Page 13 of The Paradise Problem

“Yes.”

“To cover…?”

“The wedding. And to write a profile on my father, I think. Just the standard Weston bullshit.”

She lifts her hands, making air quotes. “ ‘The Standard Weston Bullshit.’ ”

“Right.”

“So, lots of fancy people.”

I don’t sugarcoat it: “Very fancy people.”

Anna looks down at herself and I follow her attention to the front of her shirt, where a Froot Loop adheres to the cotton over her left breast. She plucks it off and pops it into her mouth. “Why not just find someone who can pretend to be me and who knows how to behave around societay?”

“Because my mother knows what you look like.”

She squints at me. “How? I’ve never even met her.”

I hesitate. “I’ve shared a few photos.”

Anna cocks her head. “Photos from when we were roommates? Did we ever take any together?”

“I have the one of you and Jake hiking the Hills in a frame in my living room. It looks enough like me from the back.” I pause, scratching my jaw. “And… I’ve had a few others digitally photoshopped.”

“That’s…” She whistles. “That’s weird, my dude.”

I blow out a breath. “It’s very weird. I concede that.”

“But I guess I’d do weird shit for a hundred mil, too.” She looks to the side, thinking. “Why can’t you hire a look-alike?”

“Five ten, pink hair, beauty mark, and oddball fashion sense? I seem to remember my mother saying something about your nose.”

Her hand moves to her face. “My nose?”

“That it’s small, upturned. She described it as ‘the nose Jenny Nelson wanted and didn’t get.’ She’d notice if it was someone else’s nose.”

“This sounds… I mean, that sounds crazy, West.”

“I know.” This isn’t only her rock bottom; it’s mine, too.

“In what universe am I your type?”

“You were present and willing. At the time, that’s all I required.”

She twirls a pretend mustache. “Ah, amour.”

“This isn’t about romance, Anna. I’m asking for a business arrangement.”

“A business arrangement where we’ll also have to canoodle to be convincing. This feels very Indecent Proposal.”

“I’m sure my family doesn’t expect me to be overly affectionate in public. It’s not really my style.”

She guffaws. “Really.”

“We’ll have to share a bungalow,” I say, ignoring her, “but I expect it will be large enough that we’ll have our own spaces when we’re alone.”

“When is all of this happening?”

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