Page 13 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER TWELVE

L ater that afternoon Meg stood at Tyler's stove, stirring the pesto they'd made earlier.

The kitchen still smelled of basil and toasted pine nuts, and the bright zinnias Stella had brought back from Margo's sat in a mason jar on the counter, adding splashes of orange and pink to Tyler's usually austere kitchen.

"Smells good in here," Tyler said, appearing in the doorway. He looked exhausted but lighter somehow, like he'd set down a weight he'd been carrying.

"Just getting the pasta water ready. The pesto turned out well—Stella's got good instincts for proportions."

“She does, does she?” Tyler asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Good to know.”

Meg glanced in his direction. “How was the Shack?”

“Busy. Joey asked about Stella approximately every five minutes. ”

“What did you tell him?”

“That she needed time to settle in. He’s already planning her training schedule.” Tyler grabbed a beer from the fridge, then noticed the flowers. “Where did these come from?”

“Margo sent them back with Stella.”

Tyler’s head snapped up. “Sent them back? What do you mean sent them back?”

“I needed more basil, so I sent Stella to Margo’s garden to?—”

“You sent her out alone?” His voice pitched higher. “She doesn’t know the neighborhood! What if she got lost?”

“Tyler, it’s five houses down.”

“She’s from Sydney! Everything looks different here. What if she took a wrong turn? What if—” He was already moving toward the door.

“She made it back fine,” Meg said, trying not to smile at his panic. “With basil and flowers. Margo was home, apparently.”

Tyler stopped mid-stride. “Margo was there?”

“Painting, according to Stella. They talked. Looked at photos, I think?”

“Photos?” Tyler sank onto a barstool, processing this. “She went to get herbs and ended up looking at photos with Margo?”

“Apparently your middle school hair was a topic of discussion.”

“Oh God.” Tyler dropped his head into his hands. “The sheepdog phase. ”

“That’s what I called it too.” Meg checked the pasta water. “Stella seemed... I don’t know. Lighter when she came back. Less defensive.”

“Margo has that effect on people.” Tyler lifted his head. “But seriously, Meg, next time maybe?—”

“Next time I’ll send up a flare so you know her exact location at all times?”

“That would be helpful, yes.”

From down the hall came the sound of Stella’s music, bass thumping through the closed door.

"Think she'll join us?" Tyler asked.

"She's sixteen. The smell of food is biologically irresistible. Plus, she helped make it."

As if summoned, Stella appeared in the kitchen doorway, trying to look casual.

"Is it ready yet?"

"Almost. Want to help me plate it?" Meg offered.

"I guess." Stella slid onto a barstool, maintaining careful indifference. "You weren't kidding about presentation mattering."

"Even for home cooking," Meg said, demonstrating. "See? Just a little twist of the wrist when you put the pasta down..."

A knock interrupted—three raps, pause, one more.

“That’s Luke,” Meg said, then caught herself. “I’ll get it.”

“That’s Luke,” Stella repeated, mimicking Meg’s tone. “Because you’ve memorized his knock because you’re obviously together.”

Meg froze, wooden spoon in hand .

“What?” Stella rolled her eyes. “It’s pretty obvious. The way you look at each other, the cheek kissing, the ‘that’s Luke’ thing.”

Tyler was trying not to laugh. “She’s got a point.”

“We’re not—I mean, we are, but?—“

“Just get the door,” Tyler said. “Before he thinks we’ve abandoned him.”

Meg fled to the door, face burning. Behind her, she heard Stella say, “So are they pretending it’s a secret or...”

“I honestly don’t know,” Tyler admitted.

Luke stood on the porch with a bottle of wine and a bemused expression. “Everything okay? I heard voices.”

“Stella just called us out for being obvious.”

“Ah.” He stepped inside, kissing her cheek. “Smart kid.”

“You’re doing it again,” Stella called from the kitchen.

They found her perched on the same stool, now openly amused. Tyler was leaning against the counter, beer in hand, looking like he was enjoying himself.

“So,” Luke said, setting the wine down. “We’re obvious?”

“Very,” Stella confirmed. “Like, rom-com levels of obvious.”

“Rom-com?” Tyler asked.

