Chapter 7: Cabo San Lucas, The Morning After
The needle was still on the nightstand when Jim opened his eyes.
He knew it before he even turned his head—could smell it, that faint chemical ghost hanging in the air beneath the candles and the sex and the salt. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the ocean through the open windows. His body felt heavy, wrung out, the way it always did after a long night. Sixty-two years old and still pretending he was thirty. The arithmetic never worked out in his favor, but he kept doing it anyway.
When he finally turned, Maggie was already dressed.
She sat in the leather armchair by the window, legs crossed, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Black jeans. Black silk blouse. Sunglasses on despite the fact that the sun had barely cleared the horizon. Her hair was perfectly in place—that jet-black bob that framed her face like a helmet, like armor.
The syringe lay on the nightstand between them. Empty. The case was closed, latched. But the damage was done.
Jim sat up slow, the sheet pooling around his waist. His mouth tasted like copper and whiskey. He needed water. He needed coffee. He needed to not have this conversation.
But Maggie was already having it. Just by sitting there. Just by existing in that chair with her sunglasses on and her cigarette burning and her veins full of something she'd promised herself she wouldn't touch.
He didn't say anything. Neither did she.
The silence stretched, thick and alive. It filled the room like smoke.
Caron broke it.
She stumbled in from the hallway—still naked, still half-asleep, her hair a disaster, mascara smeared under her eyes. She'd gone to the kitchen for water and come back with a glass in each hand. She stopped in the doorway when she saw them.
"Who died?" she asked.
Neither of them answered.
Caron looked from Jim to Maggie, then at the needle on the nightstand. Her face didn't change—she was too tired for that, too worn down by the heroin to register much of anything. But something flickered behind her eyes. Recognition. Maybe resignation.
"Ah," she said.
Jim reached for the half-empty glass of water beside the bed. Drank it in one long swallow.
"Jet's fueled," he said. "We leave in an hour."
Caron nodded slowly. Took a sip from one of the glasses she was holding. Then she walked to the bed and set the other one on the nightstand, beside the syringe. Deliberately close.
"Okay," she said.
She turned and walked toward the bathroom, hips swaying, unbothered. The door clicked shut behind her. The shower came on.
Jim looked at Maggie. She was watching him through those dark lenses. Her cigarette had burned down to the filter. She stubbed it out in the ashtray on the windowsill and lit another one without missing a beat.
"You're not going to say anything," she said.
"What's there to say."
"Plenty."
"You want me to yell? Call you a hypocrite?" He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold marble. "You want me to tell you I told you so?"
"Maybe."
"It won't change anything." He stood, stretched, felt his spine pop in three places. "You did what you did. I'm not your father. I'm not your sponsor. I'm not here to make you feel bad about yourself."
Maggie exhaled a long ribbon of smoke. "What are you here for, then?"
"Same thing I've always been here for." He walked toward her, naked, still smelling like sex and sweat and the ocean. "To clean up the mess and keep moving."
She looked up at him from the chair. Even through the sunglasses, he could feel the weight of her gaze.
"You're not mad."
"I'm not surprised." He reached down and took the cigarette from her fingers, took a drag himself. The smoke burned his throat. "There's a difference."
"I told you I couldn't promise anything."
"And I told you I'd survive it." He handed the cigarette back. "Here we are."
She took it. Held it. Didn't smoke.
"I'm sorry," she said. The words came out quiet, rusty—like she hadn't used them in a while.
Jim leaned down and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled like smoke and dry shampoo and something floral underneath. Same as always.
"Shower," he said. "Then we go."
She nodded. Stood. Walked past him toward the bathroom. Paused at the door.
"Jim."
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For not making it worse."
He didn't answer. Just watched her disappear into the steam.
An hour later they were airborne.
The Gulfstream cut through the morning sky like a blade, its engines a low hum beneath the cabin's hush. The interior was all warm mahogany and cream leather, the bar stocked with everything Jim kept on hand for exactly these occasions—Macallan, Ketel One, a bottle of Dom that had been chilling since the last trip, and the small crystal dish of coke that Maggie had already dipped into before they'd even reached cruising altitude.
Caron had claimed the window seat. She sat with her knees drawn up, staring down at the coastline as it shrank to a thread, then a memory, then nothing. She was wearing one of Jim's linen shirts and nothing else. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She looked like she'd just crawled out of a very expensive wreck.
Maggie was across from her, scrolling through her phone, sunglasses still on. She'd been quiet since takeoff. Not sulking—that wasn't her style—but thoughtful. Contained. The kind of quiet that usually meant she was doing math in her head. Weighing things.
