Page 56 of The Malibu Secret

I sink into the rocking chair and hold my arms out for my daughter. Mom hesitates—she can smell the tequila from where she stands—but hands her over anyway. The room tilts slightly as I cradle my baby against my chest, her tiny fingers clutching at my shirt. I hum something soft and tuneless, swaying in time with the chair's gentle motion. Her eyes, so much like his, stare up at me, wide and questioning. My voice cracks on the third verse of whatever lullaby I'm attempting. She shouldn't have to feel the tremor in my hands or see the mess I've become, but tonight, she just needs her mother—drunk, broken, or otherwise.

“Mom,” I say. “I need to take her to see Santa. I was supposed to go with Cameron and Willow, but, that's not gonna happen now. But I need to give her as normal of a Christmas as I can. I know she's too little to really appreciate any of it, but, one of these days, she's gonna be looking for pictures of her first Christmas and I want her to have them. So I'm hoping you can go with me to see Santa with her.”

“Of course,” Mom says. “when do you want to go?”

"I was supposed to go with Cameron and Willow next Saturday. But I think I can say that I'm not going to go to work tomorrow. I mean today, considering it is tomorrow right now. It's OK, Blade's been amazing, and he can hold down the fort. I thought I'd like to do that later on today.”

Mom sinks into the couch beside me. "Tally, are the therapy sessions helping at all?"

I shrug. "They're fine. Just—you can't exactly erase decades of bullshit with a few months of talking, you know? But I'm trying."

Mom's eyes soften. "And what about Cameron? Is that door completely closed?"

"He bought Willow a ring, Mom." My throat tightens. I stare at the ceiling, blinking hard. "Look, I don't blame him. I blame me. He's a good man who deserves someone whole, and that's what she is. That's the reality I'm facing." I stroke Brinley's tiny hand. "Some days I feel like I'll never put myself back together. But if he's happy... I'll learn to be happy for him. And maybe someday I'll figure out that me and this little nugget—that we're enough."

Brinley's eyes flutter closed, thumb sliding into her mouth. I trace the curve of her cheek with my fingertip, memorizing her face like it might disappear. Her baby smell hits me—milk and powder and something uniquely her—and my eyes burn.

"This is it for me," I whisper, the truth of it like swallowing glass. "Just her and me against the fucking world. And you." I look at Mom. "Cameron's gone. Forever gone. And I need to tattoo that reality onto my heart before it kills me."

Chapter Forty-Six

TALLY

I dial Celeste's number. Since she writes screenplays from her home office, her schedule's usually pretty flexible. Sure, she's got deadlines hanging over her head, but I'm betting she can spare a day to join Brinley and me for our Santa visit. At least it's Friday—weekdays mean fewer screaming kids and mile-long lines.

The Westfield mall’s something of a unicorn. While shopping centers across America are turning into ghost towns, ours is packed year-round. It's got that outdoor layout with actual walkways and fountains, not just some fancy street of disconnected boutiques like Rodeo Drive. A real mall, and easily the hottest shopping spot for fifty miles.

Celeste balks at first—Century City means a twenty-mile drive for her, fifteen for me—and I know interrupting her workday is asking a lot. Writers don't exactly appreciate being yanked out of their fictional worlds mid-sentence.

"Fine. But Cameron's gone. I kicked him out last night."

The line goes silent. Then I hear rustling, like she’s already changing clothes.

"Shit, Tally. I shouldn't have told you about the ring. Max is going to murder me when he finds out."

I roll my eyes. "Please. It's not like I wouldn't find out eventually. What was your plan—wait until I got a wedding invitation? You just ripped the Band-Aid off early. I'm not mad, and Max won't be either."

“Max wanted you and Cameron to have a good Christmas with little Brinley together."

"Right, and drop the bomb after we've taken those perfect family Santa photos for Instagram." I snort, looking at my blood red nail polish. "Whatever. Perfect Willow gets perfect Cameron in his perfect Brentwood mansion. Timing's irrelevant." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "At least I won't be standing there like a dumbass in line at the mall while they hold hands behind my back."

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the images flood in anyway. Cameron helping Willow unpack her designer suitcases. Her manicured hand on his kitchen counter. The two of them curled up on his couch, planning their future—her voice syrupy sweet as she talks about "our daughter" and the siblings she wants to give her.

My stomach knots. That bastard better make one thing crystal fucking clear to her—Brinley is MY daughter. Mine. The only good thing I've got left in this dumpster fire of a life. And nobody—especially not some country-club Barbie—is taking that from me.

We converge at the mall—me, my mother, Celeste with little Violet in tow, and Brinley strapped to my chest. Violet, all of two years old, bounces with excitement about seeing Santa, while Brinley just drools on my shirt, completely oblivious to the holiday chaos we're about to subject her to.

Celeste adjusts the sunshade on Violet's stroller. "So. Cameron's gone?"

"Kicked his ass straight to the curb," I say, watching Violet babble something that sounds suspiciously like "molecular structure" to her stuffed bunny. Kid's vocabulary is freaky for twenty-six months. "And before you ask—I'm done talking about him and Willow. Filed that shit away like the Ark at the end of Raiders. You know that scene? Giant warehouse, endless boxes? I'm storing this whole clusterfuck in the mental equivalent of that giant warehouse, because otherwise I might actually murder someone."

Violet looks up at me and smiles, all baby teeth. "Aunt Tally. Bunny for you.” She pushes her small stuffed bunny into my hands, its fur matted from being dragged around all day.

"Thanks, Vi," I say, trying to hand it back, but she shoves it at me again. Her blue eyes lock onto mine with that weird intensity only toddlers have, like she can see straight through my bullshit.

Fine. I clutch the rabbit against my chest, and something in me cracks a little. This tiny human offering me her most prized possession because she somehow knows I'm falling apart? Fuck. I swallow hard and pat her head. Kids, man. They see everything.

"That one's got a good heart," I tell Celeste.