Page 9 of The Beach Shack Summer (Laguna Beach #2)

CHAPTER EIGHT

T yler returned from the Beach Shack feeling raw but somehow lighter.

Margo’s hug still lingered, her quiet “I love you too” echoing in his chest. He’d expected anger, disappointment, maybe even rejection.

Instead, he’d gotten Margo being Margo—steady, practical, already planning to great-grandmother Stella “thoroughly.”

He found Meg in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it held the secrets of the universe.

“How did it go?” she asked without turning around.

“Better than I deserved.” Tyler slumped against the counter. “She hugged me.”

“Of course she did.” Meg finally looked at him. “You okay?”

“I think so. Maybe. Joey’s already planning to teach Stella all twelve variations of grilled cheese.”

“Twelve variations?”

“He counts different cheese combinations as separate items. He’s very serious about it.” Tyler smiled. “He’s thrilled. Apparently, Stella making the same face I do when trying new coffee is ‘genetic, probably.’”

Meg smiled. “That sounds like Joey.”

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

“That’s Luke,” Meg said, moving toward the door.

“How do you know?”

“His knock is distinctive.” She opened the door to find Luke holding a pink bakery box and a carrier of coffee cups. “Peace offering?”

“Figured everyone could use some sugar therapy after yesterday.” Luke stepped inside, his easy presence immediately making the space feel less fraught. “Morning, Tyler. How’s everyone doing?”

“Surviving,” Tyler said. “Is that from South Swell donuts?”

“Best donuts in Laguna. Got a variety—maple bars, chocolate glazed, couple of old-fashioneds.”

“Strategic donut selection,” Meg observed.

The sound of a door opening made them all turn. Stella emerged from the hallway, hair in a messy bun, wearing the same Pearl Jam t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. She stopped short at the sight of Luke.

“Morning,” Luke said easily. “I brought donuts.”

Stella’s gaze flicked between all of them. “The marine biologist.”

“Same as yesterday. The maple bars are particularly good today. ”

She approached cautiously. “Why particularly good today?”

“Tuesday donuts always are. It’s science.” Luke’s tone was perfectly serious. “Something about the barometric pressure.”

Despite herself, Stella’s mouth twitched. “That’s not how science works.”

“Marine biology science is different. Very specialized.”

Stella grabbed a maple bar, took a bite, then seemed to remember she was supposed to be sullen. “Whatever.”

“So,” Tyler said, watching his daughter devour the donut, “about last night’s sleeping arrangements...”

Stella paused mid-chew. “What about them?” “The couch isn’t exactly built for someone my height. My back is killing me.”

“Oh.” Stella looked guilty. “Oh, bloody hell.”

“Language,” Tyler said automatically.

“You just said the same thing yesterday,” Stella pointed out.

“Fair point.”

“I can move out,” Meg offered quickly.

“No,” Tyler said, the word coming out sharper than intended. “Please don’t. I need—we need—” He looked helplessly at Meg. “Please stay.”

“Okay, but where does everyone sleep?” Stella asked.

“We’ll figure it out,” Tyler said. “I can take the couch?—”

“You’re like eight feet tall,” Stella interrupted. “You’ll be a pretzel.”

“Six-two, and I’ll manage.”

“This is stupid,” Stella announced. “I’ll take the couch. I’m the shortest.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Tyler and Meg said in unison.

“Then what?”

Luke cleared his throat. “What about the office? Could we convert it?”

Tyler hesitated. “That’s where I work. All my equipment?—”

“We could move it to your room,” Luke suggested. “Set up the futon properly for Stella, make it an actual bedroom.”

“Move where I’ve been working for five years,” Tyler said slowly.

“It has a door,” Meg pointed out. “A window. Privacy for a teenager.”

“I don’t need special treatment,” Stella said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“It’s not special treatment,” Tyler decided. “It’s... practical. Luke, would you help me move the desk?”

“Of course.”

“I can help too,” Stella offered, surprising everyone including herself .

They dispersed into action. Tyler and Luke tackled the desk while Meg started clearing surfaces, packing loose papers and organizing equipment. Stella carried boxes, making observations.

“Why do you have so many external hard drives?” she asked.

“Photo storage. Raw files are huge.”

“Why not cloud storage?”

“I like physical backups.”

“That’s very analog of you.”

“I’m analog about a lot of things,” Tyler admitted, maneuvering the desk through the doorway.

“Like your CD collection?” Stella gestured to the shelf in the living room. “Who still has CDs?”

“They’re collectibles.”

“They’re ancient technology.”

“Says the girl wearing a Pearl Jam t-shirt from the ‘90s.”

“This is vintage,” Stella protested. “Totally different.”

Luke laughed. “She’s got you there.”

They worked with surprising efficiency, transforming the office into something resembling a bedroom. The futon, when properly arranged, looked almost like a real bed. Tyler’s desk lamp became a bedside light. They even cleared a shelf for Stella’s belongings.

“It’s not much,” Tyler said, surveying their work.

“It’s fine,” Stella said quietly. “Really. Thanks.”

“We’ll get you proper furniture. A real bed?— ”

“It’s fine,” Stella repeated. She hesitated, then grabbed her duffel bag. “I’ll just... yeah.”

She disappeared into the room with her bag. After she closed the door, the three adults stood in the living room, catching their breath.

“That went better than expected,” Luke said.

“Did it?” Tyler asked. “My teenage daughter is sleeping on a futon in my former office.”

