Page 49 of The Summer We Fell

“Better me than you.” He frowns. “I’m not spending the next two hours cooking.”

I hesitate and then smile, hoping it conveys everything I cannot say: Thank you for taking my side, Luke. Thank you for putting me first. I wish I could do the same thing for you.

And then it occurs to me that maybe I can.

* * *

The guys we hang out with most nights are in a similar position to Luke and Danny: college kids, scraping by. Liam works construction like Luke does. Ryan works at a bar. But I suspect the prep school guys—Caleb, Harrison, and Beck—have loads of money. They talk like kids with money—they golf, they compare Park City to Telluride for skiing, they argue over whether Kauai or Maui is a better island—and Harrison drives a new BMW. It continually surprises me that I find them likable, but I do. They’re kind to everyone, even Grady—ignoring him when he’s being an uptight prick—and they cheer Luke on like a brother.

They could definitely afford to help Luke out, so once they’re all gathered, I nervously, ostentatiously clear my throat. I’m glad Grady isn’t present to hear me begging and admitting defeat.

“Luke needs new boards,” I announce. “For the contest coming up.”

Everyone blinks at me in surprise. I don’t talk much, normally. “I thought you did a GoFundMe?” Caleb asks Luke.

“It wasn’t successful,” Luke replies, embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re making good money doing construction, right?” Beck asks. “You ought to be able to swing a decent shortboard, at least.”

Luke gives a terse nod. “I have to use it to pay my living expenses during the school year. Seriously, it’s cool. I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t,” I reply before I can stop myself. “You’re at a disadvantage in every contest right now.” I’m pushing too hard, but I don’t give a shit; he needs those damn boards.

He glances at me, a look that asks me to let it go, and the other guys stare at us, perhaps surprised to see me lobbying on Luke’s behalf when I mostly act like he doesn’t exist.

I feel like an absolute idiot, but the next morning there’s three grand from an anonymous donor in Luke’s GoFundMe. And I’m pretty sure I’d suffer any amount of feeling like an idiot to see the look of pride on Luke’s face a week later when he pulls the thousand-dollar Ghost he just bought out of the Jeep.

He runs a loving hand over the epoxy surface. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“So she’s a she, huh?” I tease.

He grins. “The beautiful things always are.”

We all go out to watch him surf on Saturday, and the difference in his performance is shocking. He’s so much better than he was a year ago, and better still on the new board. He walks out of the water, grinning ear to ear, like a kid on Christmas morning with a toy that’s wound up being even cooler than he ever imagined.

I’m the one he smiles at first as he walks out of the water. “Your turn,” that smile says. “Send your recordings out.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe both of us can actually get out of here.

* * *

I’m alone in the backyard, trying to get a good recording of my new song, when Danny walks outside. He’s had more free time this summer because he’s getting in shape for football in the afternoons rather than surfing. I try not to be annoyed that he seems to think I should free up my time as well.

He takes a seat in the grass, listening, and there’s nothing impatient in his demeanor, but I sense it anyway. Given he’s never encouraged my music, it seems like a fair assumption. He’s never even asked me about the microphone or why I’m recording.

He rises when the song concludes. “Is that new?”

“Yeah.” I wonder if he hears, like I do, the note of challenge in my voice.

“It’s pretty,” he says mildly. “I just don’t know why all your stuff is so depressing. You’ve got a decent life.”

I think of Luke in the diner this morning, tanned and glowing, eyes crinkling at the corners as I approached his table, happy to see me. He said he’d been singing part of my new song in the line-up.

“Everyone heard me singing that line about snow,” he’d said. “They started calling me Father Christmas. I’m never gonna hear the end of it.”

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I can’t,” he’d replied. “That’s half what I won’t hear the end of.”