I say nothing, feeling a little defensive. This has been an ungodly expensive vacation here, and so far it hasn’t necessarily been all that much fun, and I don’t need some Florida beach bum telling me what’s what. “I like being able to afford to travel.”

“Yes indeed.”

He sounds serious, yet there’s a glint to his eyes, and I know he’s not agreeing with me at all.

“Poverty is overrated,” I say with great dignity, grateful for once that I know something about something. I do remember what it was like in those early years when Daniel and I struggled with all those student loans, the car payments, the first mortgage that ate nearly every penny we earned. We both worked so hard those first few years we were married, and then William came and I stopped working for a few years to stay home with him. Then baby Jessica came, and it was William and Jessie and me killing time every day until Daddy came home from work.

And then I’d thrust the kids at him and want to escape out on my own. Of course, Daniel—even though he loved the kids—didn’t want them shoved on him. I couldn’t help it. Two kids under five and my mind going crazy, wanting something to think about other than chicken nuggets, Barney the purple dinosaur, and wiping little toddler bottoms. And then Daniel suggests that maybe we might want another.

Another what? Another lobotomy or a breakdown?

I force my mind away from the past and all that I can’t change. Futility is so depressing. “When’s the last time you went home?” I ask instead.

Kai shrugs. “Couple years.”

“Years?”

“I don’t go back to the mainland. I live here.”

“Yes, but…” My voice trails off, and I try to imagine living in a place this small, this isolated, this… casual. No four seasons. No real city life. No professional sports. “You don’t get bored?”

“Bored in Hawaii?” Kai sounds incredulous. “I’m never bored here. I get bored on the mainland, but here, everyone’s in a good mood. Everyone comes to Hawaii for a good time. You don’t come here unless you want to have fun. Rich women come, poor women who’ve saved and scraped, and everyone wants the same thing—to escape. To relax. To feel good.”

Yes, but I haven’t relaxed yet. This hasn’t been an escape, and I still very much want to feel good.

“Have you thought more about the surf lesson?” he asks. “Free. No strings attached. You’ll have fun.”

The idea of me actually surfing is laughable. Me in my expensive Lycra Miracle suit that hugs the tummy and slims the waist and lifts the fanny, surfing? Right. “You mean, you’ll find it funny. I could never surf—couldn’t get up—”