Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tyler was attempting to make scrambled eggs when Stella got home from the Shack.
Stella had tried to get him not to improvise.
He had improvised.
“That smells concerning,” Stella said, dropping her bag by the door.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s smoking.”
Tyler looked at the pan. The eggs—which from the smell he’d decided needed garlic, and maybe some of that cheese in the back of the fridge—had formed a crust on the bottom that was definitely not appealing.
“I did everything right,” he said.
“Did you though?”
“Mostly.”
Stella peered into the pan. “What is that? On top?”
“Cheese.”
“That’s not cheese. Not anymore.”
“It was cheese adjacent when I started.”
Stella opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. “There’s nothing in here but expired yogurt and something in a container I’m afraid to open.”
She closed the fridge. “Pizza?”
“Pizza.”
This had become their thing—when cooking failed, which was often, they defaulted to go to either Rocky’s on Pacific Coast Highway or pizza. Tonight, it would be a large pepperoni at the place on the corner where they had a regular booth.
And when they arrived, it was available. Small mercies.
“So,” Stella said, attacking her slice. “Mr. Reeves asked about you today.”
Tyler’s slice paused halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“He remembered you.” She pulled a string of cheese free. “Said you had a good eye, back in the day. Asked if you’d come talk to his advanced class sometime. About documentary photography.”
Tyler didn’t know what to do with that. Mr. Reeves—the teacher with the mug that said I TEACH ART. WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?—remembered him. Wanted him to come back. Not to apologize for being a terrible student, but to share what he’d learned.
“He said that?”
“Yep.” Stella raised an eyebrow. “You going to go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Tyler took a bite to buy time. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in a classroom.”
“You were in a classroom, not long ago. With me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
He didn’t have a good answer. “It just was.”
Stella let it go, but he could feel her watching him. She’d gotten good at that—noticing when he was dodging something.
“Speaking of school,” she said. “That folder’s been on the counter for days.”
Tyler looked at his pizza.
“School starts in three weeks,” Stella continued. “Mr. Reeves told me to find him first day if I want Advanced Photography. First day, Tyler. Not ‘whenever we get around to calling Mum.’”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because the folder hasn’t moved.”
Tyler set down his slice. She was right. The folder Lindsey had given them—the international transfer checklist, everything they’d need—had been sitting on the kitchen counter since they got back from the school visit. He walked past it every morning. Moved it to wipe the counter. Put it back.
“I’ve been meaning to—”
“You’ve been stalling.”
The word landed harder than it should have. Maybe because it was true.
“I’m not stalling. I’m just...” He searched for a word that wasn’t stalling. “Processing.”
“Processing.”
“It’s a lot.”
“It’s a phone call.”
“It’s a phone call that’s going to blow everything up.” Tyler met her eyes. “Your mum and I—we’ve managed to be civil for sixteen years by avoiding exactly this kind of conversation. We don’t fight because we don’t talk about anything that matters.”
“So you just... never talk about anything?”
“We talk about logistics. Flights. Schedules. Safe topics.” He picked at his crust. “The last time we tried to have a real conversation about you—about what was best for you—it ended with her not speaking to me for six months.”
Stella was quiet for a moment. “When was that?”
“You were eight. I wanted to come for your birthday. She said it would confuse you.” Tyler shrugged. “She wasn’t wrong. But I pushed anyway, and she shut down, and by the time we started talking again, I’d missed the birthday anyway.”
“I remember that birthday. You sent a camera.”
“A Polaroid. Yeah.”
“I still have it.”
“You do?”
“It’s in my room. At Mum’s.” She picked at her pepperoni. “I never used it. Didn’t know how. But I kept it.”
They sat with that for a moment. The Polaroid he’d sent when he couldn’t be there. The daughter who’d kept it anyway.
“The point is,” Tyler said eventually, “calling Fiona isn’t just a phone call. It’s the end of pretending things are fine the way they are. And once we do that—”
“We can’t undo it.”
