Page 47 of The Paradise Problem

West’s gaze dips to my boobs again and he squeezes his eyes closed. “Great.”

“So, the Operation Inheritance plan for tonight is to be more affectionate,” I say. “More of a team vibe and less of a ‘throw each other under the bus’ vibe.”

“Right.”

“How affectionate are we talking? Like we just had crazy sex, or like we’ll have crazy sex later? Or both?”

He rubs his hand through his hair, this time with a groan. “Do you really have to keep saying the word sex?”

I open my mouth to say it again just for kicks, but the sound is drowned out as an amphibious plane comes in for a water landing.

“I think you better give me a rundown of who’ll be there that you want me to charm,” I yell above the noise.

“Right,” he says again, his voice rising as the plane lands smoothly on the water only a couple hundred feet from our bungalow. “Well, the best ones to read up on a little are Danny Shoe, Patrick Lemon, and Nicola Ricci.”

I see movement behind him and stand up in shock, because a toddler—who must be two-year-old GW—has somehow walked along our narrow bridge all the way out to our bungalow?

“Sweetie, what are you doing?” I run over to him, picking him up, and immediately West is there, too, taking him from me, holding him tight in a panic. This tiny human just walked out ALONE along a bridge with NO RAILS built directly OVER THE OCEAN.

It hits me like a slap: what the fuck kind of place builds a long-ass bridge to a bungalow and has nothing but a flimsy rope for a handrail? Does no one ever bring children or disabled or elderly people here? Are the guests who come here so obsessed with capturing the perfect *vibes* in their Instagram post that they don’t want fucking guardrails ruining their shot?

West walks in a few circles, hugging his nephew and talking quietly to him and I’m temporarily distracted from my disgust. My ovaries stand up and exit my body with a forlorn salute, launching themselves into the monster soup.

“Is he okay?” I ask, coming up and resting my hands on GW’s shoulders. “You okay, buddy?”

“He seems fine,” West says, and meets my eyes. “I’m sure he has no idea how dangerous that was, do you, kiddo?”

“This bridge is so treacherous,” I whisper to West. “What are they thinking, putting the kids in a bungalow?”

“It’s fine,” West mumbles back, and I’m sure he’s seen a million private islands with all kinds of inaccessible features. I’m sure this is nothing. “They just have to keep a closer eye on him.”

GW snuggles into West’s neck and says, “I went for walk.”

“Yeah, you did.” He looks at me over his nephew’s shoulder. “I’m going to take him back over to Alex and Blaire’s. I’m sure they’re freaking out wondering where he is.”

* * *

I EXPECT WEST TO be back and hanging out on the deck when I come out of the shower, but the bungalow is still empty. I do think he’s right, though; if the most important thing in our plan is to be convincingly married so his family has no reason to start digging into our lives, then we need to step it up a bit.

I’m not sure, but I think women in rich circles are good about knowing things about the people they’ll meet at parties. At least that’s the way it goes on Real Housewives. The Wi-Fi on the island is, perhaps not surprisingly, incredibly slow but it works, and I pull a page from my sketchbook, writing down information on the names I remember West saying: Danny Shoe, Patrick Lemon, and Nicola Ricci.

But I don’t just go to their LinkedIns or Wiki’s; I dive deeper. If there’s one common skill every adult woman possesses, it’s how to scope out a friend’s prospective or cheating love interest on the Internet. This knowledge is half of why I have zero Internet presence. (The other half is laziness.)

And thank God I dive deeper, because after some Instagram cross-referencing between West, Jake, and Charlie, I realize that Danny Shoe is in fact Danielle Xiu. She posted an airport selfie yesterday with the caption IAD > SIN, along with several airplane and bridal emojis. She is also quite the Barbie aficionado, and I send a silent thank-you to the universe that nobody keeps anything private anymore.

Just as I wrap up my glacially paced but successful googling, an email pops up from my manager, Melissa.

Dear Anna,

Amazing news! I have placed three of your paintings at a gallery showing in Laguna Beach! They will need to be picked up tomorrow; I’ll send a courier. What is a good time to meet at your apartment?

The price will be set at $200 each—how does that sound to you?

Call me if you have any questions.

Best,

Mel

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