Jim sat at the bar, bourbon in hand, watching them both.
He'd been with these two women long enough to read the room without trying. Caron was drifting. Maggie was calculating. And he was somewhere in between, doing what he always did—holding the center, keeping the thing from spinning off its axis.
The cabin smelled like leather and lemon polish and the faint chemical bite of the coke Maggie had already sampled. One of the day's early pleasures.
Caron turned from the window.
"How long's the flight?"
"Three hours," Jim said. "Give or take."
"Give or take what?"
"Headwinds. Traffic. My pilot's mood."
She smiled—a small, private thing. Then she stood, stretched, and walked toward the lavatory at the back of the cabin. The door clicked shut.
Maggie looked up from her phone.
"She's going to do more."
"She's on vacation," Jim said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got." He swirled the bourbon in his glass. "You want me to stop her? I couldn't stop you. What makes you think I can stop her?"
"I'm not asking you to stop her. I'm asking you to pay attention."
"I'm always paying attention."
"No. You're watching. There's a difference." Maggie set her phone down. Took off her sunglasses for the first time all morning. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, pupils still slightly blown. "She's been chasing the needle for years, Jim. You know that. I know that. And you keep giving it to her."
"I don't keep giving her anything. She asks. I provide."
"That's the same thing."
"Is it?"
"It is when you're the one with the supply." Maggie leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You think you're being generous. You think you're being the cool ex-husband who lets his wife do whatever she wants. But you're not. You're just the guy who taught her that love means never having to say no."
Jim set his glass down. The ice clinked.
"You want to have this conversation now? On the way to Cabo?"
"I want to have it sometime."
"We've been having it for fifteen years. Nothing changes."
"Maybe it should."
The lavatory door opened. Caron emerged with a small mirror in one hand and a rolled hundred-dollar bill in the other. Three lines were already cut on the mirror's surface, neat and even, arranged like an offering.
She walked back to her seat, set the mirror on the table between them.
"Anybody?" she asked.
Maggie looked at the lines. Then at Jim. Then back at Caron.
There was a moment—just a flicker—where something crossed her face. That same thing Jim had seen last night when she'd hovered over the syringe. Hesitation. A brief window of clarity.
Then Caron leaned over and whispered, "We're on vacation."
And the window closed.
Maggie took the bill. Leaned down. Snorted one line, then another. Handed the bill to Caron, who did the third.
Jim watched from his seat. Bourbon in hand. Said nothing.
The needle could wait. The coke could not.
By the time they began their descent into Cabo, the cabin was a different place. Warmer. Louder. The three of them had migrated to the back, where the seats faced each other, close enough to touch. Maggie had put on music—something old, something with a beat. Caron was laughing at nothing, her head thrown back, the linen shirt slipping off one shoulder.
Jim had loosened his collar. Unbuttoned the top two buttons. He was feeling it too—that wired, bright-edged hum that made everything seem possible and nothing seem urgent.
Maggie was telling a story. Something about a party in Ibiza, years ago, before she'd met Jim. A story with no point except that it was funny and it passed the time. Caron kept interrupting with questions that didn't make sense. Maggie kept answering anyway.
The jet banked left. Through the windows, the Sea of Cortez appeared—deep blue, glittering, endless. The Baja peninsula rose up like a spine, all brown hills and white sand beaches, the sun hammering down like it had been waiting for them.
"Look," Caron said. Pointed. "Water."
"That's generally what oceans are made of," Maggie said.
"No—I mean, look. The boat."
Jim followed her finger. There it was—the yacht, anchored in the bay below them. A hundred and fifty feet of white steel and dark glass, sleek and patient, waiting exactly where he'd left her.
The sight of it made something in his chest loosen. The boat was his escape hatch. His reset button. Every time he stepped aboard, the rest of the world fell away. No board meetings. No lawyers. No judgment. Just water and sun and whatever pleasures he decided to pursue.
He'd bought her six years ago, after the divorce from Caron was finalized. A consolation prize. A floating middle finger to anyone who thought he was too old for this life.
Now here he was. Same boat. Same women. Same hunger.
Some things never changed.
The jet touched down on the private airstrip outside Cabo San Lucas with barely a bump. By the time they stepped off, the air was hot and dry and smelled like salt and diesel. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac, engine running, AC cranked.
Jim tipped the pilots, grabbed Maggie's bag, and led them toward the car. Caron walked beside him, still wearing his shirt, barefoot, her heels dangling from one hand. She was humming something—off-key, tuneless. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon.
Maggie lagged behind. Just a few steps. But Jim noticed.
