. Or him. Because this cramped third-floor walkup with its peeling paint and the constant wail of sirens outside isn't a place to raise a kid. And my mother, with her knowing looks and barely concealed I-told-you-so's, knows the only way I can afford some cookie-cutter split-level in Oakridge Estates or some other boring suburban neighborhood is if Cam gets involved. It'll have to be a house, too, not some beige-carpeted apartment with paper-thin walls. I want this kid to have a backyard with actual grass, maybe a maple tree they can climb, not just concrete and cigarette butts. I want them to hear birds in the morning, not the thudding bass from 2B or the screaming matches from 4A.