I throw a piece of bread at him. He catches it in his mouth and chews.

“See what I have to deal with?” I ask Donna, jerking my thumb in Renn’s direction.

She grins. “He tried to engage me in a fart war the other day. I think this is his version of showing affection.”

And that’s when I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. That is such a Renn thing to do.

“You’re disgusting!” I push Renn’s shoulder.

“And you’re stalling. So? You coming, or do you have a hot date with a Marilyn Manson album and your pillow?”

I love Renn’s friends. Growing up, they used to tail Pippa and me pathetically, vying for crumbs of our attention. We were older, wiser, and we did not smell like goats and socks. Which, naturally, gave us the shine of rock stars.

“I’m sure Ever could use a little time to relax,” Dad says sternly. “Not that there is anything wrong with your pot-smoking, wave-catching, job-avoiding friends.”

Actually, hearing him list all the reasons why Renn is friends with screwups reminds me of how much I used to enjoy hanging out with them. Renn’s crew are the least judgmental people I’ve ever met. They’d probably be chill if I decided to perform a satanic ceremony midsurf. And, yes, there is a chance I will burst out crying spontaneously—I’ve been doing that a lot lately—but I don’t think it would freak them out. Besides, I could use the opportunity to stretch my limbs. See if I really am bad at surfing after years of not doing it.

“I’ll go surfing.” I surprise both Renn and myself by saying this.

Renn hides his smile with a can of soda he pops open. “Damn, Dad. Nice work.”

“Can I borrow one of your surfboards?” I ask.

“No need. I kept your old one in pristine condition.” Renn winks.

My heart races in my chest. “You did?”

He nods. “That’s what good siblings do. Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“This is going to work out perfectly. While you are out, I can move some of my things back here,” Donna says. “Your dad and I can grill a few things for dinner. How does that sound?”

It sounds perfect.

No, not perfect, I remind myself. Perfect doesn’t exist.

It sounds just right.

We go to Ocean Beach, Renn’s favorite spot. The waves can get up to fifteen feet high in the winter, and the winds are moody. It’s not SoCal flawless. The water moving in and out from under the Golden Gate Bridge shifts the sandbars, and sometimes it’s foggy as shit. But Renn says that there is something boring and obvious about surfing the perfect Malibu waves, and I tend to agree.