He always noticed.
"You coming?" he called back.
"Yeah." She lit a cigarette—the first one in nearly an hour—and picked up her pace. "Just thinking."
"About?"
"Nothing important."
"Liar."
She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
The SUV pulled away from the airstrip, winding through dusty streets toward the marina. Caron leaned her head against the window, watching the world go by—the taco stands, the pharmacies, the bars with their doors open to the street. The ordinary stuff of vacation towns. The stuff of other people's lives.
Jim reached over and took Maggie's hand. She let him.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
"You don't have to be fine."
"I know." She squeezed his fingers. "I'm fine."
The marina appeared ahead—a forest of masts and rigging, the water beyond glittering like a promise. And there, at the end of the pier, the yacht waited. Her crew lined up on deck, ready to welcome them aboard.
The SUV stopped. Jim opened the door. The heat hit him like a wall.
"Welcome to paradise," he said.
Caron climbed out, looked up at the boat, and smiled that small, private smile again.
"What could possibly go wrong?" she asked.
No one answered.
They walked toward the pier. The sun beat down. The water shimmered. Somewhere out there, beyond the bay, beyond the horizon, the rest of the world kept spinning—oblivious, indifferent, unaware.
But here, on this dock, three people with more money than sense and more appetites than restraint were about to disappear. For two weeks, maybe more. No one would know where they were. No one would come looking.
That was the point.
That was always the point.
Jim stepped onto the gangway first. Maggie followed. Caron took his hand and climbed up after him, barefoot on the metal steps, her shirt flapping in the breeze.
Behind them, the SUV driver drove away. The sound of the engine faded. The marina grew quiet.
Then there was only the gentle slap of water against the hull and the distant cry of gulls.
And the three of them, standing on the deck of a boat that could take them anywhere, looking out at an ocean that didn't care what they did or who they hurt or how far they might fall.
They were exactly where they wanted to be.
Which was nowhere.
The yacht rocked gently under their feet, a slow rhythm that felt like a heartbeat. Caron stumbled on the last step, caught herself on the rail, and laughed at nothing again. Her bare feet slapped against the teak deck as she wandered toward the bow, drawn by the view like a moth to light.
Maggie hung back near the stern, cigarette already lit, watching the marina shrink behind them. A crew member—young, tan, wearing a crisp white polo with the yacht's insignia—appeared with a tray of champagne flutes. Jim waved him off with two fingers.
"Bring the bottle," he said. "And the good vodka. And check the safe in the master cabin. There's a wooden box in there. Bring it up."
The crew member nodded and disappeared below deck.
Caron had reached the bow. She stood against the railing, arms spread wide, face tilted to the sun. The linen shirt billowed around her thin frame like a sail. Jim watched her from behind his sunglasses—the way her hair moved in the wind, the way the light caught the hollows under her eyes, the way she looked like she was flying and falling at the same time.
He'd seen her like this before. The morning after a hard night, standing at the edge of something. She looked brand new and worn out at once. She looked like his whole past and all his worst instincts wrapped up in a laundromat.
"You've got that expression," Maggie said. She'd sidled up next to him, quiet as a shadow. "The one where you're thinking too hard about something you can't fix."
"I'm not thinking."
"You're always thinking. It's one of your worst qualities."
"And one of my best."
"That's debatable." She took a long drag, held the smoke, released it. The wind snatched it away instantly. "I like the boat."
"You always like the boat."
"Because the boat's away from everything."
"You like being away from everything."
"I like being away from everyone who knows my name." She looked at him sideways. "Except you two."
Jim put his arm around her waist. She was warm through the black silk, still slick with the day's first layer of sweat. The sun was punishing but neither of them cared. They were both too old to worry about skin damage, too rich to worry about anything else.
"We're gonna have a good time," he said.
"Promise?"
He didn't answer. They both knew he couldn't.
The crew member returned with the bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a small wooden box. Jim took the box and set it on the table bolted to the deck. The bottle went in a cooler. The glasses he filled himself.
"Maggie."
She turned. He held out a glass.
"To vacation," she said.
"To not being found."
They clinked. Drank. The champagne was cold and sharp, exactly right for the heat.
Caron appeared, walking back from the bow. Her shirt had slipped off one shoulder entirely now, revealing the thin strap of her bikini underneath—the same swimsuit she'd worn two days ago in the jacuzzi. Jim wondered if she'd brought any clothes at all. Probably not. She'd packed in five minutes, grabbing whatever was closest.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing at the box.
"Supply run."
She sat down across from him, tucking her legs under her. Her eyes went to the box—small, carved, closed. She knew what was in it without asking.
