Page 48 of The Malibu Secret

I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. “Yeah. When Ms. Davos asked where my mom was after she missed that meeting, I just... told the truth. Said she was in bed and didn't want to come. With her history, the teacher immediately suspected pills." I swallow hard. "Which was true—she was passed out on Oxy—but I should've lied. Could've said she had the flu or had to work or something, anything but just saying that she couldn’t get out of bed. Instead, I basically handed them the reason to take me away."

“And you blamed yourself for her getting busted for a DUI, which led to yet another hotline and you being taken from the home again. How was that your fault?"

I slam my palm against the table. "That one was a hundred percent on me.” I shake my head, remembering that day. “I was at Tara's house after school, ignoring Mom. Every text. Every call. My phone buzzing in my pocket like a fucking time bomb." My throat tightens. "I was pissed at her—can't even remember why now—but I knew exactly what I was doing." I dig my nails into my palm. "So when I didn’t come home after school and she couldn’t get ahold of me, she tore out of the house, convinced I was being dismembered in some psycho's basement. I knew what the drugs did to her brain, how paranoid she sometimes got. I knew she'd imagine my blood pooling on concrete somewhere. And I let her spiral anyway.” I shake my head, blinking rapidly. "So yeah. When she couldn't find me, she jumped in the car after downing half a bottle of pills. Got pulled over three blocks away. Child services showed up the next morning, and I spent the next eight months with the Petersons while she spent 6 months in jail - it wasn’t her first offense - and did mandatory rehab."

Sibley slams her file shut. "We've found it, Tally. The poison at your core. This conviction that you don't deserve happiness—it's rooted in carrying blame that was never, ever yours. Your mother's incarcerations, those humiliating court appearances, every time they ripped you from her arms... you've branded yourself guilty for all of it. And her addiction?" Her eyes bore into mine. "You've crucified yourself for that too, haven't you?"

My throat closes like someone's strangling me. I can barely nod. "Yes." The word scrapes out, barely audible. "God, yes. I believed—I still believe—if I hadn't gotten her caught so many times, if I hadn't been this... this burden... she wouldn't have needed to escape reality. It was this vicious cycle crushing us both—drugs created chaos, chaos demanded more drugs. And I was just this stupid kid who couldn't keep secrets, who kept accidentally betraying her to neighbors or teachers. Who caused her stress because of all the times I vanished without calling her, knowing that would cause her to spiral. I convinced myself if I could just disappear completely, become nothing... she might finally break free."

Sibley smiles and extends her hands across the desk. I hesitate before placing mine in hers. " Tally," she says, her voice gentle but probing, "you've identified that you believe you don't deserve happiness because you feel you betrayed your mother throughout your childhood. You've been carrying the weight of your mother’s dysfunction as if it were your responsibility. How do you plan to move forward from this realization?"

I sigh. Fucking fantastic. The million dollar question.

Sure, identifying the problem is one thing. And yeah, it's a huge thing. I never connected those dots before—that I felt responsible for all the shit that went down when I was a kid. But now what? Am I supposed to just snap my fingers and suddenly believe I deserve to be happy? That I deserve Cameron? And if my brain convinced myself that I caused my mother’s problems, how can I make it not believe that I won’t be poison to Cam just like I was poison to Mom?

If I could figure that out, maybe I'd stop being such a self-sabotaging disaster long enough to let him in.

But I won't hold my fucking breath.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

CAMERON

Willow and Brinley are at the house with me while Marisa tutors across town. I glance at Willow as she moves around my kitchen, a space that feels somehow violated by her presence, even though Tally gave her blessing. "It's fine," Tally had said this morning, not meeting my eyes, "but I'll be back for dinner." Then she'd slipped out the door without telling me where she was going.

Now Willow stands at the cutting board, knife flashing through garlic and onions with practiced efficiency. The sharp scent fills the kitchen as she preps ingredients for Arrabiata sauce—the spicy base for Tally's favorite penne with vodka cream. I watch Willow's hands, competent and sure, just like Tally's have become since I taught her to cook. The grocery trips, the recipe planning, the careful filleting of meat—these are our rituals, mine and Tally's. Seeing Willow in her place makes my stomach twist, though I force a smile when she looks up. She's good, maybe even as good as Tally in the kitchen. But it's not the same.

