Page 88 of The Beach Shack
“You were always meant to be part of this.”
Meg felt something catch in her chest—not nerves, not uncertainty. Just recognition. A quiet kind of knowing.
Luke smiled. “So what happens next?”
“I make pasta for tonight’s Circle,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips. “And start figuring out what my actual life looks like here.”
She squeezed his hand back. “Want to help me figure it out?”
"Wouldn't miss it," Luke said.
They spent the afternoon cooking together with an attention and care Meg hadn't brought to food preparation in years. Luke was there, reading her movements, handing her ingredients before she asked, their rhythm in the kitchen as natural as everything else between them.
"This is going to be incredible," he said, watching her adjust seasoning with the precision she usually reserved for marketing presentations.
"It has to be," Meg replied. "First time bringing something I've made myself to the Circle. I want it to be perfect."
"It already is," Luke said, and she knew he wasn't just talking about the pasta.
The lemon pasta came together slowly—fresh pastamade from scratch, a sauce that required patience and constant attention, herbs chopped with care.
As the afternoon light slanted through the kitchen windows, Luke glanced at the clock. "I should probably head out soon. Give you time to get ready for tonight."
Meg looked up from stirring the cream sauce. "I wish you could come."
"Women's circle," Luke said with a gentle smile. "I get it. Some traditions are worth keeping."
"I'll bring leftovers," she said, the words carrying more weight than they should. "To your place. After."
Luke's eyes lit up. "I'd like that. A lot."
The pasta was perfect—silky and bright with lemon, fragrant with fresh herbs, substantial enough to feed the circle with plenty left over. She packed it carefully in a ceramic dish while Luke gathered his things.
"See you later," he said at the door, and instead of a quick kiss to her temple, he leaned forward and kissed her properly—soft, certain, like something that had been waiting years to happen.
When they broke apart, Meg felt breathless and grounded all at once.
"Welcome home, Meg Walsh," he whispered against her forehead.
Later, as she gathered her keys and checked her reflection one more time, Meg felt the particular anticipation that came with the evening's circle. The woman looking back at her barely resembled the polished executive who'd arrived in Laguna weeks ago. Her hair had stopped fighting the humidity—and so had she.Her clothes leaned toward comfort instead of armor, and her eyes held a kind of peace she hadn't seen in years.
The drive to Eleanor's house felt different tonight—not like traveling between worlds, but like moving through one continuous landscape where she finally fit. The evening air was warm, scented with jasmine and salt, and the string lights strung between the houses glowed like stars that had decided to come down for a closer look.
Tonight, she wasn't just attending the circle. She was bringing something she'd made herself to share, joining rather than observing, belonging rather than visiting.
She stepped through Eleanor's front door, pasta dish in hand—and stopped.
A hand-painted sign hung across the living room entry:
WELCOME HOME, MEG.
No fanfare. No speeches. Just her circle, smiling. Waiting.
And somehow, that was everything.
EPILOGUE
Meg woke early, before the sounds of the town stirred, before even the surfers staked out their places in the shallows. The sky over Tyler’s porch was a soft watercolor—lavender smeared with gold, like someone had taken a wet brush to the horizon.