"For later?"
"For whenever." He pushed the champagne glass toward her. "Drink first."
She drank. Made a face. Drank again.
The yacht was moving now, engines rumbling beneath the deck, pulling them away from the marina and out toward open water. The coastline began to recede—the white hotels, the brown hills, the busy little town slowly drying to a smudge. Jim watched the distance grow and felt something in his chest loosen.
This was the part he loved. The departure. The moment when the shore gave up trying to hold you and the horizon opened wide and indifferent.
"You're smiling," Caron said.
"Am I?"
"Big smile. Like a kid."
"Maybe I'm happy."
"You're never happy. You're just distracted."
He laughed. She wasn't wrong.
Maggie pulled her chair closer, kicked off her heels, and propped her feet on the seat next to Caron's thigh. Her toes were painted red—bright, defiant. Her eyes were still glassy but sharper now, the hours passed and the coke evening out into something fightable.
"We need rules," she said.
"For what?" Caron asked.
"For the boat. We're going to be stuck here for a while. Might as well have a plan."
"We're not stuck. We can leave whenever we want."
"Mentally stuck." Maggie tapped her temple. "Emotionally. We know how this goes. Day one is fun. Day two is better. Day three someone says something that cuts too deep and then it's a whole thing."
"That's just the drugs," Caron said.
"That's just being people."
Jim refilled their glasses. The champagne was already going to his head—a pleasant hum, a loosening in his shoulders. He'd barely eaten since yesterday. None of them had.
"Rules," he said. "Go."
"Simple." Maggie held up three fingers. "One. No bringing up the past. No exes, no old fights, no shit we've already bled to death."
"Fine," Caron said.
"Two. Nobody leaves. I don't care how bad it gets. Nobody calls a car. Nobody storms off into the night. We're on water. There's nowhere to storm off to."
"That's fair," Jim said.
"Three." Maggie paused. Looked at both of them in turn. "We say what we want. No hints. No games. No expecting the other person to read your mind."
Caron laughed—a short, bitter sound. "That's rich coming from you."
"I know." Maggie didn't flinch. "That's why it's my rule."
Jim raised his glass. "To following our own rules."
They drank.
For a while, they sat in silence. The yacht picked up speed, engines settling into a steady hum, the hull cutting through water with a sound like paper tearing. The champagne disappeared. A second bottle appeared. The sun reached its peak and then began its slow, gorgeous descent toward afternoon.
Caron dozed in her chair, chin on her chest, shirt finally slipping off entirely to pool in her lap. Maggie smoked three cigarettes in a row, watching the horizon with an expression that was impossible to read.
Jim opened the box.
Inside were three syringes, pre-loaded. Two small packets of powder. A tiny glass vial of something clear. He hadn't packed this himself—the crew member must have stocked it from the stash he kept in the yacht's safe for exactly these occasions. The box was a courtesy. A promise. A threat.
He closed it again. Pushed it to the center of the table. Nobody touched it.
Not yet.
The afternoon wore on. They ate—a simple meal of ceviche and cold shrimp, prepared by the chef who came with the boat, served on the deck with the sun going gold behind them. Caron woke up for the food, ate with her fingers, then stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat in a window. Maggie talked to the chef about something in Spanish—Jim didn't catch it, didn't try—and then joined Caron in the sun.
Jim stayed at the table, nursing a bourbon now, watching the two women do nothing. It was a good nothing. The kind of nothing money could buy.
The yacht dropped anchor in a cove just before sunset—a place with no name, just a curve of white sand and a ridge of dark hills and water so clear you could see the bottom. The crew rowed them to shore in a small tender, then left them alone.
They walked the beach barefoot. Caron picked up shells. Maggie smoked. Jim held both their hands at different moments and felt something close to peace.
By the time they got back to the yacht, the sky was purple and the air had cooled. The crew had set out lanterns along the deck—small flames flickering in glass holders, casting shadows that moved with the wind. The table was cleared. The box was still there.
Caron saw it first.
"Now?" she asked.
Jim looked at Maggie. Maggie looked at the box. The lamps flickered. The water lapped against the hull.
"Now," Maggie said.
They sat down. Three chairs around a table meant for dinner. Jim opened the box. The sound of the latch was soft but final.
Three syringes. Two packets. One vial.
"Ladies first," Jim said.
Caron reached for the vial. Fingers steady. Eyes bright. She held it up to the lantern light and shook it gently, watching the liquid move.
Maggie watched her. Then reached for a syringe.
Jim watched them both.
The night was just beginning.