Damn. I'm doing to Willow exactly what Tally does to me. Keeping her at a safe distance, never letting her past the outer walls. Sure, we laugh together, talk for hours, and I genuinely enjoy her company—even look forward to seeing her. But that's where it ends. My heart remains stubbornly elsewhere, locked in Tally's possession despite her refusal to claim it fully. I should be asking myself when I'll finally reclaim it, not when she'll release it. If I can't reclaim it, I'll eventually have to tell Willow the painful truth: there's only one woman I want, and it isn't her. For now, though, I'll keep seeing Willow, waiting for that same electric shock that jolted through me the moment I first saw Tally at Max and Celeste's wedding.

But I’ll give it some time. Willow is so perfect on paper, she has to eventually become right for me.

Right?

Chapter Forty

TALLY

The scent hits me first when I open my door—penne with spicy vodka creme sauce wafting through my apartment. Then I see her. Willow. Standing in my kitchen wearing an apron. Thank god it's not one of mine, or I'd have to cut a bitch right here and now.

After spending the day at Sibley's office dredging up every painful memory about Mom, I'm already on edge. And there they are—this perfect little domestic scene. Willow stirring the sauce, Cameron chopping vegetables beside her, both with glasses of wine in front of them. My mouth waters, not for the pasta, but for that cabernet. Five more weeks. Five more weeks until Brinley hits six months and my pediatrician gives me the all-clear to stop breastfeeding. Five more weeks of watching everyone else drink while I'm stuck sober. The wine glasses gleam under my kitchen lights, mocking me.

Cameron looks at me and smiles. “Tal,” he says. “You’re home.”

“So observant,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Then I shake my head. Dammit. I suddenly have the urge to throw his ass out of the house and set his clothes on fire like in that scene from Waiting to Exhale. I close my eyes, seeing the fantasy of me pouring gasoline over his clothes, then lighting the match and walking casually away.

I lift Brinley from her walker. Her face lights up as she reaches for my nose, tiny fingers grasping. I retreat to the bedroom, settling into the rocking chair with her warm weight against me. I can't bear to watch Cameron and Willow playing house in my kitchen—a situation I created myself. I have no grounds for this anger. Cameron was thoughtful, asking permission for Willow to meet Brinley here rather than somewhere impersonal. I agreed readily, even enthusiastically. But that was before I dug up all those buried feelings. Now that I've unearthed them, every nerve ending seems exposed.

Cameron eases into the bedroom and perches on the edge of the bed. "Tally," he says softly. "Talk to me."

My vision blurs as tears well up. "I thought I could handle this, Cam, but I was wrong." My voice catches. "Your happiness matters to me—no, it's more than that. I need you to be happy. But seeing you with Willow..." I inhale shakily. "You should move back to your home. Except that makes no sense, right? You're all the way in Brentwood, I'm here, and shuttling Brinley between us would be a nightmare." Running my fingers through my hair, I whisper, "God, I'm such a mess right now. I'm sorry."

Brinley's wail pierces the silence. I yank up my shirt and she latches on with desperate hunger, her tiny fingers digging into my skin. Her eyes flutter shut, milk-drunk, as I rake my fingers through her downy hair. Thank God for those baby blues pills. Before them, I'd stare at her perfect face and feel...nothing. A void where maternal love should have been. The pills Cam prescribed saved me—saved us both.

"Tally," he whispers, his voice raw. "I'll end it with Willow tonight. Just say the word."

I jerk my head. "No." My chest tightens. "I refuse to be the reason you lose someone who might actually make you happy. I'm drowning in enough guilt already." My hair falls into my eyes and I blow it away violently. Brinley suckles harder, sensing my tension. Cameron's eyes bore into mine—confusion, concern, something else I can't name.

The truth sits like acid in my throat. Today, Sibley held up a mirror to what I've been carrying since childhood—this twisted belief that somehow I caused my mother's spiral into addiction, that I'm the reason she was taken away again and again. This poison has seeped into every relationship I've touched. I can't ask him to leave Willow, not when I'm still wrestling my own demons. If he chose me now, he’d just become another thing I ruined before I was ready to be what he deserves.