Page 60 of The Beach Shack Artists 3
Bea chose rainbow sherbet because she claimed it “tasted like chaos,” Joey got cookie dough and added gummy worms because he had no shame, and Stella went with mint chip, no cone, because someone had to maintain order.
They claimed a weathered wooden bench overlooking the beach. The waves rolled in with their gentle rhythm, and down the shore, a couple was walking their dog while a group of surfers called it a day.
Joey took the first bite and sighed dramatically. “Well. That was a disaster.”
“A beautiful disaster,” Bea said, gesturing with her rainbow spoon.
Stella didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You know it’s bad when we’re the ones holding things together.”
“I honestly thought we were being punked,” Joey said, pausing mid-bite as a piece of cookie dough threatened to escape. “Like, I kept waiting for Bernie to pop out with a camera and be like, ‘Congratulations, you’ve just survived the world’s weirdest family simulation.’”
“I think that was the simulation,” Bea said, licking melted sherbet from her fingers. “And I think we passed.”
Joey nodded solemnly. “By doing the bare minimum.”
“Which,” Stella added, watching a pelican dive for fish in the distance, “was still more than the adults managed.”
They all sat with that for a moment, licking their melting ice cream and processing the emotional whiplash of the morning. The bench was still warm from the day’s sun, and the wooden slats creaked comfortably under their weight.
“Are they always like this?” Bea asked finally, swirling her remaining sherbet into an abstract pattern. “Because I’m new to this version of the family, and I feel like I need a user manual.”
Stella leaned back against the bench, feeling the salt-rough wood against her shoulders. Her chocolate chip was starting to get messy, but she didn’t care. “More or less. Dad vanishes. Your mom paints through emergencies. Aunt Meg tries to save the world while silently dying inside. Margo pretends everything is fine until it isn’t. And then, eventually, they all crash into each other.”
Joey grinned, catching a drip before it could stain his shirt. “Like a slow-motion demolition derby. With more passive aggression.”
“And paint water,” Bea added.
“Don’t forget the paint water.”
A group of teenagers skateboarded past, their wheels rattling against the boardwalk planks, and Stella realized how normal she and her friends probably looked—just kids eating ice creamand talking. Nobody would guess they’d spent the morning managing a health department crisis while the adults fell apart.
“It’s wild,” Stella continued, gesturing with her spoon. “They’re all grown-ups. They have jobs. Mortgages. Skills. But throw them in a kitchen with a minor crisis, and it’s like everyone forgets how to function.”
“They’re kind of…” Bea trailed off, searching for the word while watching the sun sink lower toward the horizon.
“Messy,” Stella offered.
“Delusional,” Joey said.
“Exhausting,” Bea added.
“Deeply dramatic,” Stella concluded.
They all nodded, the agreement punctuated by the distant sound of someone’s music drifting from a beach bonfire that was just starting to flicker to life.
And then—Bea said it. “But I think I’m rooting for them?”
Joey looked surprised, pausing in his excavation of a particularly stubborn gummy worm. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged, her sherbet now completely liquid and rainbow-colored in the bottom of her cup. “I mean, they’re a mess, but they’re trying. Kind of. In their own unhinged, emotionally constipated ways.”
Stella looked out at the ocean, her mint chip nearly gone. The water was that deep blue-gray color that came just before full sunset, and she could smell the kelp and brine that always reminded her she was home. “I didn’t think I cared if they figured it out. Like, it wasn’t my problem. But today… I don’t know. Watching them all flail and fight and try—it felt different.”
“They care,” Joey said simply, abandoning his ice cream to focus on the conversation. “That’s what you saw.”
Stella nodded. “Even when they’re screwing up, they’re trying to hold onto each other. It’s kind of admirable. In a dumpster-fire sort of way.”
“Maybe we should tell them that,” Bea said, tilting her head as if considering the radical nature of this suggestion.
