Free Air by Lisa Glass Page A

jam.”
    “Really? Because, let’s be honest, if you’re watching the tide roll away, you’re generally in it.”
    He laughed. “Well, you know, I’ve always wanted to be the kind of person who could relax more.”
    Chase appeared in between us, a hand on each of our backs and said, “Duet.”
    “I don’t sing in public,” I said, feeling as if I’d already made quite enough of a spectacle of myself on this trip.
    “Yo, I meant Zeke and me.”
    “Oh, in that case, knock yourselves out.”
    “What song?” Zeke asked.
    “I’m thinking we stay retro,” Chase replied.
    “‘House of the Rising Sun’?” I said.
    “Uggh, nope. Way cooler. Guess again.”
    Chase’s version of “way cooler” transpired to be the Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Summer in the City” and somehow, and I would never ask how, Zeke knew all the words.
    They followed this up with Scott McKenzie’s “San Francisco” and Cyndi Lauper’s “Time after Time,” which was surprisingly touching, and people clapped along as they gazed into each other’s eyes and did a slow waltz around the pool.
    Sweaty but happy, Zeke turned to Chase, who was cracking open his second bottle of eight-hundred dollar champagne, and said, “Can we swim in the pool?”
    I butted in. “Neither of us has a cossie, Zeke.”
    “So we’ll wear this.”
    “All right, if you want everyone’s outfits to go completely transparent.”
    “Definitely,” Chase said, giving me some comedy creep-eye.
    Zeke gave him a light punch on the shoulder and said, “Don’t make me hurt you, bro.”
    “Ha, I love that you see that as a possibility.”
    “You may punch harder, dude,” Zeke said, “but I’m faster.” He got his fists up and started ducking and weaving.
    “Yeah, at running,” Chase said.
    “Hey, you remember the time you busted up my bike and launched it into the ocean, and Garrett and Wes stripped you naked and threw you in a patch of wood-nettles?”
    Chase winced and said, “They’re still on my hit list for that.”
    I felt it again—the closeness they had, the history, and I missed Kelly so badly that I considered sitting down with my iPhone and flipping through old ussies of the two of us on Fistral.
    “Come on, I wanna show you something,” Chase said, linking arms with me and Zeke.
    We walked through a corridor busy with cocktail-drinkers and into the kitchen, where Zeke started inspecting the units. “What wood is this? Koa?”
    “Yeah, Mom had it imported from Hawaii.”
    “Nice.”
    “The cabinets are handmade. Blue marble floor. I actually helped design this kitchen,” Chase said, looking proud of himself.
    “If you ever remodel, call me,” Zeke said. “My pop always built his cabinets from scratch, with, like, eucalyptus and coconut wood, and I used to love helping with that.”
    I had nothing to contribute to a conversation about kitchens, and when “Thrift Shop” came on the sound system, I said, “We should totally dance to this.”
    “No can do,” Chase said. “Didn’t you see me earlier? I was tripping over Zeke’s feet. I dance like a cinderblock.”
    “Really? I thought you’d be a great dancer.”
    “And that is what the people call judging a book by its cover.”
    “But even your name makes you sound like a good dancer. Chase ,” I said, doing a weird little wiggle dance that made no sense whatsoever.
    “Ah, Chase is actually not my birth name. Zeke knows it, but he’s sworn to secrecy.”
    “Oh yeah?” I said. “Bet I get it out of him.”
    “No, I made a promise,” Zeke said. “It’s been eleven years and I’ve never told a soul.”
    “Yeah, but you can trust me. I won’t blab, will I?”
    “Iris, he made a vow ,” Chase said. “You can’t mess with that.”
    I was smiling, but Zeke and Chase both had serious faces on, as if the mere idea of Zeke telling me Chase’s birth name was scandalous.
    “What? Come on, tell me!” But Zeke just shook his head.
    “What can I get you guys to