Nicole filed for custody in California courts. I tried to fight it—spent every penny I had on lawyers who promised they could fix it. But international custody battles are brutal. And expensive. By the time my app sold and I finally had real money to fight with, two years had passed. The courts decided moving Margot back to France would be too disruptive.
So I moved here instead. Six months ago. Close enough that maybe, eventually, I could see her again.
Nicole and Margot lived forty minutes north in Cliffside Bay, where Nicole had grown up. She’d moved back in with her mother—though she’d never admit she needed the help with childcare.
Every visitation request I filed was denied. Every attempt to reach out blocked. Nicole had spent six years convincing Margot I was the bad guy. That I’d abandoned her. That I didn’t love her anymore. All lies. But try explaining that to a ten-year-old who barely remembered her father.
Now, I stood at the narrow counter that passed for a kitchen, making myself an espresso with the small machine I’d brought from France—one of the few luxuries I’d allowed myself in this spartan space. Outside the window, Saturday morning in Willet Cove was in full swing. Tourists with shopping bags. Families with coffees and ice cream cones. A street musician setting up near the corner.
My mom texted, checking in to make sure I was still dropping by to see her later. I replied that I would leave here in about an hour.
I took my espresso to the small table by the window. My laptop sat open, displaying the email I’d been staring at since last night.
The email from Lila.
Yes, tomorrow at seven at The Pelican sounds good. See you then.
I clicked over to her profile again, even though I’d already memorized every word.
@HomewardBound
The username alone had stopped me cold when I first saw it. Because wasn’t that exactly what I was? Someone learning to come home after twenty years of wandering?
Her photos were warm and authentic—not posed, not filtered within an inch of their life like so many profiles I’d scrolled past. One showed her in her design studio, surrounded by fabric samples and paint chips, hair pulled back in a ponytail, glasses perched on her nose. Another was her laughing with friends on a patio, the ocean visible in the background. And the third—my favorite—showed her standing on a beach at sunset, barefoot, holding her sandals, looking out at the water with a small, private smile. A photo very much like the one I’d posted of myself.
I’d sent that first message on impulse, not really believing she’d respond. Beautiful, successful women with their lives together weren’t usually on the dating sites. At least, not in my experience. But she had responded. We had a time and place. Tonight. My pulse kicked up just thinking about it.
“Get it together, Prescott,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just dinner.”
Except it wasn’t just dinner. It was the first real date I’d had since … God, I couldn’t even remember. Years. I’d had a few casual flings in the years after my marriage ended, but nothing serious. I simply hadn’t had it in me to try again. Now, however, I felt ready. I wanted to let go of the bitterness I felt and move forward at long last. Would a date with a beautiful woman turn into something real? Most likely not. I wasn’t really a statistics guy, but the odds were against it.
My phone buzzed with a text from Dorian. He’d been my best friend growing up and, since we were both unexpectedly back in town, we’d picked up where we left off twenty-six years ago. We’d been eighteen, with our whole lives ahead of us. He’d joined the Navy. I’d gone to France. Now, we were back in Willet Cove. As my mother had said, “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Dorian
You want to have dinner tonight?
Vance
I can’t. I have a date. From the app I told you about.
Dorian
No way.
Vance
Yep.
Dorian
Does that mean I’m going to have to do it too?
Vance
Let’s see how my date turns out first. It’ll probably be a disaster!
Dorian
