The Summer We Fell (The Summer, #1)(78)

Danny, as always, is kind. “He’s waiting for that,” he says, pointing to a blue swell in the distance.

I’m not sure how he knows it’s different from anything else, but he’s right. It gets bigger, and Luke lies flat on his board and starts paddling—slowly at first, and then faster as it closes in. As always, he makes it look easy, but he’s moving fast and he’s timed it perfectly: the wave is probably twenty feet overhead by the time it reaches him. Small, by Mavericks’ standards, but far more dangerous because he’s surrounded by cliffs on both sides. It’s surfing a huge wave, while maneuvering through a deadly obstacle course, all at the same time.

“Holy shit,” whispers Danny.

Even over the roar of the surf, the excitement from everyone who remained on the deck is deafening as they run down the stairs to get closer.

Luke carves across the wave and then takes a sharp turn at the last moment to angle himself down the center of the channel, just skirting the rocks. And when he finally steps out of the water, the guys standing on the beach hoist him on their shoulders as if he’s just won the Superbowl singlehandedly.

“Thank heaven,” Libby says under her breath, turning with Grady to head to the beach.

Danny grabs my hand to stop me from going after them. “Why the hell did you follow him up here?” he asks me under his breath. “We already tried to talk him out of it, and he made it clear he wasn't going to listen to any of us.”

“I don’t know.” I stare at the ground, unable to meet his eye. “I was just positive he was going to die, and I needed to know that I’d tried to stop it.”

“Since when do you care so much whether Luke lives or dies?”

I shake off his hand, shocked by the callousness of the question. “If you think I’d be ambivalent about someone’s death, then I don’t know why you’re marrying me.”

He sighs. “I’m just not sure why everyone’s making such a big deal out of it. They’re acting like he’s Jesus. He’s just got a better board than the rest of us do.”

My jaw falls open. “Do me a favor,” I snap, moving away from him, “and don’t act like the only thing he’s got that you don’t have is a good board.”

I hurry down to the beach without him, wanting only to see Luke with my own eyes. I stand at the edge of the crowd, drinking in the sight of him—wet hair pushed off his face, unwilling smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, eyes lighter than they were. I’m still not over the terror, still furious that he did it in the first place and will probably do it again, but I’d go through the rest of my life content if I could just keep seeing him as he is now, whole and safe, and unspeakably beautiful.

The moment ends quickly, of course, because there’s something restless and agitated in Luke, something that’s never satisfied. Our gaze finally meets as he cuts through the crowd to climb up the cliff again, and my eyes fill. I squeeze them shut before the tears escape, and when I finally have my shit together, he’s gone.

“If nothing else, maybe this will keep him out of a fight,” Beck says quietly.

I glance at him. “You make it sound like he fights all the time.”

His arms fold. “His sponsors have threatened to pull the plug twice already, and he just got signed, Juliet. It wouldn’t take much.”

We watch from the beach as he jumps again. It seemed so unplanned the last time, but from this vantage point I at least know that he’s timing his jumps, waiting for the precise moment the swell explodes against the cliff face.

He rides a second wave in and goes back for a third. A group of us remain on the beach, watching him. It would take just one bad jump, one mistimed wave, for it to all go wrong, but night is falling so I know he won’t do it again. I sit with my knees to my chest, a tight ball of fear, until he finally steps into the sand and removes the board’s leash from his ankle.

Thank God.

As we return to the house, I release air I think I’ve been holding in since he first suggested this bullshit, and my stomach starts to slowly unknot itself. This afternoon has taken a year off my life.

Soon, everyone is celebrating, acting like Luke’s victory is their own, a weird testosterone-fueled sort of relief.

The music is jacked up to max volume, shots are poured, the keg is tapped. I sip at the margarita handed to me, but I’m not celebrating anything. I’m just trying to shake off my terror from earlier, and the fear that he might try again tomorrow.

Danny’s drinking, too, but it isn’t making him jubilant like it is the rest of them—he’s just growing more melancholy. Donna calls to see if we made it here safely and to ask if we’ll be back in time for dinner Sunday.

“We might be earlier than that,” Danny says gloomily. When he ends the call, he looks around the room. “I wonder what my dad would say if he could see this now. I don't think he’d be impressed.”

“Well, if there’s actually an afterlife, maybe he’s gained a little perspective.”

He sighs wearily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I know I should back off, but I don’t especially feel like pulling my punches right now, not after what he said to me on the cliff. “When I picture God, I picture someone who’s a little more accepting of human frailty than your father was.”