Page 30 of The Malibu Secret

“Tally," his voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "This isn't you. It's postpartum depression ripping you apart." His jaw tightens. "The statistics don't lie. Women who've been through hell like you have—bounced between foster homes, abandoned, neglected—they're prime targets. Add your mother's bi-polar disorder into the mix, and you're fighting a war on multiple fronts, because the family history of mental illness might make you vulnerable. We need to get you help before this thing devours you whole."

"Worse than this?" My voice cracks.

"Remember Andrea Yates?" His words hit like ice water. "Five children. One bathtub. Five tiny bodies, one drowned after another. That's postpartum psychosis—when the depression mutates into something monstrous. I'm not saying you'd ever—" His voice breaks. "But I refuse to watch this disorder consume the woman I love. Not when we can kill it first."

The woman he…loves? My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to escape. His words hang in the air between us, casual as a grenade with its pin pulled.

"How do you know so much about this?"

"Psych rotation," he says, his eyes darkening. "Had mothers grip my wrists until their nails drew blood, begging me to take their babies away before they did something unforgivable. Women who couldn't sleep because every time they closed their eyes, they saw themselves dropping their newborns from tenth-story windows. Mothers who'd wake up with their hands hovering over their child's throat, terrified of what they might do if they blacked out for even a second. These weren't monsters, Tally. They were just women whose own minds had turned against them. Like yours is doing now."

The tears come without warning, hot and fast down my cheeks. Something inside me cracks open at Cam's words. Not broken. Not a terrible mother. Just a woman with a chemical imbalance—something fixable, something with a name.

His arms encircle me, solid and warm as I dampen his shirt with my crying. "Shhh," he murmurs against my hair. "We're getting you help. Tonight."

I pull back just enough to see his face. "Tonight? Without appointments or waiting lists?"

"I can write the prescription myself." His voice is steady, certain. "There's a new medication specifically for postpartum depression—Zuranolone. Two weeks of daily pills that work differently than standard antidepressants. The success rate is remarkable."

When he brushes my bangs aside, his fingertips linger against my skin. Then his lips press against my forehead—gentle, reverent. Every instinct screams to push him away, to maintain my walls, but I find myself leaning into his touch instead, releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Aren’t all pharmacies closed right now?” I ask, looking at the clock.

“I’ll get it from the hospital,” he says. “Matter of fact, going right now. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

He leaves, and I stare at the door before my eyes drift to Brinley, who's actually giving me a break for once. Her face looks almost angelic when she's not screaming—right fist curled over her belly, head tilted like she's listening to something far away. The Green Day American Idiot onesie I special-ordered rises and falls with each tiny breath. That stubborn tuft of dark hair sticks straight up from her crown, a cowlick identical to Cameron's. Something tightens in my chest, not quite love, but maybe its distant cousin. When she sighs in her sleep, I catch myself wondering what she's dreaming about. I have my own dream too—that someday I'll scoop her up and finally feel that thunderbolt everyone promised. That she'll transform from this life-hijacking tiny tyrant into something else entirely: my daughter. For real this time.

Cameron returns after what feels like forever, prescription bag in hand. "Got it," he says, shaking out a small pill. "The pharmacist said this stuff is pretty potent—you might notice a difference by morning. Give it a couple weeks, and the postpartum fog should lift and you’ll be back to yourself."

I attempt a smile. "Not sure the world's ready for the return of regular Tally."

His expression softens. "The world might not be, but we are. That little girl in that bassinet needs the real you—tattoos, attitude, and all. The meds just help clear the path back."

I sigh. I hope he’s right. Because if he’s not, I’ll feel more hopeless than ever.

Chapter Twenty-Three

CAMERON

I'm a father again. The realization hits me like a tidal wave—exhilarating and terrifying all at once. My fingers tremble as I think of holding another tiny hand in mine. Brinley. Even her name feels different on my tongue than Stephanie's did. It should. They're different souls, different hearts. Steph will always occupy that sacred corner of my memory, just as Alecia does. But now there's this new space opening up, unexpected and precious.

I run my hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Tally lied to me, yes. But that's pure Tally—all sharp edges and steel walls. She'd rather cut herself than be caged. To her, having me thrust permanently into her life must feel like wearing handcuffs. Tally chooses her people carefully, deliberately. Being stuck with me because we had a kid together? That's her worst nightmare. If circumstances were different, and she wasn’t forced into it, maybe she'd have chosen me. But now? With a baby between us? I'm just another thing she didn't ask for.

Tally clears the table without a word. I watch her movements, the slight tremor in her hands, the dark circles beneath her eyes that even her careful makeup can't hide. I have a proposition that might save her. She's drowning—anyone can see it. The prescription I wrote should help with the postpartum symptoms, but medication alone won't fix the impossible schedule she's keeping. Ten hours standing at her tattoo station, then home to Brinley's cries while her mother plays piano in smoky clubs until dawn. No wonder she's running on fumes. But her business would collapse without her there every day, so she needs to keep a marathon schedule there at the studio. Her mother told me that Tally’s business secured a loan that was used as a down payment for this house, so if she takes a break from her business, she might lose her business and her house of cards would cave in.

Tally's situation is impossible. The tattoo studio demands long hours if she wants to keep the lights on, and her mother only helps with the baby until 7 PM before heading off to her piano gigs. The second Tally walks through her front door, she's on full-time mom duty without a break. Between running a business and raising a newborn single-handedly through the night, when is she supposed to sleep?

I could step in. With my six-month sabbatical, I could take Brinley, give Tally room to breathe. But there's the logistics. Fifteen miles between Brentwood and Echo Park might as well be fifty in L.A. traffic. Shuttling back and forth daily would exhaust us both. And Tally needs the overnight relief most—those 3 a.m. feedings that leave her hollow-eyed and stumbling through her days. I want her to bond with her daughter, not resent her. There has to be a better solution.

I reach for her hand. "Tally, let me help you."

She nods, her mascara tracking down her cheeks. This from a woman who once tattooed through a bar fight without flinching.

"I can't do this anymore, Cam," she whispers. "Take her. Please. I feel nothing when I look at her, and I'm drowning here. My clients are repeating themselves because I can't focus. Yesterday I nearly passed out with the needle still buzzing. My whole business—everything I built—it's slipping away."

I squeeze her fingers. "I'll take her home with me if that's what you really want. But this medication will help, Tally. And when it does, you might see her differently. You might want to be her mom."

She nods, her hands trembling visibly. "What exactly are you offering here?"