“Romantic comedy. You know, where everyone knows they’re together except them?” Stella shrugged. “Classic trope. ”

“When did you become an expert on romantic tropes?” Tyler asked.

“Netflix exists. Also, I have eyes.”

Meg returned to the stove, grateful for something to do with her hands. “For the record, we know we’re... something.”

“Something?” Stella’s eyebrows rose.

“We’re figuring it out,” Luke said easily.

“See? Rom-com.” Stella slid off the stool. “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Try not to have any dramatic revelations while I’m gone.”

After she left, Tyler looked between them. “So. You two. How long?”

“Since about five minutes after you left for Australia,” Luke admitted.

“Six weeks?” Tyler shook his head. “And neither of you thought to mention...?”

“You had bigger things going on,” Meg said, adding pasta to the boiling water. “And you weren’t exactly reachable. Or very forthcoming yourself.”

“Still. My best friend and my sister.” Tyler took a long pull of his beer. “I should probably have feelings about this.”

“Do you?” Luke asked.

“Honestly? I’m too tired to have feelings about anything except my daughter knowing what rom-com tropes are.” He paused. “But if you hurt her, I’ll have to do something brotherly and threatening.”

“Noted,” Luke said solemnly .

“And if you hurt him,” Tyler added to Meg, “I’ll... be very disappointed.”

“Your threatening needs work,” Meg observed.

“I said I was tired.”

Stella reappeared, stopping dramatically in the doorway. “Did I miss the big revelation? Is someone pregnant? Is there a secret twin?”

“No soap opera developments,” Meg assured her. “Just pasta.”

“Boring.” But Stella returned to her perch, watching Meg work. “Maybe we should all watch Jane the Virgin together and get some ideas.”

Meg didn’t even want to ask what that was and turned back to the stove.

As Meg assembled the dish—pasta, pesto, a shower of parmesan—she moved with practiced ease.

"Looks fancy," Stella observed.

"Just a few tricks," Meg said, adding a final drizzle of olive oil. "Nothing complicated."

"Fiona would just dump it from the pot," Stella observed.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Meg said carefully. “This is just... my way.”

They ate at Tyler’s small dining table, conversation flowing more easily than Meg had expected. Luke told stories about the marina, Tyler shared Beach Shack gossip, and Stella offered occasional commentary that was surprisingly funny

After dinner, Luke insisted on helping with dishes. Stella disappeared briefly, then returned with her phone.

“Movie?” she suggested, so casually it had to be practiced. “Unless you guys have, like, adult stuff to do.”

“Adult stuff?” Tyler asked.

“I don’t know. Taxes? Discussing mortgage rates?”

“Ah yes, our favorite evening activity,” Meg said dryly. “Mortgage rates.”

They ended up sprawled in the living room, Stella claiming the armchair while the adults shared the couch. She scrolled through Netflix with the authority of someone who’d watched everything.

“No rom-coms,” Tyler said.

“Obviously. Horror?”

“Not unless you want nightmares,” Meg warned.

“I don’t get nightmares.” Stella paused on a action movie. “This?”

It was terrible in the best way—explosions, questionable physics, dialogue that made Tyler groan. But Stella provided running commentary that had them all laughing.

“That’s not how helicopters work,” she said during a particularly ridiculous chase scene. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“Since when are you a helicopter expert?” Tyler asked.

“Since I have basic knowledge of physics. Which apparently these writers don’t.”

Halfway through, Meg noticed Stella had curled up in the chair, looking younger without her defensive posture. Tyler was fighting sleep on the other end of the couch, and Luke’s arm had found its way around Meg’s shoulders.

Almost like a family, she thought, then pushed the thought away. Too soon. Too fragile.

When the credits rolled, Stella stretched. “That was terrible.”

“The worst,” Tyler agreed.

“We should watch the sequel tomorrow.”

A pause. Tyler and Meg exchanged glances.

“Sure,” Tyler said. “If you want.”

“Whatever. I mean, if we’re not busy with the whole Beach Shack thing.”

“Right. The Beach Shack thing.”

Stella stood, grabbing her phone. “I’m going to bed. Thanks for dinner, Meg. It was... good.”

