Air

by Lisa Glass

  Chase led us to the cabana and started chatting to a guy called Lucas, who stood at approximately seven feet. Also in attendance, each in a brightly colored maxi-dress, were seven women. One of them, who jumped off a sunlounger and straight on to Zeke, was, I realized, almost certainly Amber the swimsuit model.

  “Ezekiel! It’s been way too long. You want shots? Let’s get shots.”

  “What rum do they have?” Zeke asked, looking around for a waiter.

  “Hey, you remember that time we went horseback riding on the beach? I was just telling the girls.”

  “Yeah what were we, ten?”

  “Your hair is wet have you surfed today? Amber waves, right?” She paused for one second to take a breath, and then went on with, “Where’ve you been the past year?”

  “Surfing all over.”

  “And who’s this?”

  “Oh, sorry, I should have introduced you already. This is my girlfriend, Iris. Iris, this is Amber.”

  Amber was a radiant beauty. No two ways about it. Dark skin, perfect curves, green eyes. Sitting on her expensive-looking bag was a Yorkshire terrier, who was working a zebra print coat.

  “Hi, Iris. It’s so nice to meet you. How are you liking Miami?”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Lovely? That accent is lovely. You know Zeke taught me to surf?”

  “He’s good at that,” I said, smiling.

  One of Amber’s friends, a smiley girl with wild hair, said, “And you taught him something too, right, Amber?”

  Suddenly the cabana went very quiet, and Zeke’s smile vanished from his face.

  Chase frowned at Zeke and said, “I hope she don’t mean what I think she means.”

  “Spanish!” Amber said. “I taught him Spanish. Geez, Elsa, I’m not crazy about you making that sound so—”

  “Like Amber stole Zeke’s innocence,” Chase said.

  “Please,” Zeke said. “This girl right here is a sister to me.”

  “You sweetheart,” Amber said. “I love you, baby.”

  “Ha ha. Back at you, always and forever,” Zeke said.

  So my boyfriend was declaring his undying love for a bikini model. Even if he was joking, it still sounded weird to hear him say that. But the thing was, I could feel that there was absolutely no chemistry between them. Brother and sister, in feeling, if not in blood.

  I couldn’t, however, say the same thing about Amber’s friend, who had been making cow eyes at Zeke since we’d got here.

  She finally worked up the nerve to say something, “Hey, Zeke, how’s the surfing going? Saw you finished in the middle of the board last year. That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah,” he said, stroking Amber’s dog. “I missed a few contests. Got myself injured pretty good. I had to take some time out.”

  Because my ex-boyfriend whacked him over the head with a bottle and then stabbed him in the leg. I really hoped Zeke wouldn’t tell her that.

  “That sucks.”

  “Then I surfed a big wave and got held down. Nearly checked out. I was lucky Garrett was around to help me out.”

  I was also around, I thought, remembering the panic I felt as I dived down and untangled Zeke’s foot from the surfboard leash that almost killed him.

  “Oh, really? I never heard about that. Where’d it happen like, Tahiti, or, like, Java?”

  “No, the town that Iris is from, in England. Little place called Newquay.”

  She looked confused. “Nukey? You mean, like an atomic bomb?”

  I shook my head in a way that I hoped signaled, You are a moron of the highest order, lady.

  “New,” I said, “as in not old. And quay, as in a harbor.”

  “Well, I never heard of it.”

  “It’s so nice,” Zeke said. “And it has some sweet waves. But, you know, obviously not the greatest in the world.”

  Oh, really? I thought, feeling as if I had just been stabbed. I mean, technically he was right; Newquay didn’t necessarily have the best waves in the world, but it was home and it hurt like hell to hear Zeke cast even a bit of shade on it and, because of that, my mouth geared up before my brain.

  “Actually, Newquay does have the Cribbar reef break,” I said, “which kicks up gigantic waves that could rival Jaws in Maui, or Mavericks in California, and pro-surfers the world over go there to surf it, so . . .” I said, trailing off.

