Page 19 of The Paradise Problem

“Where are you going? We’ll need to head to the gate soon.”

“Bathroom.”

“Take your phone at least?” I call after her. She turns, opens the bag, and delicately plucks an ancient iPhone from inside.

I make a mental note to buy her a new one as soon as we return from the island, and watch until she disappears down a narrow hall, glancing away only after realizing I’d been staring directly at her ass.

The designer bag sits open in my lap. It feels lighter than it looks, holding its shape even though, without the phone, it appears to be relatively empty. Curious and unable to resist, I tilt my head to peek inside, and my heart does an unexpected twist behind my breastbone at the sight of the shaggy coin purse she must use as a wallet, the simple Burt’s Bees lip balm, her passport, and her scuffed house keys on the same UCLA key chain she’s had ever since we lived together years ago.

Anna truly has nothing.

And she is absolutely right: I’m taking a lamb directly into the lion’s den.

My phone buzzes on the small table near my knee, and I bend to retrieve it. There’s a text from her.

I need you for a sec

I stare down at the words. Did I not hear her correctly that she was going to the bathroom?

Where are you?

In the ladies’ room

I don’t understand

My phone rings, and I swipe the screen. Before I can say anything, she speaks, her voice a low whisper: “Can you please just come in here?”

“For what?”

“For… something. Just—come here.”

Oh God. I press my hands over my eyes and lower my voice, too. “This really isn’t necessary, Green.”

“What isn—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

The line goes dead silent before she bursts out, no longer whispering, “Oh my God, this is not for sex! Are you kidding me?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m not expec—”

“Jesus Christ, West! Just please come in here!”

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way.” Slinging her purse over my shoulder and collecting our carry-ons, I make my way to the ladies’ room, where Anna peeks out into the hallway. As soon as she sees me, she reaches forward, grabbing the front of my shirt and jerking me inside.

Apologizing over her shoulder to a woman washing her hands at the sink—“I swear we aren’t going to have sex in here!”—Anna pulls me into a stall and flips the lock.

I break eye contact to look around us. Nothing seems to be broken. She doesn’t appear to be injured. I am just as confused as I was a minute ago. “I cannot imagine what you need me for.”

With a grimace, she moves her hand, revealing to me that her shorts are completely unfastened. The white lace of her underwear is visible, as is a soft stretch of her navel, and a fever climbs up my neck.

“Tell me what’s happening here,” I say, averting my eyes. “I’m not risking a guess again.”

Her shoulders slump. “I can’t button my pants.”

At this, my gaze jerks back to hers, and she holds up her hands, wiggling her pink-tipped fingers. As if to demonstrate, she reaches for the zipper but with her long nails can’t grasp the pull with her fingertips. A laugh rips out of me.

“It’s not funny,” she growls.

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