Page 24 of The Malibu Secret

I've been keeping Cam at arm's length, but maybe... maybe I need him. And that terrifies me more than labor. I don't do "needing people." Foster care taught me that lesson real quick. As a kid, I'd grab onto anything—a stuffed animal, a favorite book, a kind word—when everything went sideways. But those foster families, even the good ones, they were just temporary characters in the Tally Show. Nothing permanent. No one stays. That's the rule I've lived by.

Mom’s been amazing, coming to every doctor’s appointment with me, but none of this feels real.

She knocks. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” I call out.

She sits on the bed beside me. “Tal, I need to apologize for what I put you through growing up.”

I wave at the ceiling. “Mom, don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry,” she says softly. “I don’t understand why you don’t hate me.”

I shrug. “No idea. But I don’t.”

She shakes her head. “Tally, you need to know I never stopped loving you—even when I lost custody all those times. You probably thought I chose pills over you. But I was terrified—of the hallucinations and the voices that started after your dad was killed. The pills silenced them, made the hallucinations stop. I wish I’d seen a doctor when it began, but I can’t exactly hop in a time machine to fix it.”

I narrow my eyes. “Wait—so you’d been having these hallucinations and voices back then?”

She nods. “Yeah. I didn’t want to scare you. Once I was on the Oxy, everything went away, so I didn’t think you needed to know.”

I sit up. “Then why were you so confused when they came back?”

“Denial,” she admits. “I couldn’t accept that I was mentally ill, so I convinced myself nothing was wrong and blocked out that it had happened before. The idea of completely losing touch with reality terrified me. But with your help, I faced it.”

I sigh. “Mom, it’s okay. Water under the bridge. And right now, with the disaster that has become my life, I have zero motivation to try to dredge up the past. The present time is consuming me right now. Because I just don't know how I'm going to make all this work.”

“You'll make it work, Tally. With my help. And hopefully Cam's."

Cam's help. He probably hates me. Why would he trust me with anything important after what I did? The weight of my secret presses against my chest like a stone.

God, I need to talk to him. My stomach knots at the thought of facing him, watching his expression shift as the words tumble out of my mouth.

I exhale slowly, counting to five. Nothing to do but wait for his return. By then, Brinley will be here. And I'll still be trapped in this shoebox apartment because rent's rent and beggars can't be choosers.

The ceiling seems lower today. I swear the kitchen and living room are getting closer to each other, like the trash compactor scene in Star Wars, only slower. Much slower.

Chapter Seventeen

TALLY

Time flies when you're knocked up and broke. But finally—a fucking miracle—the bank approved my loan for a house down payment. Should I be shitting myself over juggling both a mortgage and a $200,000 personal loan? Probably. If I default, they'll strip Manic Muse of every needle and ink bottle. Whatever.

Now I just need to find something under seven figures that isn't in actual Skid Row. Though even that hellhole has perks—it's near the Arts District, which means close to my studio. And I need a place close to my studio because no way am I commuting across this city. The 101 turns into a goddamn parking lot, and I refuse to waste hours of my life sitting in traffic, especially with a baby at home. Mom's already agreed to babysit while I work, which is... questionable at best. But beggars can't be choosers, right? Especially with this loan hanging over my head like a guillotine. One missed payment and those repo vultures will swoop in before I can even flip them off.

My days blur into a hamster wheel—fifty-plus hours at the studio, then dragging Mom through open houses until my feet throb. By the sixth showing yesterday, the realtor's voice had become white noise. Every property fails some critical test: this one's in my price range but sits in a neighborhood where my car would be stripped overnight; that one's safe but would triple my commute; another has the perfect location but only two bedrooms. Mom keeps saying "compromise," but at my price limit of $800,000, I shouldn't have to settle for a place where I can touch both kitchen walls at once. Might as well be hunting fucking unicorns.

Finally, after thirty straight nights of real estate hell, I find the fucking unicorn. If I had to walk through one more overpriced shoebox with an agent chirping about "potential," I might tattoo their listing on their forehead—backward, so they can read it in the mirror.

It's a foreclosure and is a perfect little three-bedroom 1920s cottage in Echo Park, just five miles from the studio. Honey-colored hardwood floors that creak in all the right places. Morning light pouring through windows framed by ancient oak trees and a giant pepper tree in the backyard. The neighborhood hits that sweet spot—hip enough for decent coffee and late-night tacos, but not so packed that I'll fall asleep to a symphony of sirens like I do in my Arts District apartment.

I sign the house papers just in time—this baby's ready to make her grand entrance in a few months.

Saturday morning, Celeste and Olivia show up armed with tape guns, cardboard boxes, and a U-Haul the size of Texas. They both swear they're here because I've saved their asses enough times, but the truth? We'd walk through fire for each other. I've also hired some eye candy with muscles to haul the heavy stuff down from my third-floor apartment—mama's not about to risk going into labor on the stairs. Celeste even dragged Roman along, her brother-in-law whose biceps have biceps. He and Max have become workout buddies lately, crushing triathlons together like it's their religion. Roman's basically what would happen if Superman and Thor had a baby, so he’ll definitely come in handy with the move. Max? He’s out of the country finalizing a movie deal, so bullet dodged there for him.

Roman gives me a look when he walks in, but doesn't mention the whole Cameron-baby situation. Either the Kensington family text chain hasn't blown up yet, or he's just being his usual mind-your-own-business self. Which is weird, considering he and Cameron used to be practically attached at the hip. Though lately he's been spending more time with Max—all those crack-of-dawn training sessions for stupid triathlons have them bonding like frat brothers.

"Lilith's on her way too," he says. "Wouldn't take no for an answer."