  The girl looked at me, face vacant as a yellow-lit street, and said, “If you say so. It’s great to see you again, Zeke. Man, I missed your face.”

  “I’m a Face of Billabong,” I said, before I could stop myself. Super-lame. “Oh God, I can’t believe I just said that.” It was probably the most cringe-worthy thing I’d ever come out with, and of course it had to be in front of this girl who seemed to have an epic crush on my boyfriend.

  “You’re a model?” the girl said, looking at me with great skepticism.

  “She’s mostly a surfer,” Zeke said, butting in. I had the feeling he was trying to help me out, but it felt as if it just added insult to injury. “She won a surf competition so she’s representing the surf girls of England in this tour thing Billabong is running.”

  “The UK, not England,” I said, since accuracy appeared to be the order of the day.

  “Is that different?” asked idiot-girl.

  “Uh, yep, quite.”

  “So, I have to go to this work drinks thing tonight, but I’m so glad I ran into you, Zeke. Send me a Facebook message if you have some time over the next couple days and maybe we can meet up for lattes?”

  Zeke never drank lattes. Five dollars for a cup of warm milk is crazy, he’d say.

  “Sure thing, Inga,” he said, and I watched as they kissed each other on both cheeks and she swung off through the hotel bar. She didn’t even say goodbye to me.

  Zeke, completely oblivious, got into another conversation, with the rest of them, about their various globetrotting histories. I was too shy to say anything, but I listened to them talk about the countries they’d left, the languages they’d learned and the careers they’d forged.

  “You guys have plans for tomorrow night?” Chase asked.

  “Nope. I guess we were gonna try and find some place for dinner and then check out some bars.”

  “So you have to come to our mom’s place,” Amber said. “She’s hosting this party for charity. Everyone’s gonna be there.”

  “What do you think, Iris? You wanna go to a party?” Zeke asked me.

  “Can do, if you like.”

  “Oh, you have to come. It’s a pajama party.”

  “Yeah, we totally believe your mom is hosting a pajama party . . .” Zeke said, rolling his eyes.

  “Seriously. It’s for some teen-depression charity.”

  “I suppose pajamas and depression do kinda go together,” Zeke said, looking at me to make sure I was OK with being railroaded into attending a party that involved slippers.

  “Sounds cool,” I said. “I’m in.” I wasn’t totally sure I liked the sound of it, but traveling for months on end had taught me that some of the best experiences happened when you were least expecting them. And conversely, some of the worst nights were the ones you’d been looking forward to for weeks.

  “Where’s she holding it?” Zeke said, “Her waterfront place on Palm Island?”

  “No,” Chase said, “the dry-lot in Coral Gables. You won’t recognize it there. She spent like a million dollars on renovations. Blue marble floors, saltwater pool, exotic-wood kitchen, custom bar. She even got brand-new hurricane-resistant windows fitted. You need a ride?”

  “That would be awesome. Man, that last party was really something.”

  They exchanged a look that spoke volumes, and I wondered just what had gone down at the last party, and whether it involved Inga.

  “Oh and bring your pocketbook, Zeke. Mom has the guests pay two hundred dollars each toward the charity.”

  “No problem.”

  Four hundred dollars to attend a pajama party? Still, it
was only a fraction of the $250K Zeke was making this year in sponsorships. It was for a good cause, but it was by far the most expensive party I’d ever gone to.

  “Do I have time to buy new PJs? Mine are ancient,” I said.

  “Good point I don’t actually own pajamas,” Zeke said.

  “So just go in whatever you do wear,” Chase suggested.

  “Um,” Zeke said, considering how to formulate his reply, before I said, “He’ll buy some.”

  The girls in the group had been chatting to each other and mostly ignoring me, but one of them, a girl called Marisa, asked me the question I always dreaded. I’d been hoping they’d heard my previous conversation with Inga so I’d be spared it.

  “And what is it you do, Iris?”

  I knew from eavesdropping that Marisa was the owner of a fashionable art gallery and appeared to have done pretty well for herself, judging by the Fendi handbag on her arm and the diamonds encircling her wrist.

