Page 12 of The Paradise Problem

“Not intentionally.”

“Dude, you have a job. Why not just let go of this inheritance and live your happy life without it?”

West nods, understanding. “I do have a job. And so far, the trust has paid out a million dollars over five years.” I whistle long and low. I mean, holy shit. Two hundred grand a year would change my life in ways I can’t even wrap my head around. “But,” he continues, “the remaining balance I stand to inherit is nearly one hundred million dollars. It’s hard to walk away from that.”

I choke on air. “Oh. I guess that does change things.”

“It does. And I’ve recently discovered a loophole I didn’t know about before. A very big loophole.”

I lift my chin, grinning smugly. “Well, look who else missed some fine print on a contract.”

West swallows audibly. “It’s complicated and boring, but the point is this: I don’t think anyone in my family knows about this loophole, and I really need it to stay that way. No one else can find out that you and I are married in name only.”

“So, do you need me to, like, write an email? Take a picture where we’re kissing?” I wince, at a loss. “Forge some love letters?”

He looks me over again, top to bottom, and the defeat in his eyes makes me realize the true extent of my unshowered, feral chaos. “Actually, Anna,” he says, “I need you to come with me to my sister’s wedding in Indonesia and convincingly play the part of my very loving wife.”

Four

LIAM

My invitation sends Anna’s expression into a frozen mask of consternation, and she blinks past me, eyes trained on the wall. I would have thought the real bombshell here would be the realization that we are not, in fact, divorced, but she appears to have weathered that one with relative calm. It seems to be the suggestion that I need her to act like my wife that’s sent her into a mental spiral.

Of course, that could be the gummy.

Regardless of what’s going on in that brain of hers, I don’t blame her for being upset. Yes, it was her responsibility to read through any legal documents before signing, and it would have been incredibly bad for both of us had she become seriously involved with someone, but we seem to have dodged that bullet. Now we just have the cannonball of Ray Weston to contend with, and I feel like a dick already knowing I won’t warn her about how bad it might be. I need her to say yes too desperately.

And so I wait, letting her think this through.

It’s surreal to be here with her after all this time. I was so close to being done with this, so near to the finish line, yet here I am, having to improvise an intricate plan B at the eleventh hour with a Muppet in human form as my co-conspirator. Don’t get me wrong, beneath the baked, unshowered disarray, Anna is still a beautiful woman, with enormous brown eyes, creamy skin, and long, willowy limbs. I’d always been fascinated with the perfect beauty mark just above her lip. Unfortunately, right now she looks like she’s fallen out of a tree and crawled through a field of tangly briers to get back to her apartment. This is probably the closest I’ve ever seen to her natural hair color because the pink has grown out a good inch, leaving a stripe of brown at her roots. Her makeup is, I presume, from yesterday; shadows of mascara carve dark circles beneath her eyes. Despite the old makeup and frazzled appearance, there’s still something striking about her. Her eyes are enormous and bright, framed with dark lashes, her steady gaze entirely without artifice.

Though I am nearly certain her mind has wandered to something other than the topic at hand, I let her stare at the wall a little longer so I can stare at her and reconcile this version of Anna with the one I lived with for two years.

Let’s start with the biggest surprise and, more importantly, a huge wrinkle in my already flimsy plan: Anna is not a medical student.

As roommates, we didn’t know each other well—that much is probably obvious—but there is an intimacy to sharing a space with someone, a certain kind of kinship that comes with daily proximity. Anna was reasonably tidy and paid her half of the rent when it was due, but she’d never struck me as the organized, driven, premed type. The one time we talked about it, she said something about medicine being the most palatable of the “real job” options, but she seemed overwhelmed a lot, studying late into the night and painting to decompress in what little free time she had. That she ultimately switched her major to fine art makes a certain amount of sense, but I want to punch myself for not realizing she wasn’t studying medicine at all anymore.

Especially after everything I’ve told my family to keep them out of my business. I haven’t quite wrapped my head around how this will work—how this messy, stoned, unemployed wreck of a woman will fit into the glossy stories I’ve carefully manicured over the past several years, but here I am. I’m committed. And I suppose the sooner she agrees to this, the sooner we can get started on all the work we have ahead of us.

“Anna?” I prompt.

Slowly, she turns her face back to me, blinking into focus. “Sorry. This was a lot to absorb.”

“I’m sure.”

“Indonesia?”

I nod. “The wedding will be on a small island called Pulau Jingga.”

Anna squints at me. “You said ‘small,’ but I think you meant ‘private.’ Your sister is getting married on a private island, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” I work to not let my gaze do another sweep of her apartment. I’ve never been to Pulau Jingga, but my mom has been sending me info that I’ve mostly ignored for months. I know the basic idea—a luxury resort and conservation area set in the Indonesian archipelago—and it’s about as far from this dark, cramped living room as I can imagine. Right now, I need Anna to believe she can do this. Yes, she may be at rock bottom, but I need her to think she is just one fairy godmother moment away from sliding gracefully into the world she’s imagining.

“Who will be there?” she asks, her voice a little wobbly.

“My family. You know Jake, of course. Family friends. Some of my sister Charlotte’s friends. Her fiancé’s family. Some business partners of my father’s. Some press.”

“Press?”

---