“I’m a little funny.”
He was a little funny. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and smiled at the same time, which was the thing Luke made her do.
“Okay,” she said. “Beach.”
“Beach.”
“I’m going to need chairs. Good ones. Ones that don’t sink.”
“See? You’re already organizing.”
“And a backup plan for wind.”
“Naturally.”
“And I need to figure out food. And an officiant. And a photographer—Stella, probably, if she’ll do it.”
“She’ll do it.”
Meg pulled her phone back out of her bag. Not venue listings this time. A new note. She typed BEACH WEDDING at the top and stared at it.
“This is going to be harder than the venues,” she said.
“Probably.”
“Simple is never actually simple.”
“Rarely.” Luke gathered their trash and stood. “But it’s usually better.”
They drove the rest of the way home with the windows down. Meg’s phone buzzed twice—work, probably, or Anna with a Shack update—and she let it buzz. The ocean kept pace beside them, steady and unhurried, the way it had since before there were weddings or venues or napkin cranes.
At home, Luke changed out of the button-down and back into a t-shirt and the flip-flops Meg pretended to hate and went to check the kelp samples in the fridge. Meg sat at the kitchen table with her laptop open and the new note on her phone and a fresh sticky note on her coffee cup that said CHAIRS.
By nine o’clock she had three pages. Chair rental companies. Beach permit requirements. Sunset times for October through January. Caterers who did outdoor events. Officiantrecommendations from Natalie. A section labeled FOOD — FAMILY? with a question mark she kept looking at and not answering.
Luke came through on his way to bed. He looked at the laptop. At the three pages. At Meg, who had been sitting in his kitchen for two hours turning “beach, you, me, family” into a project plan.
“How many chair options?” he asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Only fourteen?”
“There are more. I’m being selective.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Meg.”
“Goodnight.” She was already typing. “Luke?”
“Mm.”
“Thank you. For today. For the fish tacos. For—” She gestured at the laptop, the lists, the sticky note. “For knowing what we needed before I did.”
“It’s sand,” he said. “It’s not complicated.”
He went to bed. Meg sat at the table with her lists and the quiet house and the ocean audible through the open window.
By ten o’clock she closed the laptop, put the sticky note on the monitor where she’d see it tomorrow, and went to bed.
