She watched the three dots appear and disappear one more time, but nothing followed. She set the phone down and looked at it for a moment, then looked at the kitchen doorway again.
Tyler emerged with two mugs and set the one that was approximately three sugars and mostly milk in front of her without comment, which was its own kind of language.
“Bea says hi,” Stella said, which wasn’t entirely true but wasn’t entirely false either.
“Tell her hi back.” He settled into the armchair with his coffee and reached for the remote. “What are we watching?”
“You pick.”
“You always say that and then have opinions.”
“I haveinput, not opinions. There’s a difference.”
“There is genuinely not.” He put on something about the ocean—a documentary, waves and light and the kind of underwater footage that made the world look like a different planet—and Stella pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and tucked it around her knees.
Outside, the afternoon light moved across the wall. The coffee was too sweet and exactly right. Somewhere down thestreet, someone was grilling something that smelled like the end of summer.
She picked up her phone one more time and noticed one more message from Bea.
I think I’d find it weird.
She thought about that for a moment—about what weird meant, and who it was really about then set the phone face-down on the cushion beside her and watched the ocean on the screen.
CHAPTER THREE
Stella stood at the developing station in Laguna Beach High’s photography lab, watching Bernie materialize in the chemical bath. She’d shot it yesterday at the Shack — Bernie at his corner booth, tablet propped against the sugar dispenser, coffee cup at exactly the angle it always sat. The window light fell across his weathered hands.
The print came up slowly. Shadows first, then midtones, then the details she’d been hoping for. Bernie’s fingers on the tablet screen. The coffee cup, still steaming. The concentration lines around his eyes.
And his gaze, aimed somewhere off-frame. Somewhere to the left of the shot.
She clipped the print to the drying line and reached for the next negative.
Mr. Reeves appeared in the doorway, mug in hand. The mug read I TEACH ART. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER? in block letters that were starting to fade from years of dishwasher abuse.
“Walsh. You’re in here early.”
“Free period. Figured I’d develop yesterday’s roll.”
He crossed to the drying line and studied the prints she’d already hung. Three of Bernie, taken across three different days.Two of the Shack’s exterior. One of Joey mid-gesture, a napkin in each hand, apparently making a very important point about fold patterns.
“These are from your community series?”
“Starting to be. The assignment’s portraits documenting community, right? The Shack’s kind of the center of everything in Laguna.”
“Good instinct.” Mr. Reeves leaned closer to one of the Bernie prints, pushing his glasses up. “This guy’s interesting. What’s his story?”
“Bernie. He’s been coming to the Shack basically since it opened. Corner booth. Every single day. He runs betting pools on his tablet and claims his knee predicts the weather.”
“Does it?”
“He was right about the last three rainstorms. My great-grandmother says it’s confirmation bias. Bernie says Margo’s just jealous his knee has more meteorological authority than the Channel 7 forecast.”
Mr. Reeves smiled and moved to the next print. He tilted his head, looking at all three Bernie shots together. “Keep shooting him. There’s something consistent here I can’t quite name yet.” He tapped the edge of the most recent print. “A pattern. Show me more when you’ve got them.”
He disappeared back into the main classroom, leaving Stella looking at the three prints. Bernie in three different moments, three different days. Same booth, same posture, same angle of attention.
Keep shooting. She went to rinse the developing trays.
