Page 30 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“ T his is a disaster,” Tyler announced, staring into the pan with genuine bewilderment. “How is it both burned and raw?”

“Because you had the heat on nuclear,” Stella said, hip-checking him away from the stove. “Move. I’m staging an intervention.”

“It’s chicken. It’s literally just chicken in a pan.”

“Was chicken. Now it’s a science experiment.” She grabbed a wooden spoon, poking at the mysterious protein. “When did you put it in?”

“Twenty minutes ago?”

“On what temperature?”

“High? Medium-high? The dial goes to eleven.”

“This isn’t Spinal Tap, Tyler.” She turned off the burner, moved the pan to a cold element. “Okay. New plan. We’re starting over.”

“We don’t have more chicken.”

“We have eggs. And that leftover rice.” She opened the fridge, assessing. “Fried rice. Even you can’t mess up fried rice.”

Tyler watched her move around the kitchen with increasing confidence, then froze as she pulled out an onion and started dicing with practiced precision.

“What are you doing?”

“Cutting an onion?” She kept her eyes on the board, knife moving in steady rhythm.

“You don’t cut. You don’t do knives. You specifically told Margo—“ He stopped, staring. “When did you learn to dice like that?”

“YouTube University.” Her cheeks went pink. “Been practicing.”

“Practicing where?”

“In my room. With carrots. And potatoes.” She scraped the onions into a bowl, still not meeting his eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Stella.” Tyler’s voice was soft. “You’ve been secretly teaching yourself knife skills?”

“Maybe.” She grabbed a bell pepper, attacking it with the same surprising competence. “The videos make it look easy. It’s just... technique.”

“But you told Margo you didn’t want to learn. You’ve been avoiding prep work at the Shack?—“

“I know what I said.” She diced faster, defensive. “I wanted to figure it out myself first. Without everyone watching. Without the pressure of... whatever.”

Tyler understood. The pressure of belonging. Of being Margo’s great-granddaughter. Of living up to Beach Shack standards .

“You’re really good,” he said simply.

“I’m adequate.” But she looked pleased. “Turns out I like the precision. It’s like... meditation. But with more risk of blood loss.”

“Please tell me you haven’t?—”

“No injuries. I’m careful.” She moved on to garlic, mincing with determination. “I’ll show Margo soon. When I’m ready.”

“She’ll be so proud.”

“Yeah, well.” Stella cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking to cover her emotion. “Let’s just get through dinner without food poisoning first.”

Tyler watched her work, this daughter who practiced in secret, who learned alone before she could risk failing in front of others. So much like him. So much her own person.

“We need a new pan,” Stella said, fighting with the warped skillet Meg had generously left behind.

“We could go to that kitchen store tomorrow. Get a proper one.”

“The fancy place on Forest?”

“Unless you want to keep wrestling with this thing every time we cook.”

“Fair point.” She added rice to the pan, the sizzle promising better things than Tyler’s chicken disaster. “Can we get one of those fancy ones? The colorful French kind?”

“You want Le Creuset?”

“Is that how you pronounce it? I’ve been saying it wrong in my head. ”

“How were you saying it?”

“Not telling. Too embarrassing.” She stirred the rice, adding soy sauce with the confidence of someone who’d been secretly studying cooking videos. “But yes. The fancy French pan. In blue.”

“Why blue?”

“Matches my aesthetic.”

“You have an aesthetic?”

“Everyone has an aesthetic, Tyler. Yours is ‘confused dad who owns too many identical black t-shirts.’”

“I feel attacked.”

“You should. Your wardrobe is a cry for help.”

The front door opened, and Meg’s voice carried into the kitchen. “I brought dessert! And wine! And my deep skepticism about whatever’s burning!”

“Nothing’s burning!” Tyler called back. “Anymore!”

Meg appeared in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene—Stella at the stove looking competent, Tyler setting the table with actual napkins, the counter disaster zone that suggested multiple cooking attempts.

“You cooked,” she said, wonder in her voice.

“Stella cooked,” Tyler said. “I provided ingredients and anxiety.”

“He tried to make chicken,” Stella explained. “It achieved a new state of matter.”

“I’m not surprised.” Meg set down a bakery box and wine. “What smells good?”

“Fried rice.” Stella plated with surprising elegance. “ Also, we’re buying a new pan tomorrow. The fancy French kind.”

“Le Creuset?”

“See? She pronounces it right too,” Stella muttered.

They settled at the table, the dinner surprisingly good despite its chaotic origins. Stella had even managed a vegetable garnish that looked almost professional.

“This is actually delicious,” Meg said, and meant it.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Stella replied, but she was pleased. “I’ve been watching Margo. Learning through observation.”

“And YouTube,” Tyler added.

“YouTube helps. But mostly it’s about not doing what Tyler does.”

“Which is?”

“Panic and turn the heat to maximum.”

“It’s worked for photography,” Tyler said.

“Food isn’t film, Tyler.”

They fell into easy conversation—Meg sharing client victories from her new office, Tyler discussing an upcoming wedding shoot, Stella revealing she’d been asked to help with the Beach Shack’s social media.

“Joey wants to ‘expand our digital presence,’” she explained, making air quotes. “I think he just wants someone else to take food photos.”

“You’d be good at it,” Tyler said. “You’ve got the eye.”

“It’s just phones and filters.”

“It’s seeing what matters,” he said. “Making people care about a grilled cheese sandwich. ”

“The Margo Special deserves respect,” Meg said solemnly.

Stella’s phone, face-down by her plate, buzzed. She ignored it, reaching for more rice.

“Mom always made good fried rice,” Meg said to Tyler. “Remember when she tried to teach us?”

“I remember Anna adding sugar instead of salt.”

