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“He’s not putting a lot of effort into getting better,” I reply bluntly.
He nods. “Yeah, maybe but…” He trails off and my stomach sinks. I already know what’s coming because he’s implied some version of this several times. “I feel like I’m being punished for losing my way.”
He’s apologized a thousand times for what he said that night in Fresno, but he’s still blaming me, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of how he acts as if I’m a danger, the way he’s wary even when he hugs me, and of his belief in a punitive God who lashes out for minor transgressions and is supposed to reward him for good behavior by making him the star of the football team.
But I think I’m mostly just tired of us, and I don’t know how to escape it.
When we arrive at the campsite and I climb from the car, Luke is the first person I see. He’s tan though it’s January, in need of a shave as always, and his eyes glow brightly in the dim winter light. His gaze meets mine and I know he isn’t holding Fresno against me. He probably never was—he was just upset about something he had no right to be upset about, and he didn’t know how to handle it, which I understand completely.
It’s how I felt all summer, after all, watching him walk away at night with a girl who wasn’t me.
“Luke’s first attempt at Mavericks!” Summer shouts, pulling up behind us, summing up in a single sentence why there’s nothing to be excited about at all. Because the word attempt suggests a strong possibility of failure, and failure at Mavericks is likely to be fatal.
We unload the cars and Danny makes a point of setting up a pup tent for the two of us, a bit away from everyone else. Someone mutters, “Lucky bastard”, and jokes are made about how the moaning tonight will be louder than the waves. Luke’s nostrils flare and he walks away, going to the cliff’s edge to stare at the surf.
I want to join him. I want to ask if he’s scared. But it isn’t my place, and I’d just wind up begging him to reconsider, which is the last thing he needs. I know I can’t change his mind, but I could, perhaps, shake his confidence, and when he does this tomorrow, he’ll need every ounce of confidence he’s got.
Grady and Danny try to get a fire started while Libby unloads coolers and checks her lists. She’s made chicken, pies, and appetizers. I suspect she’s trying to prove what a good little pastor’s wife she’ll be, but it’s been a struggle not to resent her excitement when Luke’s life hangs in the balance.
“Oh, no!” Libby cries, removing a bag from the cooler. “There’s no chicken in here.”
She spent the whole damn morning on that chicken. Danny asks if it could be in another cooler and she presses a hand to her face, shaking her head.
“No, this is the only cooler I brought. Crap. I had it in there. I was shuffling things so the pie wouldn’t tip, and I must have left it all on the counter. What a waste.”
“Libby,” Grady warns as if he’s speaking to a child, “I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“I spent all morning on it, though,” she says. “Like, the whole morning. And I soaked all the chicken overnight in buttermilk too. It turned out so well.”
“God must be very good to us,” Grady scolds, “if that’s the worst thing that’s happened.”
Libby’s head bows in shame, and I seethe. Grady’s turning her into someone less, a shadow of herself, and I think it bothers me because I worry I’m doing the same thing to myself. That I’m spending so much time denying the things I want that I’m gonna lose track of what they even are. That I’m denying everything I feel so often that I’ll soon stop feeling anything.
“Does it have to be the worst thing that’s happened for her to say something about it, Grady?” I ask. “All her work went to waste. She’s allowed to be upset.”
His mouth presses flat. “I was just trying to keep things in perspective.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, let’s all remember this moment the next time you decide to complain.”
His eyes narrow. If I ever was unsure about this, I no longer am: Grady hates me. He hates me far out of proportion to anything I’ve ever said to him.
We roast hot dogs, and then the guys throw a football around while the girls watch. They’re acting like this is a celebration when we might be driving back without Luke tomorrow. And Danny is bitter, for the wrong reasons.
“This is so stupid,” he says, taking the seat beside me. “They’re acting like he’s Laird Hamilton. I could say I was gonna surf Mavericks too. Anyone could. It doesn’t mean you start celebrating it like it’s already happened.”
I hate the celebrating because I think it will make it harder for Luke to back out tomorrow, the way he should. But it almost feels like Danny hopes Luke will fail, and that makes me mad.
“He’s gotten really good.”
“Sure,” Danny says, his eyes rolling. “He’s spent the whole summer surfing. Must be nice.”
My fists clench. I want to point out how many summers he spent surfing. That the work he’s been doing with his dad isn’t what kept him from becoming amazing at it, and it isn’t what kept him in bed every morning while Luke got up before dawn to get in the line-up. But I think part of the problem isn’t so much that Luke is doing something Danny is not, but that he can feel my loyalties shifting, as if I’m on one of those rides where the floor tilts, and no matter how hard I scramble to maintain my footing, I’m inexorably sliding toward one side—Luke’s. And Danny might not even realize it, but he’s trying to pull me back.
* * *
The next morning, the sound of tents unzipping wakes me. It’s still dark out, but once one of us is up, we’re all up.
By the time I climb out of the tent, Beck and Caleb have got the beginnings of a fire going, and Harrison’s pulling a grate and kettle out for coffee. Luke is pacing, looking out over the ridge as he waits for enough daylight to see the swell.