  “I surf.”

  “To make a living?”

  “Yep, although not much of one.”

  “Not yet,” Zeke said. “But one day. Just you wait. We have the next Steph Gilmore here.”

  I smiled at him. He never gave up. My own personal motivational coach.

  “You know, Zeke,” a Brazilian woman called Ursula said, “you have time to come down to the magazine and do a shoot for us.”

  “Which magazine is this?” I asked, imagining a spread of my boyfriend in Ocean Drive magazine.

  “Ride. You come too, Iris. You might get a kick out of it.”

  “How long would it take?” Zeke asked.

  “Honey, you’re no rookie; two hours and you’re done. You’d really be doing me a favor. Sergio wants a fresh face for the August issue. He’ll probably put you on the cover.”

  “You should do it,” I said to him, “cover boy.”

  “We’ll have you on a motorcycle,” Ursula said. “You still ride that bike back in Oahu?”

  “Gave it to my brother.”

  “To Garrett?”

  “Wes.”

  “Really? He never seemed like the type. Not to me.”

  Zeke gave her a sharp look. “Why not?”

  It was an awkward moment, and I knew what Zeke was thinking: he thought this was a dig at Wes for being gay. As if gay guys didn’t ride motorcycles or something, which was obviously ridiculous, but a few of the surfers who competed with Zeke on the tour had made snide remarks about Wes and his boyfriend Elijah, and Zeke always pulled them up on it.

  “No reason. Did I say something?”

  “I’ll come down and get my picture taken but we’re only here for a few more days.”

  “So come Wednesday morning. I can have something set up for eleven.”

  “OK, but Iris has to be in the picture too.”

  “Zeke, NO. Ignore him.”

  “Of course,” Ursula said, looking at me with a new expression in her eyes. Appraising me for the first time. “A little make-up. A dress. Hair up. Sure, I can see the potential.”

  I stood up. “Thank you very much, but I’m not at all photogenic and I’d only ruin the pictures of Zeke. You know, I think I’ll give you some time to catch up. It was nice to meet you all. Bye.”

  I turned on my heel before I could get pushed into doing something that I really didn’t want to do.

  “Iris,” Zeke called after me and I waved at him, shouted, “I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” and then turned to keep walking.

  “Wait!” he said, persistent, and caught me up, breathless and sweaty. “Why are you leaving? We only just got here. I want my friends to get to know you.”

  I was just going to answer that I really needed to find a loo, as I was busting for a wee, when his phone started ringing.

  I could hear the deep New York tones of our publicist, and Zeke hadn’t even put her on speaker.

  Whatever she was saying had the effect of making him frown hard.

  “No, no. Tomorrow. Definitely. Tomorrow. I have the email right here. You sure? They never sent another email, Whitney, I swear. No, no voicemail either. Seriously? That’s like a half-hour drive, without traffic.”

  “What’s happening?” I mouthed. “I thought we were free today?”

  I secretly thought it was a bit cheeky of Anders to have made Whitney arrange any publicity during our Miami trip, as it was supposed to be a holiday. The media launch was one thing, as it was a major event in the surf calendar, but it sometimes seemed as if Anders couldn’t bear the thought of us having any actual time off. As if every hour of chilling out was a missed opportunity to build our brand.

  “I know we made a commitment, but I just told . . . OK, OK. Yeah, Iris is here too she says . . .” Zeke looked at me, and I whispered, “I’ve really got to find a loo before I pee myself.”

  “She says hi,” Zeke said, ever the diplomat. “OK, I’ll remind her to edit that clip for the website. Speak later.”

  I was already looking through my beach bag for cab money. “How much time do we have?”

  “Forty minutes.”

  “To leave, or to get there?”

  “To get there.”

  “I just need a quick wee.”

  “Iris, we gotta go.”

  “I will also need to find a vending machine, as I’m bloody starving.”

  Chase appeared at our sides and said, “What gives?”

  “We have to go to this mall signing that we totally thought was tomorrow. Could you drop our surfboards back at the Grove Hotel? The girls at reception will hold them until we’re back later.”

