"So much for keeping the food dry," Aunt Elyse laughed, wiping water from her face.
The sudden canine chaos broke the serious mood. Even Cat and Grace were smiling now as Roxy performed an impromptu water ballet, swimming in circles and occasionally shaking her wet fur all over anyone who came too close.
"I swear I locked the door," Paige said, hands on hips but unable to maintain her stern expression as Roxy paddled up to Noah and gave him a slobbery kiss.
"She's a genius," I declared. "A lock-picking, water-loving genius."
As the afternoon wore on, I found myself floating peacefully on a raft, watching the women laugh and talk and exist comfortably together. They were so different from each other: Grace with her designer swimsuit and perfect manicure, Cat with her motorcycle leathers now draped over a chair, Sarah mothering everyone (including the adults), Paige playing enthusiastic hostess, Jenna quietly ensuring everyone was fed, and Aunt Elyse somehow connecting them all together.
I'd never had female friendships like this—deep, complicated, enduring. My life had been too chaotic, too focused on survival to nurture such connections. But watching them, I thought maybe someday I could build something similar. They made it look worth the effort.
Noah swam over to my raft, his floaties keeping him buoyant. "Holly! Watch me blow bubbles!"
He dunked his face in the water and came up sputtering but proud.
"Amazing bubbles," I assured him. "Olympic-level bubble blowing."
He beamed at me, water dripping from his eyelashes. "When I grow up, I'm gonna be a baker like you and Miss Jenna."
Something warm and unexpected unfurled in my chest. "Yeah? You'd be great at it. You already make awesome Play-Doh cookies."
"Can I come to the bakery? To help?"
"I'll talk to Miss Jenna and find a time," I told him, and meant it. "We bakers have to stick together."
As he paddled away, I caught Aunt Elyse watching us, a soft smile on her face. She raised her glass in a tiny toast, just between us, and I felt that sense of belonging grow stronger. Not just with her and Uncle Drew, but with this whole makeshift family they'd built around themselves.
"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you," she said, setting her cup to the side. "I talked to the registrar at the community college about that photography summer class you mentioned. They're holding a spot for you if you want it."
I nearly choked on my cherry cola. "Seriously? But the application deadline was last week, and I didn't get mine finished in time."
She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "I might have pulled a few strings. The program director is a bookstore customer. And once she saw your portfolio..."
"You showed her my photos?" I asked, somewhere between embarrassed and flattered.
"Hope that's okay. We wanted it to be a surprise, but we didn't want to submit your work without permission."
"It's... wow. Thank you." I was genuinely stunned. The privilege of being in that class was competitive, expensive, and exactly what I wanted to do. And they had made it happen, just because they knew it mattered to me.
"You earned it," Aunt Elyse said simply. "Your talent got you in, not our string-pulling."
There was no expectation of gratitude in her voice, no subtle reminder of what I owed them. Just pride. Support. Love.
Maybe this was what home really meant. Not a place, but people who saw you, who made space for you, who celebratedyour bubbles and your croissants and your cannonballs with equal enthusiasm.
I closed my eyes, letting the sun warm my face, the water rock my raft, and the sound of laughter wash over me. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't waiting for it all to disappear. I was at peace in the middle of it.
25
HOLLY
"The most important thing to remember," Mr. Ramirez said, gesturing to the old-school cameras arranged on the table before us, "is that photography isn't about capturing what something looks like. It's about capturing how something feels."
I ran my fingers over Uncle Drew's old Nikon DSLR—the one he'd given me when I mentioned the summer class at Clearwater Community College. It was nicer than the school cameras, with a real leather strap that still smelled faintly of the cologne he wore.
Around me, other students were picking up the school's battered Canons and Nikons, examining them with barely veiled interest. Most kids sign up for Photography thinking it would be an easy A—just point, shoot, and filter for Instagram. But not this group. These were the kids serious about photography. Kids who weren't afraid of actual film cameras and darkroom techniques.
I was positively thrilled to try one of them out next. There was something appealing about the deliberateness of film photography—the way you couldn't just delete and reshoot, theway you had to think about each frame before pressing the shutter.
