Page 46 of The Malibu Secret

I watch her retreat, conflicted. Willow could be my future, which means she and my daughter need a relationship. That's just reality. Isn't it?

Still, it feels like a knife twisting deeper.

Another wound in this maze where every turn leads to pain.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

TALLY

The leather of Dr. Wynn's couch creaks as I shift my weight. Three months of therapy sessions, and I still feel like an imposter here. Mom finally wore me down about getting help, but I've kept it from Cameron. No need to add "sending his ex to therapy" to his conscience. Dr. Wynn thinks my secrecy is ridiculous—she never says it outright, but her raised eyebrow when I mention keeping Cameron in the dark speaks volumes.

"Tally." Her voice breaks through my ceiling-staring trance. "How are things?"

"Shitty," I mutter, my head rolling side to side against the cushion. "Cameron wants Willow to meet our kid." The words taste bitter. "They must be getting serious."

Dr. Wynn's silence is deafening. No reassurance that I'm jumping to conclusions. No mention of "catastrophizing"—that beautiful term she taught me that perfectly describes my talent for imagining worst-case scenarios. Lately, I've been more skilled at catastrophizing than at my actual art.

Instead, she gives me that blank-faced therapist stare and says, "What if it turns into something real?"

I exhale. "I'll shatter into a million pieces. Won't ever be whole again."

She shifts closer. "Would you stop them if you could, Tally?"

I squint at her. Ridiculous. Obviously I would. I could, but I won't.

"Sure," I say. "But Cameron deserves happiness."

"And you don't?"

There it is. Strange this hasn't surfaced before now, after twelve Tuesdays at $150 an hour—money I barely have.

Is that my issue? That I've decided I don't rate joy? And if so, when did I decide that? All this time I figured I kept Cameron at arm's length because of the revolving door of foster homes, the lesson beaten into me that attachment is pointless since everyone vanishes eventually. People are temporary. Or like my mother, they stay just long enough to break you.

I sit up. “I deserve happiness. Of course I do.”

“But do you really believe that?”

I shake my head. “I’ll have to think about that.”

That night, I find myself alone with my thoughts. Mom's out performing, Cam’s out with Willow and Brinley's busy terrorizing the cat from her walker, her giggles punctuating the quiet house as she gnaws on her tiny fist. I dust off my easel and pull out a fresh canvas—something I haven't done in months.

Painting has always been my emotional outlet, the place where truths emerge that I can't quite speak aloud. Dr. Wynn's question haunts me as I mix colors: "Do you truly believe you deserve happiness?" The brush moves almost without my conscious direction. Why am I so fixated on Cameron finding joy with Willow when it leaves me with nothing?

Two hours disappear. I step back and see her staring back at me—Sibley Flynn, my old CPS caseworker. Those unmistakable eyes, blue pools of melancholy that followed me through every foster placement. She was my only constant in those chaotic years.

I find myself searching for her contact information online. She's still with LA County DCFS. Before I can reconsider, I've scheduled an appointment. Perhaps she holds some key to why I've always felt unworthy of love.

I'm not deluding myself that excavating old wounds will magically fix things with Cameron. That ship has sailed. But understanding this piece of myself—that feels like a step I need to take.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

TALLY

With Willow coming over to meet Brinley today, I've got the perfect excuse to make myself scarce. I head to Van Nuys to see Sibley Flynn at the regional office, my stomach knotting with each mile closer. I need answers about those missing years—the ones my brain apparently decided were too much for me to process. Funny how minds work, building walls around the worst parts to keep us functioning.

Sibley's face lights up when I walk in. Her arms wrap around me in a hug that smells like vanilla and printer paper.

"Tally," she says, stepping back to look at me properly. "What a wonderful surprise when I saw your name in my calendar. I love watching my kids grow up and succeed. And here you are with your own tattoo studio—you've really made something of yourself."