Page 77 of The Beach Shack
He handed her a water bottle from his pack and joined her on the sand. The waves rolled in slow and even, the tide halfway in, and the sun sat lower in the sky now.
“Remember when we used to surf just down from here?” Luke asked, tipping his head toward the nextcove. “You had that ridiculous yellow rash guard with pineapples on it.”
Meg laughed. “It wasn’t ridiculous. It was iconic.”
“You fell off your board more than you stayed on it.”
“I was enthusiastic.”
“You were determined,” Luke corrected. “Big difference.”
They sat in comfortable silence, the sounds of waves and seagulls filling the space between them. Meg traced a finger through the damp sand absently.
“Can I ask something?” she said finally.
Luke glanced over. “Of course.”
“When you’re not rescuing kelp or building sea turtle fences or helping with the lunch rush at the Beach Shack… what do you want to do?”
He was quiet for a beat. “I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. I love the environmental work, but funding’s always a mess. I get these short-term grants or one-off projects, but nothing sustainable. I thought about going back to school for marine biology, maybe get a master’s. But then Margo asked for help last summer, and I’ve kind of… stayed.”
Meg nodded. “Because of Tyler.”
“And because of Margo. And the Shack. And… this place.” He gestured around them. “I guess I’ve been waiting to figure out what comes next.”
Meg stared out at the ocean. “I always knew what came next. Promotion, bonus, another pitch. I never stopped to think whether I actually wanted any of it.”
Luke turned to face her fully. “You’re good at what you do, Meg. That was never the question.”
“No. The question is whether it still fits. Whether I fit.”
He studied her. “You know, you’re kind of amazing out here.”
Meg blinked. “I have kelp in my hair.”
“You’re observant. Detail-oriented. You caught things I’ve missed on these surveys for months.”
She smiled faintly. “Years of redlining contracts and scouring invoices.”
“It translates,” Luke said. “You could do this, you know. Or something like it. Environmental work. Community projects. There’s a need for people who get the big picture and know how to manage chaos.”
Meg looked at him. Really looked.
Luke, with his sun-bleached hair and ocean eyes, sitting cross-legged in the sand. Luke, who remembered her pineapple rash guard and how she used to stare at the ocean.
“I’m not sure where I belong anymore,” she said quietly.
Luke reached down and plucked the tiny dolphin ornament from the pile they’d collected. “You belong where you feel most like yourself.”
She took the ornament from him, turning it in her hand.
He didn’t let go right away. His fingers brushed hers—intentionally this time—and something flickered in his expression.
“You know,” he said softly, “I might fall for you if you keep quoting tide tables and naming data clusters after sandwiches.”
Meg felt herself flush. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not even a little.”
