He’s having dinner with his mother at the Pullman Bar and Diner when she asks the question he’s been dreading.

“So what’s next for you? Back to the mountains?”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” he says.

“Not at all,” Irene says. “It’s just that I thought this”—she indicates the restaurant and their server, Ryan, whom she seems to be on pretty familiar terms with—“was the stuff of your nightmares. Stuck in Iowa City, eating the early-bird special with your mother.”

“It’s been only five days,” Cash says. “And Milly—”

“Milly is handled,” Irene says. “I don’t mean to make your grandmother sound like a loathsome errand. But I also want you to know that you don’t need to stay here on my account. Surely you have better things to do than listen to me describe my crazy dreams.”

His mother is right. Cash should load Winnie into his truck and return to Denver to clean up what’s left of his life there before he heads to Breckenridge for the remainder of the winter. But what had seemed so appealing before he got Irene’s phone call informing him his father was dead has lost its luster. He received no fewer than ten panicked voicemails from Dylan, the manager of Cash’s Belmar store, asking why there are chains on the door and why no one is answering the phone at the Cherry Creek store. (Cash finally responded: Business went under. I would offer you a reference but I know you’ve been skimming from the register. Sorry, bro, good luck out there.) Cash is two payments behind on his truck so he needs a job right away. But because it’s already January, all of the positions at the ski school have been filled. Cash called his buddy Jay, and he said Cash could sleep on his sofa for a week but that would be all his new girlfriend would tolerate and finding other housing at this point would be tricky, especially with a dog.

“You might want to cool your heels there,” Jay said. “And try coming out in March when everyone else gets cabin fever and leaves.”

Cool his heels in Iowa for two months? In winter? There’s no way he can do it, can he? And yet, what choice does he have? Living with his mother is free, the house is comfortable and plenty big enough, and she gives him twenties and fifties every time he goes out. She would probably make his car payment in exchange for him doing some simple handyman work.

But would his morale survive? He fears not. Earlier that day, his mother pressed two hundred dollars into his hand and sent him to the Hy-Vee for groceries, which he didn’t object to as he needed dog food for Winnie and some shaving cream for himself. And who should he run into at the deli counter but his high-school girlfriend Claire Bellows, the one who went to Northwestern and promptly slept with Baker?

“Cash?” Claire said, blinking like he was an apparition. “Cash Steele, is that you?”

Cash forced a smile while he cursed his truly terrible luck. And yet, this was what happened when you returned to your hometown: you bumped into the people you used to know. Claire Bellows looked basically the same, maybe a little older, maybe a little washed out; her face was wan, her hair colorless and pulled back into a sad little bun. She was pushing a cart that held two children, a toddler who was standing up among the groceries—his left foot perilously close to a carton of eggs—and a baby in a bucket seat that snapped onto the front of the cart. The toddler was a boy; the baby was swaddled in a pink fleece sack, her face obscured.

“Hey, Claire.” Cash said it casually, as though he’d just seen her the week before. He felt like he’d just seen her the week before because he and Baker had spent so much time talking about her. The good news was that the bad mojo of Claire Bellows had been exorcised. Cash felt nothing when he looked at her. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. “How are you?”

“This is like that song!” Claire exclaimed. “Met my old lover in the grocery store, the snow was falling Christmas Eve!”

Cash nodded along, trying to be a good sport. The lyrics rang a distant bell—Gordon Lightfoot, maybe? Simon and Garfunkel? Cash was reminded that Claire used to be a lyrics wizard, especially when it came to the music of their parents’ era, because Claire’s mother, Adrienne Bellows, was a disc jockey on the local easy-listening station. When Cash and Claire were in high school, Adrienne worked the evening six-to-ten shift; she was eastern Iowa’s answer to Delilah. While Adrienne Bellows was comforting the heartbroken and lovelorn who called in with their requests and sappy dedications, Cash and Claire were making out and, eventually, having sex in Claire’s bedroom.

“And who do we have here?” Cash asked in an attempt to be gallant. He was trying, he really was.

