Page 20 of The Malibu Secret

Mom's voice softens. "Tally, honey. This goes both ways, you know. When's the last time you dated a guy who wore pressed khakis instead of leather? Who probably has NPR programmed in his car instead of KROQ? Who probably has never created an urban mural?” She tilts her head. "Remember how you and Jake followed the Drop Kick Murphys around the country that one summer and that was the guy you saw yourself with? I'm guessing Cam's idea of a wild night involves wine that doesn't come in a box. But here you are, falling for him anyway."

I sigh. Mom's words hit like a sledgehammer. This clear-eyed, rational woman—this stranger in my mother's skin—makes me wonder what kind of person I'd be if I hadn't spent my childhood hiding in closets while she screamed at invisible demons. But fuck that. My art work became my lifeline in that house of horrors. Every canvas I painted and sketched was a scream I couldn't let out, every color a feeling I couldn't name. Pain carved me into who I am.

"Jesus Christ, fine! I'm fucking crazy about him, okay?" The truth rips out of me. The sex? It demolished me. But it's HIM. I close my eyes and his scent floods back—Dior's Sauvage Elixir, so goddamn dark and spicy it makes my knees weak. So opposite to his golden-boy vibe that it gives me whiplash. I drown myself in Black Orchid for the same reason—to warn people there's danger beneath my skin. He's got hands that stitch up war refugees by day and coax jazz from piano keys at night with such raw emotion I had to hide my tears in the dark club. He sees straight through my bullshit. Nothing about him screams future asshole—he’s not the type who'd crush our kid's dreams.

And that terrifies me more than anything. I'm drowning in feelings for a man who deserves someone who didn't grow up feral. Someone whose damage doesn't run soul-deep. On paper, we're from different planets. And sometimes "on paper" is all that matters to people like him.

Mom leans in, eyes laser-focused. "So the truth is out. You're absolutely fucking obsessed with Cameron, this gorgeous doctor who would walk through fire for you. You're carrying his child. What the hell is your problem?"

"Me." My voice cracks. “Like Taylor Swift says, I’m the problem, it’s me.” My chest feels like it's being crushed. I'm self-sabotage personified, the hurricane that destroys everything it touches. I dig my nails into my palm until it hurts. Everyone else figures their shit out eventually, right? Maybe I could stop being such a disaster long enough to not obliterate the one perfect thing that's ever happened to me.

Or maybe not. Either way, I'm taking this secret about the baby to my grave.

Chapter Sixteen

TALLY

Mom clears her throat one afternoon while I'm standing in her kitchen, my baby bump now unmistakable beneath my tank top. "So..."

I glare at the sushi menu I'd been eyeing on my phone. Deleted. I'd ranted for weeks about how women had babies for centuries without all these fucking restrictions, but here I am—no raw fish, no alcohol, no coffee. My copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting sits dog-eared on my nightstand, and my fridge is packed with enough spinach, avocados, and almonds to choke a horse. All for the folate. My tattoo clients have started bringing me decaf as a joke after I nearly bit someone's head off during a consultation.

"Brinley," I whisper, touching my stomach. The ultrasound tech had shown me last week—definitely a girl. Brinley Steele. Sounds like someone who could kick ass.

Mom tries again. "So... I've been researching. There are tests now—DNA markers that might indicate if Brinley could inherit my bi-polar disorder. Not guaranteed, but it might help you decide about telling Cameron he's the father."

I shrug. "Yeah, been there, done that research. But what's the point? So I can freak myself out every time she sneezes? The doc said even with the markers, she might never get it. And I'm still not telling Cameron. End of story."

I've made up my mind about him. Mom's little heart-to-heart last month almost cracked me, but I've cemented that wall back up. Poor guy. Not like it's his fault. Since I dropped the baby bomb on him, we haven't spoken. His name lights up my phone at least twice a week, but my finger hovers over "decline" every time. One conversation leads to another, leads to me spilling everything, and then what? Some bells you can't unring.

Mom shakes her head and I point at her. "Spill it to him and you're back on the streets." Total bullshit, obviously. She knows damn well I'd never kick her out.

