Page 9 of What Happens in Paradise
A broken pencil.
A broken pencil who?
Never mind, it’s pointless.
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, [email protected].
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.