“She has a door,” Meg pointed out. “And privacy. That’s huge for a teenager.”

Tyler’s stomach growled audibly. “We need food. Real food. I don’t think I have anything she’d actually eat.”

“Make a list?” Meg suggested, already reaching for paper.

They congregated in the kitchen, Tyler opening cabinets with growing dismay.

“Okay, what do teenagers eat?” he asked.

“Cereal,” Meg said, writing it down. “The sugary kind.”

“She specifically requested the kind that turns milk colors,” Tyler remembered.

“Normal bread,” Luke added. “Her words about your seeded variety were... colorful.”

“What else?” Tyler called toward Stella’s door. “What do you want from the store?”

The door opened. “Are you asking me?”

“You live here. You should have food you like.”

Stella approached cautiously. “Really? ”

“Really.”

“Pop-Tarts,” she said immediately. “The frosted strawberry kind.”

Meg wrote it down, trying not to wince.

“Actual pasta. Not the chickpea kind.”

“Regular pasta,” Meg noted.

“Chips. Cookies. Normal milk, not oat or almond or whatever.” Stella was on a roll now. “Bagels. Cream cheese. Orange juice with pulp?—”

“Pulp?” Tyler made a face.

“Pulp is the best part.”

“Pulp is texture where texture shouldn’t be.”

“Your opinion is wrong.”

“My opinion is—” Tyler stopped, realizing he was arguing about orange juice with his daughter. His daughter. Who was here, in his kitchen, requesting Pop-Tarts.

“I’ll go shopping,” Meg offered.

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll get the wrong kind.”

“I can follow a list.”

“There are like eighteen kinds of Pop-Tarts. And you’ll probably get the organic version.”

“They make organic Pop-Tarts?” Meg asked.

“See? This is what I’m talking about.” Stella crossed her arms. “I’m coming with you.”

Meg looked slightly panicked. “Oh. Um.”

“Please,” Tyler said quickly. “Meg, please. Take her with you.”

His sister shot him a look that promised future retribution, but nodded. “Okay. Sure. Shopping. Together.”

“I need to get to the Shack anyway,” Tyler added. “Told Margo I’d be back to help with lunch prep.”

“Convenient,” Meg muttered.

“I’ll head out too,” Luke said, clearly recognizing an exit cue. “Marina doesn’t run itself.”

“Thanks for the help,” Tyler said, meaning it.

“Anytime.” Luke kissed Meg’s cheek. “Good luck shopping.”

Tyler caught the casual intimacy of it, filed it away. “We’re definitely talking about this later,” he said mildly, gesturing between them.

“Fair enough,” Luke said with a grin.

“Good luck shopping?” Stella asked, reappearing. “Why does everyone keep saying it like that? It’s groceries, not war.”

“You’ve never seen Meg in a grocery store,” Tyler said. “She organizes her cart by food groups.”

“That’s... efficient?”

“That’s terrifying,” Tyler said.

“I’m right here,” Meg protested.

“I should get dressed,” Stella announced. “Can’t buy Pop-Tarts in pajamas. Well, I could, but I won’t.”

She disappeared back into her new room. Tyler turned to Meg with his best pleading expression.

“You owe me,” Meg said.

“I know.”

“So much. ”

“I know.”

“She’s probably going to judge my grocery methods.”

“Definitely.”

“Tyler—”

“She needs this,” he said quietly. “Choice. Control over something. Even if it’s just Pop-Tarts.”

Meg’s expression softened. “Okay. But if she mocks my cart organization?—”

“She will.”

“You’re not helping.”

Tyler grabbed his keys. “I should go.”

“Where? The Shack?” Meg asked, already reaching for her purse.

Tyler paused at the door, suddenly overwhelmed by everything.

A week ago his life had made sense—predictable, controlled, solitary.

Now his secret daughter was living in his former office, his sister had colonized every flat surface with work papers, his best friend was kissing said sister in his kitchen, and he’d just confessed a fourteen-year secret to his grandmother who’d immediately started planning to “great-grandmother thoroughly.”

His carefully compartmentalized life had exploded into some kind of family sitcom he didn’t know how to navigate.

He pulled out his phone. “Actually, give me a second.”

He stepped onto the porch, texting quickly.

Hey, you still at the marina? Need to talk. About... everything. My life is unrecognizable.

Luke’s response was immediate.

Office. Coffee’s on. Rum’s in the bottom drawer if needed.

Might take you up on that.

Tyler stuck his head back inside. “Change of plans. I need to talk to Luke about... the alternate universe I’m apparently living in now. Meg, you good with taking Stella shopping?”

“Define ‘good,’” Meg said, but she was already organizing the list by store layout.

“I’ll owe you forever?”

“You already do.” But her voice was fond. “Go. Talk to Luke. Process your existential crisis.”

“It’s not a crisis. It’s just... an aggressive life reorganization.”

“Tyler. Go.”

Tyler escaped before Stella could emerge and change her mind about going. As he drove toward the marina, he tried to figure out what exactly he wanted to say to Luke. My life exploded and I don’t know which pieces to pick up first. Or maybe just: Help.

The marina came into view, boats bobbing gently in their slips. Luke would understand. Luke always understood. Even when Tyler didn’t understand himself.

Time to figure out how to live in this new reality where secrets came to light and sisters dated best friends and teenage daughters wanted Pop-Tarts with pulpy orange juice.