“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.’”
