Page 56 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
“It’s been a day. Some days require pizza.” Tyler dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. “Also, I forgot to go grocery shopping. Again.”
“Shocking,” Stella said, but she was already closing the camera’s display. “Pepperoni?”
“Obviously. What kind of father do you think I am?”
“The kind who considers cereal a food group.”
Twenty minutes later, the pizza box sat open between them on the coffee table. Tyler had even found paper towels, which counted as advanced dinner planning by his standards.
Stella picked off a piece of pepperoni, chewing thoughtfully. “So. Bernie.”
“Yeah. Bernie.” Tyler took a bite, buying time. The pizza was perfectly greasy, hot enough to require tactical cheese navigation. “Think he was right?”
“When is Bernie ever wrong about people stuff?” Stella reached for another slice, cheese stretching in long strings before finally snapping. “He’s like a social-skills robot. Only with feelings.”
“That’s a disturbing image.”
“But accurate.” She leaned back with her slice, sauce threatening her shirt. “He looked worried today. Bernie doesn’t do worried unless something’s actually broken.”
Tyler thought for a moment while extracting a stubborn piece of cheese. “How worried are we talking? Bernie concerned, or Bernie calculating disaster odds?”
“Bernie making notes. For patterns. Which means he’s been watching this build for a while.”
The pizza was hot and salty and exactly what Tyler needed after a day of realizing he’d been missing things that mattered—simple food for complicated thoughts.
“Want to see something?” Stella asked, reaching for her camera.
“More documentation of our family dysfunction?”
“Pretty much.” She scrolled to a folder, then handed him the camera. “I’ve been taking pictures without really thinking. Just moments that felt... important.”
Tyler looked at the first image—Mrs. Borden in the Shack doorway, not her usual confident stride to Table Seven but an expression of genuine confusion. Lost in a place she’d known for years.
“When did you take this?”
“Tuesday. During the lunch rush.” Stella grabbed a napkin, pizza grease making the camera handoff risky. “Anna had justfinished ‘optimizing’ the tables. Mrs. Borden stood there for five whole minutes.”
Tyler scrolled to the next photo—Mrs. Walker at the register, leaning in with the expression of someone asking a delicate question. Behind her, other customers wore the same uncertain look.
“They’re all asking if everything’s okay,” Stella said, reading his face. “Different words, same worry.”
The next photos told a story Tyler realized he’d been living through without seeing. Harold searching for salt. A family with kids decoding the new table names. Regulars pausing at the door like they were double-checking the sign outside.
Tyler took another bite of pizza.
“This one’s my favorite,” Stella said, advancing the photos. “Well, not favorite. Most revealing.”
The shot showed Bernie at his corner table, not absorbed in his tablet but watching the room with careful attention. His expression carried concern wrapped in the polite neutrality he used when things were worse than he let on.
“That’s Bernie in analyst mode,” Tyler said.
“That’s Bernie watching something he loves fall apart,” Stella said. “Look at his face. He’s not judging. He’s worried.”
Tyler studied the photo. Bernie’s eyes held the quiet ache of someone watching a home lose its shape.
“How many customers asked you if everything was okay this week?” he asked.
“Seven. Maybe eight.” Stella pulled a string of cheese off her slice. “But it’s not just the questions. It’s the way people move—like they’re relearning how to belong.”