“Yeah.”
Stella finished her slice, wiping her fingers on a napkin with deliberate focus. Then she looked at him.
“I talked to Bea today. About the school visit, Mr. Reeves, all of it.” She paused. “She said something that stuck.”
“What?”
“She said the decision was already made. The day I told you I wanted to stay—that was the decision. Everything after that is just logistics.” Stella met his eyes. “The phone call isn’t the scary part. I already did the scary part. Now we just have to tell Mum.”
Tyler wanted to argue. Wanted to explain that it wasn’t that simple, that Fiona wouldn’t see it that way, that logistics could be their own kind of terrifying.
But Stella was looking at him with that expression—the one that reminded him so much of Margo it made his chest hurt. Clear-eyed. Certain. Waiting to see if he’d catch up.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“We’ll call her tonight.”
Stella blinked. “Tonight?”
“It’s—” Tyler checked his phone. “Almost seven here. That’s noon tomorrow in Sydney. We call now, we catch her in the middle of her day. Or we wait until tomorrow morning our time, catch her late at night.”
“She’s a night owl.”
“I remember.” Tyler pocketed his phone. “Tomorrow morning, then? First thing? It’ll be close to midnight for her, but she’s always up.”
Stella nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“No more stalling.”
“No more stalling.”
They threw away their plates and walked out to the truck. The folder would still be on the counter when they got home. But now it meant something different.
The bungalow looked the same as always—faded blue paint, bougainvillea climbing the porch rails, surfboard leaning against the side that Tyler kept meaning to move. But as Tyler pulled into the driveway, Stella didn’t move to get out.
“It’s really small,” she said, looking at the house.
“It’s really small.”
“And we share a bathroom.”
“Also small.”
“And you can’t cook.”
“Demonstrably true.”
Stella turned to look at him. “Are you trying to talk me out of staying?”
“No. I’m trying to make sure you know what you’re signing up for.” Tyler gestured at the bungalow, at the overgrown yard, at all of it. “This isn’t a beach mansion. It’s not your mum’s place with the pool and the view. You’d be giving up a lot to be here.”
“I’d be giving up a pool.”
“And your room. And your friends. And the twins.”
“Half-siblings I mostly babysit and feed chicken dinosaurs to. But they are cute sometimes.”
“Still.”
Stella was quiet. Then she opened the car door and stepped out. Tyler followed, confused, until she stopped on the front walk and turned around.
“So yeah,” Stella said. “I’m sure.”
Tyler nodded slowly.
“Okay then.”
“Okay then.”
They stood in the front yard, the bougainvillea rustling in the evening breeze, someone’s wind chimes tinkling a few houses down.
“Tomorrow morning,” Tyler said. “First thing.”
“First thing.” Stella scuffed her shoe against the path. “She’s going to be hurt.”
“Probably.”
“She’s going to say things.”
“Probably.”
“Will you be there? When I call?”
“Right beside you. The whole time.”
Stella nodded. Then she headed for the porch, pausing at the door to look back.
“For the record—you should go talk to Mr. Reeves’s class.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re good at talking about photography. You get all...” She waved her hand vaguely. “Passionate. It’s less embarrassing than I expected.”
“High praise.”
“Take what you can get.”
She disappeared inside. Tyler stood in the yard for another minute, looking at the bungalow that had felt too small for months and now felt like exactly the right size.
His phone buzzed. Meg.
How are you holding up? Luke said you seemed off at poker last night.
He typed back.
We’re calling Fiona tomorrow morning. Finally.
Three dots.
Come over. Anna made brownies and we’re all nervous for you. Luke’s here. Bea’s here. Come be nervous together.
Tyler glanced at the bungalow. Stella was probably already claiming the bathroom. They could sit in the tiny kitchen with the failed eggs still crusted in the pan, or they could walk three houses down and be surrounded by family the night before everything changed.
Be there in twenty.