Stephie raised her phone too, filming Sylvie filming the sea. Charlotte just stood there, hands in her coat pockets, watching her two oldest friends hold up their tiny rectangles of glass to the immensity. It was ridiculous. It was exactly right.
“Tell that to the vase.”
“I’m just saying,” Stephie said, peeling a gummy worm from her thigh, “if we’re going to drive four hours to see a lighthouse that might be haunted, we should at least stop for decent coffee. Not gas station tar.” charlotte stephie sylvie
“She loves you too. She asks about you both. Every time.” Sylvie wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She says, ‘Where are those nice girls who break things?’ Because that one time you dropped my mother’s wedding vase. Fifteen years ago, Charlotte.” Stephie raised her phone too, filming Sylvie filming the sea
The point was the light. Not the grand, sweeping beam—but the small, steady one. The one that just blinks and stays. It was exactly right