“That was the birthday cake incident,” Meg noted. “The fried rice was when you forgot we were cooking and let it burn while you were editing photos.”

“I was twelve. How was I editing photos?”

“Dark room. You were always in that converted closet Dad set up.”

“Right. My chemical hazard phase.”

The phone buzzed again. Stella’s hand twitched toward it, then pulled back.

“You can check,” Tyler said. “We don’t have phone rules.”

“It’s fine. Probably just...” She trailed off as it buzzed a third time, insistent.

“Stella,” Meg said gently. “If someone’s calling repeatedly?—“

“I know.” She flipped the phone over, saw the screen, went very still. “It’s Mum.”

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Tyler set down his fork. “Your mom?”

“Five missed calls.” Stella stared at the phone like it might bite. “She doesn’t call multiple times unless—“ It started ringing again, her mum’s name bright on the screen .

“You should answer,” Tyler said quietly. “Could be important.”

Stella looked between them, something like panic in her eyes. Then she took a breath, swiped to answer. “Hello?”

Even from across the table, they could hear her mother’s voice—not the words, but the tone. Rapid, stressed, a pitch that spoke of crisis.

“Slow down,” Stella said. “What happened?”

Tyler and Meg exchanged glances, both fighting the urge to lean closer.

“David’s twins are sick?” Stella’s free hand clenched on the table. “Both of them?”

More rapid words from her mum. Stella’s face cycled through emotions—concern, frustration, something harder to read.

“I understand it’s difficult,” she said carefully. “But what does that have to do with—” She stopped, listened. Her expression went flat. “You want me to come back. Now.”

It wasn’t a question.

Tyler’s whole body went rigid. Meg reached for his hand under the table.

“The summer,” Stella said, voice steady but cold. “We agreed to the whole summer. That was the deal.”

Her mum’s voice rose, audible but unintelligible. Stella closed her eyes.

“I know the twins are a handful. I know you’re tired. But that’s not—” She was cut off again. “No, I’m not being selfish. You made this choice. ”

The voice on the other end shifted, softer now, wheedling.

“Don’t,” Stella said sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you miss me when what you miss is free babysitting.”

Tyler made an involuntary sound. Stella’s eyes flew open, found his across the table.

“I’m not coming back early,” she said, holding Tyler’s gaze. “We made an agreement. The whole summer with my father. With my family.”

The word hung in the air like a gift.

Her mum’s voice rose again, but Stella was already pulling the phone away from her ear.

“I have to go,” she said. “We’re having dinner. Family dinner. I’ll call you Sunday like always.” She paused. “Tell David’s twins I hope they feel better.”

She hung up.

The silence was deafening.

“Stella,” Tyler started.

“She does this,” Stella said, staring at her phone. “Every time things get difficult with David’s kids, suddenly she remembers I exist. Suddenly she misses her eldest daughter. Suddenly she needs help.”

“The twins are sick?” Meg asked gently.

“The twins are always sick. Or difficult. Or exhausting.” Stella’s voice was bitter.”

“Stella—”

“I’m not going back.” She looked up fiercely. “I know I was difficult about coming here. I know I’ve been a pain. But I’m not going back early just because she’s tired.”

“You haven’t been a pain,” Tyler said.

“I kept my duffel bag by the door for two weeks.”

“You were scared.”

“I was stupid.” She pushed rice around her plate. “This is... this is good. What we have. Thursday dinners and driving lessons and terrible cooking attempts. It’s good.”

“Yeah,” Tyler agreed softly. “It is.”

“And I’m not giving it up because Mum suddenly remembered parenting is hard.” The phone buzzed again. Stella flipped it face-down with force. “I’m not.”

Meg squeezed Tyler’s hand, then reached for Stella with her other. “We’re glad you’re staying.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Tyler said. “For the whole summer. Longer if you want. There’s no expiration date on family.”

Stella’s eyes went bright. She blinked hard, looked away. “Okay. Good. Because I already told Joey I’d run the Instagram next week and I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Can’t disappoint Joey,” Meg agreed solemnly. “Wait, what Instagram?”

“You’ll see,” Stella said with a laugh. “Also Bernie has money on me lasting the whole summer and I want him to win.”

“Of course he does,” Tyler muttered.

They resumed eating, but the atmosphere had shifted. Lighter somehow, despite the difficult call. Like something had been decided, settled, chosen.

Stella’s phone buzzed once more.

“Text,” she said, glancing at it. “She says I’m being selfish and immature.”

“Are you going to respond?” Meg asked.

“Yeah.” Stella typed quickly, hit send. “I said ‘See you in September.’”

“That’s it?”

“What else is there?” She set the phone aside decisively. “Now. Important question. What did Meg bring for dessert?”

“Chocolate tart from the French place,” Meg said.

“The fancy one that uses real Belgian chocolate?”

“Is there another kind?”

“I love family dinner,” Stella declared.

Tyler caught Meg’s eye over Stella’s head, saw his own emotions reflected there. Family dinner. Family. The word Stella had used on the phone, claimed in front of them, chosen despite the easier path of going back.

“Next week I’m making something that doesn’t require resurrection,” Tyler promised.

“Pasta?” Stella suggested. “Hard to mess up pasta.”

“You literally burned pasta water last week,” Meg reminded him.

“That was an anomaly.”

“That was Tyler,” Stella noted. “But we’ll work on it. We’ve got time. ”

Time. The whole summer and maybe more. No expiration date on family.

They ate chocolate tart and made plans for the fancy pan shopping and pretended not to notice when Stella turned her phone completely off, shutting out her mum’s inevitable follow-up calls.

She’d made her choice. In Tyler’s kitchen, over fried rice and burned chicken attempts, with her phone lighting up like a test she had to pass.

She’d chosen them.

And that was worth more than all the perfect dinners in the world.