They walked to the truck together. Stella climbed into the passenger seat this time, buckled her seatbelt, sat quietly as Tyler pulled away from Margo’s cottage.
“Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For fighting.”
He glanced at her—this person he’d helped create and barely knew and was only now learning to love properly.
“Always,” he said. “From now on, always.”
She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
He drove toward Rocky’s, toward mint chip and butter pecan and whatever came next.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sleep had become unreliable in Margo’s eighties.
Not insomnia exactly—more like her body had decided that four hours was plenty and anything beyond that was excessive. She’d fought it for a while, lying in the dark, willing herself back to sleep. Now she just got up.
Two-fourteen AM. The cottage was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of waves. Margo pulled on her robe—the old blue one, soft from decades of washing—and padded to the kitchen.
Tea. Tea would help. Tea always helped, even when it didn’t.
She was filling the kettle when she noticed the silence.
Not the absence of sound—the cottage was alwaysquiet at this hour. But something else. A heaviness in the air. The guest room door was cracked open, no light spilling through.
Margo hesitated. She could pretend she hadn’t noticed. Make her tea, take it back to bed, leave her houseguest to whatever thoughts kept her up at two in the morning.
Instead, she pulled down a second cup.
“Fiona?” She knocked softly on the door frame. “I’m making tea. Would you like some?”
A long pause. “I’m fine.”
The words were thick. Wrong.
Margo pushed the door open gently. Fiona was sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed, staring at nothing. Her face was blotchy in the dim light from the hallway. She’d been crying—or trying not to.
“Come,” Margo said. It wasn’t a question. “Keep me company while the kettle boils.”
For a moment, she thought Fiona would refuse. Would pull the door closed and retreat into whatever she was feeling alone.
But she stood. Followed Margo to the kitchen. Sat at the small table without speaking.
The kettle clicked on. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, something rustled in the bougainvillea. Probably the neighbor’s cat.
Margo made the tea in silence. Chamomile for herself. Earl Grey for Fiona—she’d noticed the preference days ago. She set the cups down and waited.
Fiona wrapped her hands around the warm cup but didn’t drink.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Margo asked.
“No.”
“All right.”
