Tyler pulled out the stool next to hers and sat down. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
“Right here,” she said. “The whole time?”
“The whole time.”
Stella unlocked her phone. Found her mother’s contact. The photo was from two years ago—Fiona laughing at something off-camera, hair windblown. She looked happy. Stella couldn’t remember what had made her laugh.
“Okay.” She pressed call.
One ring. Two. Three. Four?—
“Stella?”
Alert. Not sleepy. She’d been awake.
“Hi, Mum.”
“It’s late. Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine. I just...” The burned toast smell—or something—was making her nauseous. “I needed to talk to you about something.”
Silence. “Alright.”
“It’s about coming home. About my flight.”
“What about it?”
Stella gripped the edge of the counter. Tyler’s hand settled on her shoulder.
“I don’t want to take it.”
The silence stretched. Stella could hear something in the background—the TV maybe, or music.
“What do you mean, you don’t want to take it?”
“I mean I want to stay. Here. In Laguna.” The words came faster now. “I want to finish senior year here. There’s a photography teacher who saw my work at the festival, and I have family here, Mum—real family?—”
“And Tyler.”
“And Dad. Yeah.”
“Dad.” Flat. Controlled. “So now he’s Dad.”
“He’s always been?—”
“He’s been a visitor. Twice a year, if that. And now suddenly he’s Dad and you want to throw away everything?—”
“I’m not throwing away?—”
“Your home, your school, your family?—”
“You’re still my family. That doesn’t change.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Fiona—” Tyler’s voice, tight.
“I’m talking to my daughter, Tyler.”
