Page 25 of The Paradise Problem

I feel the warmth before I hear his velvety voice. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

I turn to see West so close, only a few inches away as he’s looking out the window beside my shoulder. Up close, his skin is amazing. Smooth and clean, with just the right amount of shadow darkening his jaw after our long day of travel. We both took a few minutes to freshen up in the lounge in Singapore, and he smells like soap and that crisp, astringent bite of dude deodorant. He doesn’t look the slightest bit rumpled, and I wonder, for what I’m sure will not be the last time, whether the rich ever get swampy like the rest of us.

“What?” I ask, lost in the realization that he has a perfect nose. Straight and even. His bone structure is unreal. I swear there isn’t a pore anywhere. I’d like to paint him.

To be clear, I mean paint on him.

“This water,” he says, lifting his chin so that I follow his attention outside. “It doesn’t look real.”

He’s right. And to an artist, the view is overwhelming. The crystalline azure water undulates below us, so clear that the coral reefs are visible from the air. It’s like looking at a mirage; one main island orbited by five smaller moons, the surface of each ringed in white sugar and capped in emerald green. As we approach, the island topography rises from a flat canvas. There are rugged bluffs and rocky interiors, a smattering of blue pools nestled inland and sheltered by overhanging foliage.

“It’s beautiful,” I agree quietly. “It’s the kind of view I can’t entirely wrap my head around.”

For some reason, this moment recalls the first time I saw a ranunculus. I didn’t think I’d ever come close to re-creating their delicate wrinkles on canvas, to accurately capturing the soft, tight bunching of the layered petals, the delicate baby-soft hairs down the stem. But I tried over and over until I got close. Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.

Is that why, in the end, I chose art? Because it’s forgiving? My brain wasn’t wired for medicine, fine, but was I drawn to art because the bounds are loose and subjective? Because this… this trip… it isn’t something I can do badly at first. There are no loose boundaries. I don’t even know what the boundaries are. I don’t know the rules of this game.

I distract myself, thinking how I’d paint this view if I could, trying to locate my first brushstroke in the sparkling surface of water. It’s overwhelming to imagine trying to paint something so vast, so unending, but the familiarity of the exercise is still better than thinking about everything waiting for me out on that island. I’d mix French Ultramarine Light Extra with Cobalt Green. I’d add small bits of Titanium White and mix until it was exactly the color that remains when I close my eyes.

I visualize painting until, with a tiny jolt and the sound of water rushing all around us, we land on the surface of the ocean. I grip West’s forearm as turquoise waves crest over the yellow rudders; the island is a green and white gem only half a mile away. Okay. It’s really happening.

Think like a millionaire, I tell myself. Cristal. Hamptons. Chanel. Hedge funds. Racehorses.

The flight attendant approaches. “Are you ready to deplane? The hosts are waiting on the beach to welcome you. Your belongings will be brought directly to your bungalow.”

West and I stand, stretching in unison, and I do a few uppercuts into the air. “Let’s do this!”

“The island is wonderful on bare feet,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking specifically to me; at some point in the flight, West took off his expensive sneakers and put on flip-flops. “Guests are encouraged to enjoy their visit here in sandals, or without any shoes at all.” Although her expression is only warm, when she glances at my strappy shoes, I get what she’s saying: Not even the filthy rich can walk on sand in four-inch spike heels, dollface.

“What a relief,” I say, laughing as I attempt to unbuckle them. My nails are a real hindrance here, and adding to the comedy is the giant diamond on my finger that slides around, weighing an entire pound. When West sees me struggling with my talons, I feel his firm hands slide down my calves and cup my ankles, his fingers making quick work of the straps. I like it a lot more than I should. “My hubby loves me in tall, sexy shoes but the little wifey in me loves the feeling of being barefoot!”

She laughs politely at this and turns to lead us to the exit.

“Tone it down a little,” West says, straightening to hand me my shoes.

“I’m just being playful.”

“Play a little less.”

I turn to face him, whispering, “I know you think it’s fine if we don’t get along, but didn’t you say your dad wants you to come back to the family company to be the chief something officer?”

“Operations.”

“Right. And you think he might suspect our marriage isn’t real and use your inheritance as leverage to pressure you? Why not be a little lovey? We can’t get him off your back if we’re cold and robotic.”

“There’s a wide gulf between getting him off my back and you calling yourself a ‘little wifey.’ ”

“I’m just playing the part, dude. I’m just going with the tiny scraps of information I have here.”

West stops me before I reach the stairs to exit the plane, his big hand wrapped around my forearm. “Have I grossly miscalculated this?”

“Uh, undoubtedly?”

Panic washes him out, makes his eyes a little wild. “Can you play the part? Don’t call me ‘dude.’ Don’t rave about your favorite bongs and Takis and flavors of White Claw. These people aren’t kidding around, Anna. My father spends millions—I mean millions—destroying people who fuck with him. You think he won’t do the same to me if he knows I’ve been lying about our marriage? You think he won’t destroy you?”

I make a little meep sound because that hadn’t occurred to me. I also want to yell at both of us for how I ended up here, but his anxiety is already palpable. One of us has to keep our shit together.

“You told me it was fine to be a Muppet-human hybrid, remember?” I hiss back at him. “And listen, I get it. This is stressful for you. I’ll cut you some slack and I won’t call you ‘dude’ anymore, okay? But you’re his kid. He’s not going to destroy you.” At least, I think. The most I know about rich families I learned from Succession, and I concede there’s some brutal shit there. “Besides, it’s not like he’s a weapons dealer. He’s a grocer. What, is he gonna ban me from every Weston’s in the greater Los Angeles area? I’ve got news for him, I can’t afford it anyway.”

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