Stella stood behind the counter, watching the room fill up. Everyone had come—not just family, but regulars, neighbors, people she’d seen around town but never formally met. The Circle ladies occupied a table near the window, already two glasses of wine into the afternoon. A cluster of high school kids Joey apparently knew had claimed the booth by the door.
And the family. All of them.
She had her phone out—not for texting, but for shooting. Quick, quiet frames that nobody noticed. Joey’s hands adjusting a streamer that was already straight. Bernie’s face when he thought no one was looking—soft, proud, completely unguarded. The Circle ladies clinking glasses, caught mid-laugh. The kind of moments that mattered because nobody was posing for them.
Tyler by the kitchen, camera out, documenting everything. Meg arranging the food—new menu items mixed with classics, a celebration of everything the Shack had become. Anna greeting guests like she’d been doing it her whole life, which in a way she had. Luke beside Meg, steady and present, occasionally stealing bites when he thought no one was looking.
Margo in her usual booth, watching it all. Satisfied, maybe. Or something deeper than satisfied.
“Speech!” someone called. “We need a speech!”
“Not from me,” Joey said quickly. “I’ll cry. I’m already close to crying. Look at my eyes. They’re pre-moistened.”
“From Margo, then,” Bernie suggested. “The matriarch.”
Margo shook her head. “Nope. I’m all speeches out.”
“Tyler?”
“I don’t do speeches.”
“Meg?”
“I do spreadsheets, not speeches.”
“Fine.” Anna stepped forward, champagne glass raised. “I’ll do it. Someone has to, and I’m the only one in this family with any sense of theater.”
“That’s true,” Tyler said with a smile.
Anna climbed onto a chair, ignoring Meg’s alarmed expression. The room quieted.
“Four years ago,” Anna began, “a nervous teenager walked into this restaurant looking for a summer job. He had no experience, no references, and—by his own admission—no idea what he was doing.”
“Also no upper body strength,” Joey added, voice already thick. “Those bus tubs were heavy.”
“Also no upper body strength,” Anna said. “But he had something better. He had heart. And an obsessive attention to detail that we have all come to rely on more than we probably admit.”
The room was quiet now. Listening.
“Over the years, Joey became more than an employee. He became family. He survived the Great Napkin Reorganization of 2023. He endured my ‘Florence Method’ experiment without filing a complaint—though I later learned he had drafted one.”
“I was being diplomatic,” Joey managed.
“He was being patient with me,” Anna said softly. “Which is more than I deserved.”
She paused. This wasn’t performance anymore.
“Joey, you’ve held this place together in ways none of us fully understood until this summer. When the rest of us were figuring out our lives, you were here. Steady. Reliable. Making sure the napkins were folded and the coffee was fresh and the customers felt welcome.” Anna’s voice caught slightly. “You made it look easy. It wasn’t easy. We know that now.”
Joey was crying. Not the performative tears he’d threatened—real tears, streaming down his face.
“So yes, you’re only going twenty minutes away. And yes, you’ll be back for shifts. But this moment matters. Your moment matters. Because you’ve earned it.” Anna raised her glass. “To Joey. Our favorite perfectionist. Our napkin whisperer. Our family.”
“To Joey!” the room echoed.
Joey’s face lit up. He sat down on the booth bench, picked up a coffee mug, lifted his pinky finger—and held perfectly still, a huge smile on his face.
And there it was. Coffee Drinker #2. Stella laughed and reached for her phone, taking the perfect shot.
