Page 30 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

M eg couldn’t sleep.

She’d tried—had even made herself another cup of tea and settled into Tyler’s surprisingly comfortable futon—but her mind kept cycling through the evening’s revelations.

The party, the family stories she’d never heard, Rick’s cryptic comments about their grandfather’s financial decisions.

And Anna, painting lemons in Florence while her teenaged daughter documented street art and asked whether the waves looked the same from Tyler’s window.

One more month, and they’d be back. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

Meg padded barefoot through the small bungalow, almost seeing it for the first time.

Earlier, she’d been rushing—first to get to the Beach Shack, then to prepare for the committee call, then to get ready for the party.

Now, in the quiet hours past midnight, she could actually absorb the space her brother had created for himself.

The living room told a story she hadn’t expected.

Yes, there were the surf magazines stacked on the coffee table, the collection of boards lining the hallway.

But there were also books—photography texts, marine biology guides, even a few novels she recognized from their childhood.

A vintage camera sat on a shelf beside what looked like awards or certificates, their frames reflecting the moonlight streaming through the windows.

She'd been watering Tyler's herbs for weeks now—he'd forgotten to mention them in his hasty departure instructions. Tonight she noticed how carefully they'd been arranged, not just functional but aesthetic. Someone with an eye for design had placed them to catch the morning light.

She'd seen the floral coffee mug before, had even used it herself.

But tonight she looked at it more closely—delicate, expensive, definitely not Tyler's usual style.

Along with the fancy moisturizer in the bathroom, the hair ties she'd been finding around the house.

Signs of someone who mattered enough to leave things behind.

She'd seen the photography magazines stacked everywhere, had even flipped through them absently. But tonight she actually read Tyler's byline, absorbed what it meant. Her little brother wasn't just taking pictures—he was being published in major magazines.

Meg blinked, leaning closer. Her little brother’s name, printed in a magazine she’d seen in dentist offices and coffee shops. She flipped through the issue, finding two more of his photographs—a sea turtle gliding through coral, and surfers silhouetted against a massive wave at sunset.

When had Tyler become a professional photographer?

The framed photos she'd barely glanced at before revealed serious talent—thoughtful compositions of red rock formations, white-sand beaches, coastal drives through eucalyptus groves she didn't recognize.

In the bathroom, she found travel-sized bottles of reef-safe sunscreen and an electric toothbrush still plugged in beside what was clearly a backup, still in its package.

A small makeup bag sat tucked behind the extra towels—expensive-looking moisturizer and a lipstick that definitely wasn’t Tyler’s style.

In the hall closet, she discovered a large portfolio case and several camera bags with airline tags still attached—LAX to Sydney, dated just six months ago.

Australia. Again and again, Australia.

Meg returned to the living room and studied the coffee table.

Beneath the surf magazines were photography journals, their pages marked with sticky notes and annotations in Tyler’s careful handwriting.

One fell open to an article about underwater photography in the Great Barrier Reef, Tyler’s notes filling the margins with technical observations and location ideas.

On the bookshelf, she found what looked like a small library of guides to Australian wildlife, diving spots, and coastal photography locations. Some were dog-eared and sand-dusted, clearly well-used. Others looked brand new, as if Tyler was constantly adding to his collection.

She picked up another magazine from the stack—Surfer’s Journal—and found herself staring at Tyler’s name again, this time accompanying an article called “Southern Swells: Capturing Australia’s Wild Coast.” The photographs were breathtaking, but it was the author bio that made her stomach flip: Tyler Walsh divides his time between California and Australia, documenting marine ecosystems and surf culture.

Divides his time? Meg tried to remember their last conversation, the casual way Tyler had mentioned “maybe heading to Australia soon.” She’d assumed it was a vacation, maybe a photography workshop. Not a regular part of his life.

How many trips had he made? How had she never realized her brother had built an entire second life on the other side of the world?

But then, when had she ever asked? Their phone calls were brief, surface-level check-ins where Tyler asked about her work and she asked about the Beach Shack. Had she ever inquired about his photography career, his travels, what mattered to him beyond the family business?

She picked up the kelp forest spread again, fingers brushing Tyler’s name. “How had she missed this version of her brother? But she knew the answer— she’d never asked. Never looked. Never made space in their conversations for anything deeper than ‘How’s work?’ and ‘How’s the surf?’”

She opened one of the photography books, studying Tyler’s technical notes in the margins.

His observations about light and composition showed the mind of a real artist, someone who saw the world through a completely different lens than she did.

When had he developed this eye? When had he stopped being just her little brother who loved the ocean and become this accomplished professional?

She'd been too self-absorbed to ask. Too focused on her own climb up the corporate ladder to wonder what Tyler was building in his life.

Outside, the waves continued their eternal rhythm, the sound that had lulled the three of them to sleep as children.

Meg wondered what Tyler heard when he listened to the ocean from here.

What he saw when he looked through his camera lens.

Whether his work in Australia was purely professional or if there was something else—someone else—that drew him back so regularly.

The thought of Tyler living this rich, complex life while she’d still been picturing him at twenty made her chest tighten.

Meg pulled one of Tyler’s throw blankets around her shoulders and made herself a promise. When Tyler returned from whatever emergency had called him away, she would be different. Not just physically present, but really there .

The house settled around her, quiet except for the distant sound of waves and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the kitchen. Somewhere in Australia, her brother was dealing with whatever had finally forced this sudden departure.

She fell asleep on the couch, one of Tyler’s photography journals open in her lap, dreaming of underwater cathedrals and coastlines she’d never seen but that her brother knew by heart.