NINA: Be there. Welcome home.
I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and exhale.
The nausea’s low-grade now. Lingering. A constant reminder of something I’ve been trying not to admit.
But I’m still pretending this is stress, adjustment, anything but what I know it could be.
I shift the car into gear. Pull out of the lot and head into the LAX labyrinth, telling myself one last time that everything is fine.
The pickup lane is a hellscape of minivans and rideshares and that one guy in a Tesla who thinks blinkers are optional. I loop twice before finally spotting them near the end of the terminal. Mason’s got his sunglasses shoved up on his head and his arms full of luggage. Callie waves me down with one hand while texting with the other, as if she isn’t freshly back from two weeks of beachside sex and zero cell reception.
I pull in and hit the hazard lights. Jump out like I’m normal. Like my stomach isn’t trying to turn itself inside out.
Callie hugs me first.
Her arms are soft and tight around my shoulders and she smells like sunscreen and hotel soap. The sheer comfort of her embrace makes my chest pull tight.
“You made it,” she murmurs. “You look?—”
“Don’t say it,” I mutter. “I’m aware.”
She leans back and searches my face, not teasing anymore, and the weight of her attention settles over me.
“Later,” she says, and I nod because we both know she’s not going to let me off the hook.
Mason pulls me into a one-armed hug that’s mostly shoulder and suitcase. “Thanks for playing Uber,” he says. “I owe you a burrito.”
“You owe me traffic trauma therapy,” I grumble, popping the hatch so he can load the bags. “LAX is a war crime.”
Callie slides into the passenger seat while Mason wrangles the rest. He then begins the process of folding his large frame into the back seat of my Mini Cooper. By the time he’s settled, his head brushes the ceiling and his knees practically reach his ears. I almost offer to let him drive, but the sight is entertaining enough to make me briefly forget my troubles. The minute the doors close, it’s quiet again. As quiet as it gets in LA.
“So?” Callie asks, once we’re back on the road. “How’s the new place?”
“Shiny. Secure. Haunted by the ghosts of furniture staging past.”
She laughs, but it’s gentle. “You settling in?”
“Trying.”
It’s not a lie. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to make this feel like a fresh start and not a trapdoor.
“How’s the team?”
“They’re…” I pause. “Actually great.”
Mason makes a skeptical noise from the back. “That sounded like someone who just found a spider in her sock drawer.”
I smile, even though my stomach churns. “They’re just...very competent. It’s unsettling.”
Callie grins. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
Marcella opens their front door before we’ve even pulled all the way into the small gated driveway, standing tall with Zoey perched confidently on one hip, her tiny hand tangled in Marcella’s necklace. Marcella’s in a linen wrap dress—nothing flashy, just crisp and intentional—and her silver-streaked hair is pinned up in a way that says she still believes in showing up for life. There’s flour on her cuff, a smudge of something pink on her cheek, and a tired smile that’s rooted in joy. She looks like a woman who’s spent years surviving, and only just recently remembered what it feels like to live.
Callie lingers at the bottom of the porch steps while Mason hoists both their suitcases in one go—rolling one behind him, the other slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. He disappears into the house without fanfare.
Callie’s still watching me with that quiet knowing look that makes it impossible to pretend I’m fine.
“Want to come with me to pick up dinner?” she asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. She pulls keys out of her purse and the garage door at the other end of the driveway begins to open, revealing her Audi. The alarm chirps and the lights flash.
