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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.”

He snatches his beer bottle off the table as he rises. “I think you should stop drinking, Juliet,” he says, walking away, dismissing everything I’ve said as the byproduct of a single margarita.

I silently fume as I return to the kitchen. The girls are whipping up appetizers, laughing and drinking and celebrating, just like the guys are, and I feel lifeless in their midst. I begrudgingly start cleaning when all I really want to do is go to our room and sleep until this whole fucking weekend is over.

Liam jumps on the counter to get our attention.

“I think a toast is in order!” he shouts over the music, which someone promptly lowers. “Because our boy here did the unimaginable today and lived to tell the tale.”

The crowd shouts and claps its approval. Luke is sitting on the couch, knees spread wide, head back against the cushions. His grin is sheepish, far less impressed with himself than everyone else is. “Just got lucky,” he replies.

“Bro, there was no luck involved. That was solid gold talent,” says Caleb.

“Don’t count me out yet,” jokes Ryan, the only one of them who barely surfs. “I haven’t even tried yet.”

Caleb laughs. “I’m counting you out, dude.”

“Or me,” adds Grady. It’s the first joke I’ve ever heard him make. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be amazing at it.”

Caleb raises a brow. “Sure, Grady. Never stop dreaming.”

“Give me a couple of years of surfing in Nicaragua,” Danny says, and he is not joking. “Maybe I’ll catch up, though I’m never going to have the money for a board like Luke’s.”

The smile leaves Luke’s face. “When are you going surfing in Nicaragua?”

Danny crosses to where I stand and wraps an arm around my waist. Given how much we’ve bickered today, it feels like he’s doing it simply to make a point. I have to fight myself not to push him away.

“We’re moving there,” he announces.