“That’s fine.”
“She’s just coming by the Shack. Meeting everyone. It’s not a thing.”
“It’s absolutely a thing.”
“Stella.”
“Your ears are already pink, and we haven’t left the house.”
His hand went to his ear. Worse. Stella raised her camera. Click. Tyler mid-crisis, flannel edition.
“I will confiscate that camera.”
“You bought me that camera.”
He checked the mirror one more time, adjusted nothing, and picked up his keys.
“She’s meeting us after lunch hours. Walking from school.”
“I know. You told me this morning. And at lunch. And twenty minutes ago.”
They drove to the Shack with the windows down and the November air coming in cool. Tyler drummed his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way. Stella let him.
“Does she know Margo might be there?” he asked.
“Margo’s eighty. She does what she wants.”
“I just mean—should I warn Lindsey?”
“Lindsey handles high schoolers all day. She can handle one grandmother.”
The lunch rush was winding down when they got there. Anna behind the counter, Bernie in his booth, the last two tables finishing soup. Tyler tied on his apron and started clearing plates with a focus that had nothing to do with plates. He kept looking at the door.
“You’re wiping that table for the third time,” Stella said.
“It’s a dirty table.”
“It’s clean. It was clean the first time.”
Anna came out of the kitchen drying her hands. She did the Anna thing—quick scan of Tyler, reading his face like a weather report.
“You changed your shirt,” Anna said.
“I’m wearing a shirt. That’s all that’s happening.”
“You’re wearing the flannel Lindsey liked.”
Tyler’s ears went darker.
The front door opened at two-fifteen. Lindsey came in with her bag over her shoulder, lanyard still around her neck — WORLD’S OKAYEST GUIDANCE COUNSELOR, the lettersfading. She wore jeans and a cardigan and walked like someone who was glad to be exactly where she was.
Tyler set down the rag.
Stella put the camera down. Some moments you don’t shoot.
“Hi,” Lindsey said.
“Hi.” Tyler’s voice came out wrong. He cleared his throat. “You found it.”
