“Shut up.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
After he left, Tyler stood at the window, watching Luke move his truck. His phone buzzed—Bernie, of course.
Truck movement at the Walsh house! What’s the story?
Tyler typed back.
No story. Mind your business.
That’s not how this works and you know it.
Tyler put the phone down without responding. Let Bernie wonder. Some changes, apparently, were worth protecting.
Even if they made everything different.
Even if they were good.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Beach Shack hummed with its particular brand of organized chaos—the kind that looked like disaster to outsiders but ran like clockwork for those who knew its rhythms. Meg tied on her apron, watching Stella work the register with the confidence of someone who’d been doing it for years, not weeks.
“Morning update!” Bernie announced from his corner booth, tapping his phone with glee. “Current betting pools as follows: Luke’s truck at the Walsh house—even odds it’ll be there again tonight. Tyler cracking about surfer boys—three to one says before noon. Patricia’s next pottery ‘coincidence’—tomorrow, two to one.”
“Bernie,” Margo warned from the grill.
“I’m providing a community service! Also running pools on: Will Stella touch a knifebefore September?—“
“Not taking that bet,” Stella called out, not missing a beat as she handed change to a customer.
“—Joey’s next romantic disaster, Anna’s actual arrival date, and who gets the premium festival booth spot.”
“You’re running pools on everything,” Meg said.
“It’s a gift.” Bernie winked.
“Oh, rack off with the pools,” Stella muttered.
“Language!” Tyler said automatically.
“It means ‘go away.’ Literally just means go away.”
“It sounds like?—”
“Like Australian. Yes. We’ve been through this.”
A tourist approached the counter with a small bag. “We brought this back from Moonlight Beach,” she said, pulling out a smooth piece of sea glass. “For your ceiling.”
Stella’s hands stilled on the register. “Oh. That’s... thank you.”
“Been coming here twenty years,” the woman added. “About time I contributed.”
Meg watched Stella accept the sea glass with something like wonder, her eyes flicking up to the shell ceiling when she thought no one was looking. Later, during a lull, Meg caught her studying the patterns above, one hand unconsciously touching her pocket.
“Napkins need folding,” Stella announced, returning to earth. “The fancy way for table twelve?”
“They’re regulars,” Margo confirmed. “They notice these things.”
