He hit send.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
I thought you’d never ask. Friday?
Tyler smiled.
Maybe his daughter was right. Maybe he could have both things.
Maybe this was what happy looked like.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The day of Fiona’s departure was impossibly beautiful.
California had a way of doing that, Stella had noticed. Giving you golden light and perfect skies on the days you most needed clouds. Like the weather was showing off, reminding you what you’d chosen.
They drove to the airport together—Tyler, Stella, and Fiona—in Tyler’s truck. It was cramped, but nobody complained. There was something right about the three of them squeezed into the cab together, even if it was only for an hour.
“Traffic’s not bad,” Tyler said, navigating onto the 405.
“That sounds ridiculous,” Fiona said. “It’s awful.”
“You’d be surprised. I once sat in traffic for three hours at four AM.”
“Why were you driving at four AM?”
“Sunrise shoot in Malibu. Golden hour waits for no one.”
Stella sat between them, their shoulders brushing hers with every turn. She’d spent months dreading this proximity—her parents in the same space, the tension, the history. But now it felt almost normal. Almost comfortable.
Almost like a family.
They parked in the short-term lot and walked to the terminal together. Fiona’s bigger suitcase rolled behind her, heavier than when she’d arrived. She’d bought things—gifts for the twins, a cookbook from a Laguna gallery, a small painting from one of Margo’s artist friends.
“You have everything?” Stella asked.
“I think so. Passport, phone, the biscuit recipe Margo wrote out for me.” Fiona patted her bag. “And about a thousand photos on my camera that I need to edit on the plane.”
“The surf shots?”
“The surf shots. The Shack shots. The family dinner shots.” Fiona smiled. “Enough material for a whole exhibition, probably. ‘Scenes from My Daughter’s New Life.’”
They reached the security checkpoint. The line was short. People moved through efficiently, laptops out, shoes off, the choreography of modern travel.
“This is where I leave you,” Fiona said.
Stella’s throat tightened. She’d been preparing forthis moment all week, telling herself it would be fine, that goodbyes were just temporary inconveniences, that planes flew both directions.
It still felt enormous.
“Mum—”
“Don’t.” Fiona held up a hand. “If you start, I’ll start, and then I’ll miss my flight because I’ll be a mess in the bathroom trying to fix my mascara.”
“You’re not wearing mascara.”
“That’s how bad it would be. I’d have to buy some just to cry it off.”
