Page 6 of The Malibu Secret

He lets out a low chuckle. “So…you ready to crawl back into the land of the living?”

I shrug, voice rough. “Land of the living’s a stretch. But hell—if I’m even noticing a woman again, that’s something. Ever since the crash, every woman I see just…nothing. Doesn’t matter if she’s kind, brilliant, drop-dead gorgeous—my heart’s been a block of ice.” I swallow hard. “But maybe—just maybe—the frost is cracking.” I shake my head, bitter smile. “Still, I can’t picture myself falling in love again. I couldn’t survive another Alecia or Steph. So maybe I’ll just play the field—flit from one beautiful face to the next, never anchor down. Beats rotting alone in a dark house, staring at the walls.”

Elias leans forward. “How hot’s this spark, really?”

My chest tightens. “Goddamn, it’s a blast furnace. More intense than anything I’ve ever felt—even with Alecia. With her, love sneaked up on me over years of friendship. We were comfortable, predictable, hanging out, setting each other up with different people so we could hopefully double-date one day—until a drunken dare set our lips together one night and boom. So yeah, years of friendship until the night it wasn’t just friendship. That relationship was the epitome of slow burn. But this thing with Tally? It’s thermonuclear.” I press my palms to my temples, as if my skull might split open.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve seen her before she crashed into the ER?”

I nod, eyes distant, replaying the moment. “First at Max’s fake wedding to Celeste—she stormed in like a riot. Hair cropped short, streaked in neon, tattoos spilling down her arm, that dress hugging every curve. She looked like she’d drag me through asphalt and laugh the whole way. Totally the opposite of Alecia’s cashmere-and-pearls sweetness. Alecia was a kindergarten teacher. Tally is a tattoo artist. Those two couldn’t be more different if they tried. And yet—Tally’s raw power, her fierce beauty—it obliterated me the second I glanced her way. No type? Forget that. I’ve got one now.”

Elias and I talk for several more hours before I head out of his place.

After leaving Elias, my car seems to drive itself to Tally's place. With three days off from my ER rotation—a rare luxury in my four-day, 12-hour shift schedule—I find myself calculating how many hours I could spend making her forget about her injuries. My mind lingers on the thought of her smile breaking through the pain. She'd need help getting around, someone to cook meals, maybe assistance slipping into a bath.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Two days of playing caretaker, of being needed in her space, before she'd be mobile enough to manage without me. Though I wasn't sure I wanted her to.

I smile at the irony—after spending hours making her writhe and moan beneath me, I never once thought to ask for her number. Calling Celeste isn't an option; Tally made it clear she wanted this kept between us. Fine by me. I'm not looking to announce whatever this is to the world. A fling? No, that sounds dismissive. Hooking up? Christ, I'm 38, not some college kid. I've saved lives in African villages and navigated emergency rooms during the worst nights imaginable. There has to be a better word for what I want—which is to show up at her apartment, strip her bare, and lose ourselves in each other until we can't move. Not dating, certainly. Just pure, electric connection. A liaison? An arrangement? A tryst?

I head over to her apartment. Just like before, she hollers for me to come in instead of getting the door herself. That can't be good. Has she been stuck on that couch this whole time? Sure enough, when I step inside, there she is, sprawled out with an ice pack wedged under her lower back. Her face brightens when I take a seat beside her.

"Thank Christ you showed up. I tried being a hero after you left—thought I'd fix myself something to eat. Big mistake. My back seized up again and I fumbled my damn phone. Now it's somewhere in kitchen Narnia while I'm marooned here with this ice pack. Was seriously wondering how I'd survive without Uber Eats for the foreseeable future. And, well, with the phone on the floor somewhere and me stuck here, how the hell would I summon Uber Eats? I was faced with starving to death." She sighs dramatically. "Had to call in reinforcements at the shop too. Some agency's sending over a temp artist named Blade. I mean, seriously? Blade? Might as well name yourself 'Needle' or 'Ink.' Anyway, looks like I'm on extended vacation whether I like it or not.”

I shake my head. "No way. Forget Uber Eats. Let me get you real groceries. Just tell me what you want." My hands are already itching to help, to fix, to provide. It's my default setting—caretaking. "Actually, I'll order from Instacart. That way I don't have to leave you here alone again."

