I roll my cherry red Mini Cooper into the parking lot of Beachside Café, the little bell above the door chiming as I push inside. Salt air curls through the open windows, mixing with the scent of vanilla syrup and fried food.

Amelia and Aria are already at a corner booth, still arguing about which of them got the better tan in Italy, their blonde hair gleaming under the pendant lights. My mother's somewhere between the runway and a phone call, probably. I've learned not to ask.

I slide into the seat across from them, and Aria's eyes light up the second she sees me.