It's wild seeing her so stable on these meds. Like someone flipped a switch. I've got plans, too—clearing out that old desk and bookshelf in the living room. Who needs paperbacks when everything's on my Kindle? That space is begging for a baby grand. She's got the chops to play again, maybe even make some real money at it. There's gigs all over—events, session work with local bands, clubs. She could actually support herself doing what she loves instead of suffocating me with attention. Funny how she's morphed into this hovering mama bear now, when she was practically a ghost during my childhood. Like she's cramming 29 years of parenting into six months.

She just laughs and shakes her head. "You're going out with the girls tonight?”

I sigh. Yeah, I'm meeting up with Celeste and Liv tonight. Haven't told them about Brinley yet. Been telling myself I'm just waiting for that second trimester safety zone, but who am I kidding? The second I open my mouth, I'll blurt out who knocked me up, and Celeste will lose her damn mind. Can't even blame her. She'll see it like I seduced some innocent lamb and now I'm going to wreck him like I wreck everything. She knows my relationship track record is a dumpster fire, and she's protective of Cameron. But I've gotta come clean eventually. The real question is whether she can keep her mouth shut around Max. If Max finds out, he'll tell Cameron in a heartbeat, and then I'm completely screwed.

“Then have fun.”

I nod, no longer terrified she'll vanish into thin air while I'm out. Those first weeks after she showed up, I'd rush home from the shop, heart in my throat until I spotted her on the couch. Now I know better. She's sticking around—acting like an actual mother for once. And damn if I don't need that right now. Never in a million years did I picture myself pregnant, let alone grateful for my mom's presence. She's hardly winning parenting awards—the woman who taught me to forge her signature in third grade isn't exactly Dr. Spock—but having her here, watching her fold my laundry, somehow makes this whole baby thing feel possible.

I step into the bar and spot the girls already nestled in a booth. For months I’ve been dodging drinks with flimsy excuses—“I don’t feel well,” “I’m just tired”—which aren’t outright lies, since I am usually wiped out and sicker than fucking hell. Still, it’s hardly the whole truth, and they’ve started to notice. After all, our ritual is a glass of wine, a plate of appetizers, and at least a couple hours of catch-up, every few weeks if not more often. Even Celeste, juggling Max and their new baby Violet, rarely misses our nights out. I’ve loved having them in my back pocket, but tonight it’s time to come clean.

They’re mid-conversation when I arrive. Celeste is careful not to ramble on about Max and Violet—she knows how boring that can gets, even if her husband really is the gorgeous billionaire goddess-worshipper of her dreams.

“Hey, bitches,” I greet them, sliding into the booth. Hugs all around. My heart pounds: it’s go-time.

“Tally,” Celeste says, leaning forward. “We’ve already ordered a bottle of wine in your honor. No more lame excuses about why you can’t join us.”

“About that…” I clear my throat. “There’s something I’ve been hiding.”

Liv perks up. “What is it? You knocked up or something?” She laughs—until my silence makes her realize she hit the nail on the head. She shoots a look at Celeste. “We were actually teasing about that before you showed up. We’ve been scratching our heads over your no-drinking streak. I mean, none of us go crazy except when we’re all together, so… spill. What gives?”

“I’m pregnant.” I close my eyes for a second, then open them again. I’d rehearsed a whole different story—that the father was an avant-garde artist I hooked up with after a gallery opening, that he tragically overdosed, so there’d be no awkward co-parenting questions. I killed him off in my head to dodge the “What about the dad?” interrogation. But suddenly, the truth feels right.

Celeste holds her hand out to Liv, her crimson nails gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Liv reluctantly slaps a crumpled five dollar bill into her palm. "Told you," she says with a smug smile that crinkles the corners of her cat-like eyes. "Bow down to the queen. If I say something, it's usually the gospel truth."

Oh great, they've been making bets about the state of my uterus. Not that I can blame them. I would do the same thing if I were in their position, probably wagering a twenty instead of a measly five. I would treat the whole thing like a joke too, while secretly dying to know every juicy detail.