Page 6 of The Beach Shack Legacy

“Good.” She said this to Stella, then squeezed her arm and dropped her voice. “You doing okay?”

“I’m great.”

“Yeah?” Lindsey studied her for half a second—guidance counselor eyes, quick and practiced—and then her phone buzzed again. “Okay.”

They walked back across the parking lot in the late afternoon sun, Bea still wearing her gown over her clothes, the cap balanced on her head, her tassel swinging. She looked like a very festive bat.

“You didn’t try yours on,” Bea said.

“I’ll try it on at home.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

Bea pulled the gown off over her head, folded it carefully, and put it back in the plastic. They got in the car. Bea started the engine, checked her hair in the rearview mirror, and backed out of the spot too fast.

They were quiet for a few blocks. The jasmine was stronger now in the late afternoon heat.

“You know it’s okay, right?” Bea asked, eyes on the road for once. “Not knowing.”

“I know.”

“Because it is. It’s actually smart. You said it yourself—why spend the money until you know what direction.”

“I know, Bea.”

“I’m just saying. Not everybody has to have it figured out at eighteen. That’s insane. We’re eighteen. We barely know how to do laundry.” She flicked the blinker on a beat late and took the turn anyway.

“You barely know how to do laundry. I’ve been doing mine since I was twelve.”

“That’s because you’re Australian and self-sufficient and slightly terrifying.” Bea turned onto Tyler’s street. “I’m just saying it’s fine.”

“I know it’s fine.” Stella looked out the window. Tyler’s bungalow was three houses down, the porch light on even though it was still bright out. He always left it on. “It is fine.”

Bea pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. The engine ticked in the heat.

“Do you want to come in?” Stella asked.

“Can’t. Mom wants help with something at the house. Probably rearranging furniture again.” Bea reached over and squeezed Stella’s hand. “Try the gown on. Just for a second. You’ll look incredible.”

“You looked like a bat.”

“A historic bat.”

Stella took her bundle and her iced coffee and climbed out. Bea backed down the driveway with a wave, the Civic’s brake lights flashing twice at the end of the street before she turned the corner.

The bungalow was quiet. Tyler was still at the Shack. Stella dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the hallway with the plastic-wrapped cap and gown in her hands.

She could hear the neighbor’s dog. A lawnmower somewhere down the block. Sprinklers. The ordinary sounds of a street on a weekday afternoon.

She hung the cap and gown on the back of her bedroom door, still in the plastic, and closed the door behind her so she wouldn’t have to look at it.

Then she opened it again, because that was dramatic and she wasn’t dramatic.

It hung there. Navy blue, wrapped in plastic. Three weeks away from meaning something.

Stella went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and started editing the photos from that morning. Margo’s profile against the window. Bernie’s pen hovering. Bea with her hand over her mouth.