  “No problem. You’ll be at the party tomorrow though, right?”

  Zeke looked at me for an answer.

  “It’s up to Iris.”

  I very nearly said, “No, I’ve changed my mind,” because, I suddenly had a really bad feeling about that party. But Chase looked so hopeful, and I’d just met him, and he was Zeke’s friend and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

  “We’ll be there,” I said.

  chapter nine

  Messing up the day of the mall promo was a seriously unprofessional screw-up on our part, but I trusted Zeke to lay on the charm and stop us getting a bollocking.

  We had a two-minute loo-and-snack break, then caught a cab to the Dolphin Mall. Sitting in the taxi, with Zeke staring out the window, I had nothing to do but think, and my brain kept going back to the girls I’d met. Zeke definitely had some history with Inga. No doubt about it. And Amber had just taught him Spanish? Yeah, right.

  Zeke kept looking at his watch, stressing. Even with the taxi driver weaving through the traffic like a pro, we still arrived at the mall fifteen minutes late.

  It was just a poster-and-merchandise signing, but bona-fide surf fans were going to be there and we couldn’t skip it, even if we did both reek of massage oil, sweat and sunscreen.

  Most of the people that showed up roughly 99.9 percent, I guessed would be there for Zeke. I knew this because we’d done around twenty of these events already, in various surf towns around the world, and the fan breakdown was always the same.

  The queue for the Billabong store was out the door, snaking past a Dunkin’ Donuts, a kids’ clothing store and all the way down to Ron Jon’s Surf Shack, which actually looked better than the Billabong store.

  Zeke looked fine in his shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops. He’d shaken his hair out from the topknot and, like always, it had dried perfectly tousled, whereas mine was a bleached-out mess of frizz. My face was pink with sunburn, my T-shirt was creased and I had Cheeto breath.

  As we walked past the queue of surf fans, I heard a bunch of people saying, “There he is!” and “Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” Then another voice said, “Gross! Who is she?”

  I turned toward the voice, and made eye contact with the girl, who didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed.

  When we entered the store, a local photographer in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts and white boat shoes greeted us with a big smile
.

  “Zeke and Iris, welcome to our store!”

  “Thanks,” Zeke said, shaking his hand. I looked up at the back of the store and saw a bigger-than-lifesize picture of Zeke, standing in board shorts right next to Dave Rastovich, Greg Long and Joel Parkinson: some of the best surfers in the world. The legends.

  “And welcome to Florida. Y’all having a fun vacation?”

  “Yeah, loving it,” I said, shaking his hand and trying my best to reflect his level of enthusiasm back at him. It had been pointed out to me that even when I wasn’t being sarcastic, something about the inflections of my voice made me sound as if I was.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Zeke said. “We thought this was tomorrow. We’ll stay on a little to make up for it, if you need us to.”

  “No need to apologize. We’re just stoked to have you visit our little store.”

  Several members of the store staff were staring at us, but none of them came over.

  “Is there a rep from Billabong here?” Zeke asked, looking around.

  “Right this way. You need anything else before you get started? A soda or something?”

  “Do you want something, Iris?” Zeke asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Then no, sir; we’re good to go.”

  The photographer led us to the back of the store, past two junior male Billabong riders, and there, sitting at the back of the store, with her legs crossed and her red hair tied up in a glossy bun, was one of my favorite people on the planet.

  “Saskia!” I said, rushing toward her. Zeke was right behind me.

  Saskia was basically the reason I’d even made the tour, and I owed her everything.

  “Iris!” she said, hugging me tight and sounding excited. “Took you long enough. I thought you weren’t going to show!”

  “Had the wrong day. Why didn’t you tell us you were going to be here?”

  “Wanted to surprise you. How are you, darling?”

  “Good. I really missed you!”

  “I can’t believe you’re here!” Zeke said. “We missed you so much.”

  I stepped aside to let them embrace.

  Tears that made no sense were pricking at my eyes, because I could feel it flowing through me sheer joy.