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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 wasprobably 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