“Don't stay. Come here.”
Silence. The houseboat rocks.
“Come to Twin Waves?” Lottie's voice is careful. Testing the words like stepping onto ice.
“Bring the twins. Start over. There's a whole town here full of people who don't know Ryan and will never ambush you about it at the dentist.”
“Emma, I can't just?—”
“Why not? I did.”
“You had a houseboat.”
“You have a best friend with a houseboat. And you have fifty thousand dollars in divorce equity sitting in your bank account because Ryan kept the house he organized into a spreadsheet.”
She's quiet. Ryan got the house—of course he did, because Ryan wanted the house, and Lottie wanted out, and the equity was the cleanest way to split. Twelve years of marriage,distilled into a number on a check. It's not a fortune, but it's enough for first and last month's rent. Enough to breathe.
“That money is supposed to be for the boys,” she says.
“That money is supposed to be for building them a life. You can do that here.”
“You can shoot newborns anywhere,” I add. “Babies exist in coastal North Carolina. I've checked.”
She laughs. A real one, wet and surprised. “You're insane.”
“I'm practical. You're a newborn photographer. I'm a wedding photographer. Beach town full of couples having babies and getting married. This is basically our natural habitat.”
“The twins?—”
“Would be with Aidan.”
That stops her. Olson and Mitch have been heartbroken since we left Chattanooga—their other half, the boy who understands the way their brains work because his works the same way. The three of them FaceTiming every day, planning schemes they can't execute.
“With Aidan,” she repeats slowly. Her voice cracks, but this time it's not grief. It's hope.
“Every day. At the marina. Where there are boats and crabs and an entire ocean to yell at.”
“The marina owner?—”
“Paul? He'll survive.”
“You said he has a blood pressure problem every time your kids step on the dock.”
“He doesn't have a blood pressure problem. He has aneverythingproblem. Adding two more kids is just incremental grumpiness. He won't even notice.”
“Oh, he'll notice.”
“And then he'll grumble about it for ten minutes and go back to his spreadsheets. That's his whole process.”
She's leaning into it. I can hear it in her breathing—the terrifying, exhilarating thought of packing up and driving toward a life instead of sitting in the wreckage of one.
Nine months ago, I was the one eating cereal on the floor, and Lottie was the one on the phone sayingtake the houseboat and just go.Now it's my turn.
“There are rentals everywhere,” I say. “Cute little beach houses. And the light here, Lottie—the light is unbelievable. Your newborn sessions would look like magazine covers.”
“You think I could really build a client base there?” she asks quietly. She's picturing it.I know her well enough to hear that—a studio that's hers, not squeezed into the corner of a house she shared with a man who organized their divorce into spreadsheet tabs. Starting over, but on her terms.
“Lottie. Come home.”