Claire looked confused until she realized he meant the children. “Oh!” she said. “This is Eugene and the baby is Mabel.”

Cash tried not to grimace. Claire had followed the trend of naming her children as though they’d been born a hundred and twenty years ago. “Nice,” he said. “Hi, guys.” The toddler turned to look at Cash, missing the eggs by a fraction of an inch, and Cash couldn’t help himself—he moved the carton to safety. “So you’re back in Iowa City?”

“Temporarily,” Claire said. “For the next five or six years. My husband is doing a fellowship in endocrinology at the university.”

Cash nearly said, And you? But he was afraid Claire would tell him that she’d given up her job as a marketing executive with Colgate-Palmolive in Chicago in order to follow her husband back to Iowa and then add that she was “okay” with it or else openly express bitterness. To extract himself from that awkward topic, Cash would then ask about her mother, and Claire, realizing that she was doing all the talking, would take the reins and say, What about you? Why are you in town? Cash could then say he was visiting his parents, which would be half a lie, although lying would be preferable to telling Claire that Russ was dead. Claire had loved Russ. She and Russ had had a thing where they told each other knock-knock jokes, which Cash had found annoying even at the height of his passion for Claire.

He might be able to successfully evade the topic of his parents but there would undoubtedly be follow-up questions about where he was living and what he was doing—and then finally, as if it had just occurred to her for no particular reason, Claire would ask about Baker.

To avoid that inevitable moment, Cash smiled at Claire and said, “Well, at least Iowa City is a good place to raise kids. We learned that firsthand. See you later, Claire.”

“But—wait,” Claire said.

Cash did not wait. He sacrificed the half a pound of sliced turkey on Irene’s list and sauntered off in the direction of the bakery. Claire had always been socially awkward in a sweet way. When Baker hit on her at that frat party at Northwestern, it must have been like taking candy from a baby.

But, really, what did Cash care? He was over it.

Thinking about it now in the Pullman Diner, he can’t imagine spending two to three months here in Iowa City dodging land mines like his ex-girlfriend Claire.

To Irene he says, “I’m going to stay a few days longer. At least.”

She gives him a tight smile and Cash wonders if maybe she wants him gone.

“Let’s order,” she says.

He’s nearly asleep, sprawled across the massive acreage of the guest-room bed, when he gets a text on his phone.

Who would be texting him so late? Cash figures it must be Dylan again, telling Cash that he left his one-hitter behind the counter or complaining because he’s still owed for a day and a half of work. The first thing Cash notices when he picks up his phone is the time. It’s not late at all; it’s only ten o’clock. It just feels late because it gets dark at four thirty in the afternoon and there’s nothing to do in this town after the dinner hour. The second thing Cash notices is that the text is from Ayers.

Ayers.

Cash stares at the phone, wondering if it’s a trick. Did Baker somehow figure out a way to send Cash a text that looks like it’s from Ayers? Cash hesitates a moment, then swipes to open. The text isn’t a text but rather a link, and when Cash clicks on the link, it opens to the website for Treasure Island Cruises—Day Trips to the BVIs, St. Thomas, Water Island, and Beyond!

Beyond? Cash thinks. Beyond must be that place you visit in your mind after nine or ten painkillers.

This section of the website starts with Join the Treasure Island crew! In smaller print beneath that is We are currently seeking a first mate for our BVI routes. Must possess strong administrative skills and CPR and lifesaving certification; must enjoy working with people. Valid passport required, boating experience preferred. To apply, contact Ayers Wilson, ayers@treasureislandcruisesvi.com.

Did Ayers send this to him for a reason? Cash wonders. Does she think he should…apply? He has been boating exactly once in the past ten years—when he went on Treasure Island as Ayers’s guest. Yes, he’d enjoyed it, and yes, Ayers had asked him if he wanted a job. But that had been a joke. Right? And yet now, apparently, they were looking for someone.

