Does she look like him?
Spitting image. It’s actually uncanny.
OMG. I can’t wait to meet her.
Give her time. She hasn’t even unpacked.
That bad?
Her suitcase is sitting in the corner like an escape plan.
Oh, no. That’s heartbreaking.
I know.
The music from Stella’s room shifted to something slower, sadder. Meg could hear Tyler shifting on the couch, the sound of springs protesting under his weight.
This morning she’d thought everything was about to change.
She just hadn’t imagined it would change like this.
Anna texted.
Go to sleep. Tomorrow will be better.
Will it though?
It has to be. Can’t get more awkward than today.
Don’t jinx it.
Meg plugged in her phone and tried to settle into Tyler’s bed. Everything smelled like him—salt and sunshine and home. Through the walls, she could hear the quiet soundtrack of their new reality: Stella’s music, muffled but persistent. Tyler’s occasional shifts on the too-small couch. The house settling around its unexpected configuration.
Day one of... how many? The whole summer stretched ahead, full of questions none of them knew how to answer.
But they’d survived today. Tyler’s secret was out, Stella had a room—even if she wouldn’t unpack—and they were all under one roof.
Tomorrow they’d have to get settled. Buy groceries. Navigate breakfast. Learn how to be a family.
Tonight, though, they could just exist in their separate corners, processing the earthquake that had hit their lives.
The music finally faded around midnight—Stella apparently succumbing to the combination of jet lag and emotional exhaustion. Meg could picture her passed out fully clothed, still defensive even in sleep.
The house went quiet except for the sound of Tyler trying to find a comfortable position on a couch built for someone half his size.
Meg closed her eyes and tried not to think about how complicated tomorrow would be.
CHAPTER FIVE
Margo had called exactly three emergency Circle meetings in thirty years.
The first: when Richard’s cancer returned. The second: when Sam left for good. The third: now, standing in her kitchen at six-thirty on Tuesday evening, staring at her phone like it might explain what had just happened.
“This better be good,” Eleanor answered on the second ring. “I’m missing Jeopardy.”
“Emergency meeting. My house. Thirty minutes.”
A pause. Eleanor’s voice sharpened, all traces of annoyance gone. “Margo?”