"My notebook," she says, wincing as she shifts position. "Get it from the spare bedroom. It's next to my sketchbook."

I duck into the first bedroom, finding only rumpled sheets on an unmade bed.

"Not that one!" Tally calls out. "The other spare!"

In the second bedroom, I spot her notebook on a small table, but freeze mid-reach. The space around me is transformed by color and form—watercolor landscapes capturing impossible light, their sunset hues bleeding into cerulean skies above jagged mountain silhouettes. A collection of small marble figures crowds the windowsill, each no larger than my palm: a dancer with one leg extended in an arabesque so delicate the stone seems flexible; a falcon with individually carved feathers poised for flight; a child's face with eyelashes so fine they cast hairline shadows. The walls themselves are a riot of framed sketches—hands in various poses, eyes with different expressions, the curve of a shoulder rendered in charcoal. I've stumbled into her secret gallery, a hidden chamber of her soul.

And all around are watercolors of a woman who looks much like Tally, but older and sadder. In one, she sits at a weathered kitchen table, her fingers curled around a chipped blue mug, steam rising in ghostly wisps. In another, she stands at a window, her silhouette backlit by a pale winter sun, one hand pressed against the frosted glass. The third shows her asleep in an armchair, a book fallen open on her lap, reading glasses dangling from fingertips. I gasp at how Tally has captured this woman—the same green-blue eyes, the same straight raven hair now threaded with silver, but with crow's feet etched deep at the corners and a downward tilt to her mouth that speaks of years of disappointment. Something shifts inside me. This isn't just a hookup anymore. I'm standing in the presence of someone whose soul bleeds onto canvas, and I'm desperate to understand the woman behind the brush.

I bring the notebook out and Tally narrows her eyes at me. "Took you long enough. What, were you checking out Marisa in there?"

"Marisa?"

"That's my mother. Well, sometimes she's 'Mom,' sometimes she's 'Marisa,' and sometimes she's 'hey bitch.'" A half-smile flickers across her face. "Depends on where we stand. 'Mom' is when I’m worried about her, 'Marisa' is when I'm pissed, and 'hey bitch' is for when we're actually tight." Her arms fold tight across her chest. "Today? Definitely Marisa."

"What happened?"

She looks away with a shrug. "Called her after you left. Needed help getting around. She had 'plans.'" Tally makes air quotes with her fingers, then swipes quickly at her eye. "Translation: she’s in some new dude’s bed, and I'm SOL. Classic Marisa—always ditching me for whatever rando she thinks might be her Prince Charming this week. Never mind that they all ghost her faster than a heart attack. But hey—" her voice catches, "—at least someone's getting a happy ending."

I can't help but smile. Looks like we both got dealt a bad hand in the parent department. Dad chose Jack Daniels over his family for two decades straight. I wonder if her father was in the picture at all.

"Dad caught a bullet in Iraq," Tally says, like she's plucking the question straight from my head. “Died when I was 4, but I never really knew him because he was deployed for years.” Her eyes narrow, jaw tightening. "You know what kills me? Those suits in Washington throwing around words like 'casualties' and 'collateral damage.' That was my father. A real person." She traces a finger along the rim of her glass. "Mom was apparently fine before. After he died... opioids were the only thing that could make her forget.”

The parallels hit me like a punch. My mother died, dad drowned himself in whiskey. Her dad died, mom disappeared into Oxy. Difference is, my brothers and I landed with loaded grandparents who could handle raising eight rowdy boys. Tally clearly wasn't so lucky.

"Your mom was using?" I ask carefully.

"Yeah." She shrugs like we're discussing the weather. "I got real good at the foster care shuffle. Mom would clean up just long enough to convince a judge she was mother-of-the-year material. Two weeks later, she'd be tweaking in the cereal aisle at Ralph's." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Eventually I kept a go-bag under my bed. You learn to see the signs." Then she shakes her head. “Look at me, oversharing. I blame the good shit painkillers.”

I inhale deeply. "We're not that different, you and me. We both lost a parent to grief. My dad drowned his sorrows in whiskey and vanished for two decades. Your mom..."

"Yeah," she cuts me off. "Except you got a silver spoon to suck on while daddy dearest was checking out. In the game of who got the shittiest end of the stick, trust fund boy doesn't win. Nice try, though."