Whether Fiona would agree—that conversation was still coming. And nobody seemed eager to rush toward it.
The rest they’d figure out as they went. Or Margo hoped so.
As they filed out of the Shack, Margo lingered for a moment, looking around at the space she’d built over five decades. A month from now, she’d know if they could handle it. And she’d have a painting to show for it—or at least the start of one.
The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Family was funny that way. Just when you thought you knew what it looked like, it grew into something bigger.
She just hoped they were ready for what came next.
CHAPTER THREE
Tyler pulled into the Laguna Beach High School parking lot and turned off the engine.
Neither of them moved.
“So,” Stella said, staring at the beige buildings through the windshield. “This is it.”
“This is it.”
“You actually went here.”
“Graduated and everything. Barely.” Tyler drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Fair warning—I wasn’t exactly a model student. If anyone remembers me, the stories won’t be flattering.”
“Define ‘not a model student.’”
“Let’s just say I got very familiar with the principal’s office.”
Stella grinned. “This is going to be fun.”
They got out of the truck and headed toward themain entrance. The campus looked exactly like Tyler remembered—same beige stucco, same palm trees, same outdoor walkways designed for weather that never really changed. Years since he’d graduated, and the only difference was the motivational posters in the windows.
DREAM BIG. WORK HARD. BE KIND.
“Inspirational,” Stella said drily.
“They’ve updated since my time. Ours just said HUGS NOT DRUGS.”
“Simpler era.”
“Simpler posters, anyway.”
They passed through the front office, where a student aide directed them toward the guidance wing. Tyler led the way down halls that felt simultaneously familiar and strange—the same layout, the same smell of floor wax and teenage anxiety, but populated by kids who hadn’t been born when he was cutting class to go surfing.
“That was my locker,” he said, pointing. “Second from the end.”
“Sentimental.”
“I got it jammed so many times they threatened to charge me for a new one.” He paused at a door, looking through the small window. “And that’s where I got detention. Repeatedly.”
“For what?”
“Various crimes. Talking back. Showing up late. Once for climbing out the window during a fire drill.”
“Why would you climb out during a fire drill? You’re already supposed to leave.”
“I was trying to leave faster. The teacher didn’t appreciate my initiative.”
