Page 55 of The Malibu Secret

She nods, her lips pressed together in that way people do when they're pretending to understand but don't. I can see the questions flickering behind her eyes. Chemistry isn't our problem—my body responds to her like a tuning fork struck against stone. But every time I lean in, Tally's face appears in my mind. My rational side argues this is ridiculous; Tally and I aren't together, probably never will be. Yet something in my chest tightens, refuses to budge. Like trying to force a key into the wrong lock—it simply won't turn.

Willow's brows knit together. "Okay," she says, hesitating. "I just figured that you calling me this late at night... well, maybe I was reading too much into it."

I run my hand through my hair. She's right—who calls someone at midnight unless they want something? This whole thing was impulsive. The second Tally shut me down, I called Willow, desperate to put a ring on her finger before I could think twice. That's not me. I don't make life-altering decisions on a whim. I should have waited, done this properly.

What if this proposal is just a reaction to Tally's rejection? If that's true, we're screwed from the start.

Hell, we probably are anyway.

No. I shake my head. I can't go into marriage already assuming failure. Think positive. Willow is perfect for me. She is.

She's perfect for me.

But she's not Tally.

Chapter Forty-Five

TALLY

Mom finds me on the couch at 3 a.m., tequila bottle on the coffee table, while Brinley screams bloody murder upstairs. The kid who's been sleeping through the night for weeks is suddenly channeling a banshee, like she knows everything's gone to shit.

"Tally, what happened?" Mom's eyes dart from me to the empty driveway where Cameron's car should be.

The evidence is all there—drunk daughter, crying baby, missing baby daddy. Mom doesn't need a geology degree to see the seismic event that just leveled our lives.

"Cam's gone," I say, my voice cracking. "I kicked him out. He left furious." My stomach churns with alcohol and rage while my hands shake. "We'll need some custody arrangement, but how the fuck am I supposed to look at him now?"

I pace the living room floor, yanking at my hair while Brinley's wails echo through the ceiling.

"Everyone does this shit—exes passing kids back and forth like fucking parcels. But how?" The words tumble out. "How do you stand there making small talk with someone who used to be your everything without breaking apart every single time?"

Mom slams her mug down. "Tally, why the hell did you kick him out?"

"Because, Mom," I spit the word like venom, "he was going to leave anyway. He's putting a goddamn ring on Willow's perfect little finger for Christmas. I just accelerated the inevitable before he could rip my heart out."

Mom's eyes narrow to slits. "What did you expect? Jesus Christ, Tally! You've been playing with fire this entire time." She jabs her finger at me. "You practically shoved Cameron at that gorgeous doctor with her perfect hair and perfect teeth. Everyone could see he was miserable—that he's desperate for you. But you pushed and pushed until he broke, and now he's gone. Are you fucking satisfied now?"

I slam my glass down, tequila sloshing over my fingers. "That's rich coming from you. I'm supposed to take relationship advice from the queen of bad decisions?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice drops dangerously low.

"I mean your revolving door of men, Mom! You couldn't keep a man if you handcuffed him to the bed! You wouldn't recognize a healthy relationship if it slapped you across the face!"

"Well, neither do you, obviously!" She's shouting now, face flushed.

"AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?" I scream, hurling my glass against the wall where it shatters, Patrón streaking down the paint. "Who showed me exactly what love looks like? You were my fucking blueprint!"

Something inside me knows I should stop, but the alcohol has unleashed the beast I keep chained. It claws its way up my throat, shredding every careful boundary I've built. The rage I've buried under smiles and tattoo ink is breaking free, and I can feel myself burning bridges I might never rebuild.

Mom bolts up the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Your daughter's been wailing since I pulled in the driveway. God knows how long before that."

Shit. Brinley. I'm down here getting hammered while my baby screams her lungs out upstairs. Some mother of the year I turned out to be—kicking out her dad, then drowning my guilt in top shelf tequila. With Cameron around, I could fake the whole responsible parent thing. Now? My hands shake as I imagine Brinley at sixteen, with my tattoos and my mouth and my taste in losers. The cycle continues, courtesy of yours truly.

Mom descends with my red-faced daughter clutched against her chest. Brinley's cheeks glisten with tears, her tiny mouth working: “Ba-da-ba-ba-ba.” Not actual words—she's only six months old—but the desperate babble cuts straight through me. Her eyes dart around the room like she's searching for something. For Cameron? For the mom who had her shit together a day ago? Babies pick up on everything. The tension in this house must feel like static electricity against her skin.