“High praise,” Meg said.

“Don’t get used to it.” But Stella paused at the hallway. “So we’re going tomorrow? To the Shack again?”

“If you’re ready,” Tyler said carefully.

“I guess. Can’t hide forever, right?” She disappeared down the hall before anyone could respond.

“That went well,” Luke said after her door closed.

“Did it?” Tyler seemed genuinely unsure.

“She ate dinner with us. Suggested a movie. Wants to go to the Shack tomorrow.” Meg counted on her fingers. “I’d say that’s progress.”

“She still hasn’t unpacked.”

“Tyler, it’s been two days. ”

“I know. I just...” He rubbed his face. “What if she never does?”

“Then she doesn’t,” Luke said simply. “You can’t force her to feel safe here. Just keep showing up.”

“The Walsh family motto,” Meg added. “We show up.”

“Even when we don’t know what we’re doing?”

“Especially then.”

Luke stood, stretching. “I should go. Early morning tomorrow.”

“Big plans?” Tyler asked.

“Kelp survey. Want to come? Could use an extra diver.”

“Can’t. Taking my daughter to work.” Tyler said it like he was testing the words.

“Your daughter,” Luke repeated. “Has a nice ring to it.”

After Luke left—with another cheek kiss that made Tyler mutter about rom-coms—the siblings sat in comfortable silence.

“Thanks,” Meg said eventually. “For not freaking out about Luke.”

“I save my freaking out for private moments. You’re the one who’s been freaking out privately since 1989.”

“Shut up.” She threw a pillow at him. “You okay about tomorrow?”

“Terrified. You?”

“Same. But we’ll manage.”

“The Walsh family motto number two: We’ll manage. ”

“Somehow that’s less inspiring than ‘we show up.’”

“But more accurate.”

They sat there, listening to the faint bass line from Stella’s music, the distant sound of waves, the quiet hum of a house adjusting to its new configuration.

“Think she’ll actually come tomorrow?” Tyler asked.

“She asked about it three times. That’s basically a yes in teenage.”

“Is it?”

“I have no idea. But it sounds right.”

Tyler laughed, soft and tired. “We’re so bad at this.”

“Spectacularly bad.”

“But she ate the pesto.”

“She did eat the pesto.”

“Progress,” they said together.

Stella reappeared in the hallway. “So when do I meet this cousin everyone keeps mentioning?”

Tyler and Meg exchanged glances. “You want to meet Bea?”

“Might as well get it over with.” Stella shrugged, but there was curiosity beneath the indifference.

“I can call Anna,” Meg offered, checking the time.

Five minutes later, they were crowded around Meg’s laptop at the kitchen table. Anna’s face filled the screen, bright and eager.

“Stella! I’m so happy to finally meet you!”

Stella shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Hi.”

“Bea!” Anna called. “Come meet your cousin!”

A girl appeared on screen—dark hair, paint-stained fingers, Anna’s eyes. “Oh my god, hi! This is so cool! I can’t believe we have a cousin!”

“Yeah, wild,” Stella said flatly.

An awkward pause. Bea’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly. “So... you’re from Sydney? That must be amazing. All those beaches.”

“It’s okay.”

“Bea’s learning to paint,” Anna offered. “She’s really talented.”

“Cool.” Stella was already edging away from the screen.

Tyler jumped in. “Maybe when you’re settled in more, you girls could?—“

“I should go,” Stella interrupted. “Jet lag. Nice meeting you guys.”

She was gone before anyone could respond.

“Well,” Anna said after a moment. “She’s not quite settled in yet, is she?”

“It’s been a rough few days,” Meg said apologetically.

“Of course. It’s a lot.” Anna’s expression softened. “But Tyler, she’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”

“Thanks,” Tyler said weakly.

“We’ll try again when she’s ready,” Bea added, more understanding than most sixteen-year-olds would be. “No pressure.”

After they hung up, Tyler dropped his head to the table. “That went well.”

“It was fine,” Meg assured him. “First meetings are always awkward. ”

“She ran away.”

“She acknowledged them. That’s something.”

And in a house too small for three people, with a teenager who wouldn’t unpack and adults who didn’t know what they were doing, progress was enough.