Page 6 of The Summer We Fell

She was certain last night would be the night. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be, and I was correct.

Uneventful. I told you it would be. He’s just being careful, I think. It’s kind of sweet.

Shane Harris is sweet, too, but I guarantee that wouldn’t stop HIM if you get tired of the situation.

Would I have said, “Yes” to Shane’s repeated offers if I wasn’t with Danny? Maybe, but I am with Danny, and I’m living with his parents, so there’s no point in asking myself the question.

The Jeep swerves onto the shoulder of the road when we reach Kirkpatrick. I’m shivering as I climb from the back, and Luke’s eyes roll as I wrap my towel around myself for warmth.

I follow them to the beach and sit, tucking my knees inside my sweatshirt while they strip off their shirts and pull on wetsuits. The breeze carries the scent of sunscreen and sea grass and wild flowers, and though it’s still chilly, I close my eyes and breathe deep, lifting my face to the sky. There are times out here, when the sun is shining and the breeze is gentle, that I almost believe I can be made whole again.

When my eyes open, Danny is already marching toward the water like some firm and capable soldier, but Luke is not.

He’s still, watching me, but turns away when my eyes open, following Danny without a word.

He carries the board under one arm easily, as if he’s carrying nothing at all. His height makes him look almost lean, when clothed, but he has the broad shoulders of a swimmer, and there’s a gracefulness to him, one you wouldn't associate with football but you wouldn’t exactly associate with ballet either. It’s more like he’s a tiger in human form, possessing a kind of sleek athleticism even when he’s doing something as simple as walking to the shore.

They paddle out and get in the line-up while I bury my feet in the cool sand to shield them from the wind. It’ll warm up soon enough, but I still wish I hadn’t come.

Danny takes the first wave he can, the same sort of wave he always takes—moderate and predictable. He attempts to cut up into it but wipes out.

I wait for Luke to drop into the next one, but he doesn’t. He lets wave after wave pass him by. Danny claims he’s really good—he grew up surfing before his family moved away in high school—but I wonder if he’s intimidated, having only surfed in San Diego. It’s selfish of me, but I hope he’s intimidated.

I hope he hates this and never, ever comes back.

Just as I think it, though, he sits up straight, peering into the distance, every muscle tense. Once again, he reminds me of a tiger, but this time it’s one who’s just spotted prey. The wave in the distance begins to thicken and swell. Luke flattens on his stomach and paddles hard, his broad shoulders in continuous motion as a wall of water forms behind him.

It’s not a beginner wave—it’s the kind of wave that could fuck you up if you didn’t know what you were doing. And even though I don’t like him and don’t want him here, I hold my breath, braced for disaster.

He’s upright suddenly, as if by magic. While Danny is methodical when he pops up, carefully planting one foot and then the other from the knees, Luke has somehow propelled his long body into the air in one seamless motion, landing effortlessly, his footing assured. It happens so fast I can barely process it, so fast that I wonder if I imagined it.

I thought his height would hurt him, but it isn’t a factor at all. The wave is a monster, bumpy and ferocious. But he could be standing barefoot on the kitchen floor—that’s how stable he looks.

He carves up into the wall of water, does an effortless aerial, and then carves again, letting his hand graze the wave, trying to slow his speed as he enters the barrel to make it last as long as possible. He looks like one of the pros: the guys training to surf Mavericks when the winter swell comes in. And even from a distance, I see now why he would be willing to drive eight hours north and endure staying in a pastor’s house for better surf. He’s happy. I’ve seen him smile, I’ve heard him laugh, but there’s something different in him as he soars across the water, something deeply focused and complete.

Luke shoots through the end of the barrel at last, his board flying into the air as it glides back up over the crest of the wave’s tail. Guys in the lineup cheer—guys who normally show approval with a chin nod, a quiet, “Nice”. He’s simply that good. He jumps down and is prone again, paddling, his joy replaced by something else, something better. Intensity. As if nothing matters in the world but doing it again.

Danny isn’t like that. He doesn’t want more. He’s happy with exactly what he already has. I wish I was a little more like Danny in that regard. I’m trying.

When they finally return to the shore, two hours later, they are sandy and salty, beyond exhausted, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion than the kind I feel after a shift at the diner. It’s giddy and ecstatic. Despite their size, they remind me of little boys.

“Babe, did you see that?” Danny asks, exultant at finally pulling off a small aerial. “I think I finally get what I was doing wrong before.”

“Surfing badly?” jokes Luke. “Is that what you were doing wrong?” And then he laughs—the sound low and husky and so unquestionably male that I feel a spark streak through me, snapping almost painfully inside my gut.

Danny kicks him and laughs, collapsing beside me in the sand. “Asshole.”

Luke closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sun. “I never want to surf in San Diego again.”

“So, I guess that means I’ve convinced you to stay for the summer?” Danny asks.

Luke glances at me before he looks away. “Yeah. I guess you did.”

But his happiness has ebbed a bit. And I suspect what he is unhappy about is me.

3

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