CPR certification he has; lifesaving, not a chance—unless you considered avalanche-rescue certification “lifesaving.” Well, it was, but it wouldn’t help him save someone who was drowning. Cash is an okay swimmer and he does have years of experience working with people, but in his heart, he’s a mountain boy.

His thumbs hover over the keypad. It doesn’t matter why Ayers sent this; it only matters that she’s reaching out. She’s thinking of him.

He lies back in bed and tries to lasso his bucking bronco of a heart. Ayers had been so angry the last time he saw her, so indignant that two people she’d befriended had deceived her about who they were and what they were doing on St. John. In retrospect, Cash doesn’t blame her. They—meaning Baker—should have told Ayers who they were at Rosie’s funeral lunch. But okay, let’s say that would have been in poor taste. Fine. Cash should have told her who he was when he bumped into her on the Reef Bay Trail. No excuses; he should have and he hadn’t, and then once he’d spent the day with her aboard Treasure Island, he’d become infatuated with her and didn’t want to ruin his chances. The same had been true for Baker. And guess what—they both lost out. Ayers told them she had gotten back together with her old boyfriend, Mick.

Cash reads the link she’d texted him again. She must have sent it to him because she thought it would be a good fit. Right? Right? Or maybe it was a joke. For all Ayers knows, Cash is back in Colorado, skiing the bowl on Peak 8.

But he’s not. He’s in Iowa City without a job, without prospects. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a life on the water.

With Ayers. He would agree to live in the space station if it was with Ayers.

He decides not to respond to the text right away. He wants to sleep on it.

In the morning, the text is still there and Cash is proud of himself for exercising restraint and not sending a knee-jerk response.

Winnie is asleep at the foot of the bed. When she feels Cash stir, she lifts her head.

“You liked St. John, right?” Cash asks. “Wanna go back?”

Of course, it’s not Winnie’s permission that he needs. Cash pads down to the kitchen in his pajama bottoms and a decade-old Social Distortion T-shirt he found in the bureau in his room. Irene is juicing oranges the old-fashioned way—by crushing the hell out of the buggers with a galvanized-steel juicer that had belonged to her own mother. Cash watches her as she presses and twists the orange under her palms. All of that energy for a dribble of juice. Though it’s probably not the worst way to release pent-up frustration.

“Mom,” he says. “I’m not going back to Colorado.”

“You’re not?” she says, relaxing her death grip on the orange in her hand and then tossing the rind in the sink.

“With your permission…” he says. His voice sticks. Asking her this is harder than he thought it would be. “I’d like to go back down.”

“Down?” she says, though he can tell she understands.

“To St. John,” Cash says. He clears his throat. “I have a lead on a job there. And I was hoping I could just stay in the villa.”

Irene abandons the juice project altogether in order to stare at him. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, but then, his mother’s expressions have always been inscrutable. Against all odds, they had both sort of fallen in love with St. John—at least, Cash did. He knows Irene had warmed to it as well; she went out fishing with Huck once in an attempt to get information, but she also took a second boat trip with him before she and Cash left. He supposes it’s possible that her feelings have changed since they’ve been back home and now the whole Caribbean represents an enormous, ugly deception that she doesn’t want to revisit. And maybe she’d prefer that Cash not revisit it either.

It’s the idea that Irene might say no, might ask him nicely not to go or forbid him to stay in the villa, that makes Cash realize how badly he wants to return and give life down there a shot. He won’t stay forever. Maybe just until summer.

“Is this about the girl?” Irene asks.

“What?” Cash says. He can feel his face turning red. “No, of course not.”

“Oh,” Irene says. “That’s too bad. I like her for you, you know.”

“So…is it okay?” Cash asks.

“Yes, honey,” Irene says. “It’s fine. The villa is just sitting there empty. Someone should use it. Let me buy your plane ticket and give you some money to get started.”

Cash wants to tell her she doesn’t have to—he’s too old to be taking handouts from his mother—but the fact is, he’s flat broke. Broker than broke.

“Thank you, Mom,” he says. “Thank you so much.”

Irene gives him a sad smile. “I’m jealous,” she says.