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“We?”

“Sure, I’m gonna surf when you do,” he says. “That’s why I do this job.”

“What if I fall, though?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You won’t. That board’s like an ocean liner. But if you do, just float until I get back.”

Right. Just float in the middle of the shark-infested ocean alone ‘til you get back. Excellent plan, Stan.

He pushes me while shouting frantic instructions about paddling and standing. I only make it to my knees because the board is less like an ocean liner and more like a flimsy piece of plexiglass going god-knows-how-fast over rushing, uneven water. Fortunately, he’s still there, though he looks a little disgruntled. “That was a perfect wave you just missed.”

“I’ll try to stop being so bad at surfing, then,” I reply. “Surfing, something I’ve never done.”

He is looking into the distance, not listening. “Get flat,” he says. “Hurry. This is a good set.”

This time I manage to get up, for all of two seconds. Stan gives me a thumbs up as he blows past me on his tiny little board, and just the act of looking at him is enough to send me right over the side.

When my head comes back up, I’m alone and there’s an endless ocean on three sides of me. The shore is so distant it almost seems like a mirage and I feel panic setting in.

God. Don’t do this here, I beg. Do not do this here. I take shallow sips of air and try to ignore what’s happening—though after Amsterdam I should know this tactic doesn’t work. Passing out in front of thousands of people, and on camera, sucked. But not as much as passing out in the middle of the ocean.

I attempt to get my board right side up, but just as I do, a wave hits, knocking me for a loop, the board tugging dangerously on the ankle strap and flying into the air. I cover my head with my hands as I go under. What happens if it lands on me? What happens if I’m knocked unconscious? No one will even know. No one will even see me.

Don’t panic, I plead. My head breaks the surface and I look around frantically—no one is nearby. I see Josh in the distance but he’s not even looking my way, and another wave is coming. Stan told me to dive under them, but I can’t get on the board in time. Once again, the wave hits, and this time my leash doesn’t survive. When I emerge, my board is sailing away without me, heading straight for the glamorous shores I can’t possibly reach on my own. My breath is coming short now, and without my inhaler, I’m going to pass out in the water and no one will have a clue.

My head goes under again and when I reemerge, I see Josh paddling toward me fast. I have no idea how he does it, but within seconds he’s there. He jumps into the water and grabs me from behind, holding onto his board with one hand while the other arm wraps around my waist, keeping me safely above the surface.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I panicked,” I weep, placing a hand on his board and trying desperately to get air into my lungs. He’s the last person I want to freak out in front of, but there’s no helping it. “I get asthma attacks when I panic.” Deep breath in. “It always happens at the worst times. And now my board is gone. And…” I’m still trying to get air in and out. I squeeze my eyes shut tight trying to control the quiver in my lower lip.

“You’re okay,” he says, his voice low and calm in my ear. “You’re absolutely fine. If you can talk, you can get enough air. I’m gonna get you back to shore now, okay?” His certainty reassures me, even if nothing is solved yet.

With the arm he has around my waist, Josh slings me onto his board.

“Just sit up unless I tell you otherwise,” he says. “If a wave’s coming, I’ll have you lie flat.”

“But—” I begin.

He places a hand on my knee, warm and huge and reassuring. “All you have to do is sit there. Pretend you’re back lounging at the pool.”

“Do I have a drink?” I ask. I’m still crying, and it’s so goddamned embarrassing. But he laughs.

“Yes, you have a margarita, but they forgot the salt,” he says. “So you’re trying to get the waitress fired.”

“Of course I am,” I whisper. “The salt’s the best part.”

He laughs again, and then he starts to swim toward shore, pulling me with him. I am still trying to suck in air, still wondering what happens if I pass out.

Stan is paddling toward us, dragging my board alongside him.

“I’ve got her,” he tells Josh, as if I’m some tedious pet he’s been assigned to watch.

“The hell you do,” Josh replies, placing his hand on my back. “Give me her board.”

“I told you, man, I got this.”

“Give me the fucking board,” Josh snaps, reaching out and snatching it from him. “And next time, don’t leave someone who’s never been out in her life a half mile from shore in heavy surf.”