Page 29 of The Paradise Problem

“Yes.” He sighs. “You go ahead. I’ll be outside.”

He walks out to the bi-level balcony, one level in the shade, and one in the sun accessible by a set of stairs on the side of the bungalow, and rests his arms over the railing of the lower level, looking out at the ocean. I follow him out and stand next to him for a moment, taking in the view. The horizon stretches forever and I’m not sure I could come close to capturing the feel of the undulating clear turquoise water. The tide rolls toward us, breaking against the wooden deck piles and stilts supporting the bungalow. We’re several feet above the surface, but it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that the sea is directly under our feet.

“What if there’s a tsunami?” I ask. There are so many great potential answers: Then we make this bungalow into a ship and sail to Singapore! Then we surf our way back to the California coastline! Then we grow gills!

But no. West says, without hesitation: “Then I suppose we get swept out to sea.”

He’s gonna be fun.

I walk back inside, realizing I’d been so focused on the sleeping situation, I haven’t properly flailed over the sheer bliss that is our bungalow. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing in here I could afford is the roll of eco-friendly toilet paper I can clearly see from where I stand. And even that looks pretty fancy. There’s a real Isle Esme feel to the decor (if you know, you know), with carved bamboo, recycled teak, jellyfish light fixtures, and a massive canopy bed. Wide windows and the open entrance bring the outside in and allow me to glance over at West, who seems to be mid–mental spiral, managing to look even more morose than he did thirty seconds ago. Isle Esme vibes or not, there will be no headboard breaking here. Near one wall is a chest with our names stamped into the top, a pair of towels folded to look like stingrays, and a jar of chocolate chip cookies that are probably made with the world’s most expensive chocolate but hey, Gede did say it was all-inclusive. I help myself.

For the record: they are fucking delicious.

Our bags have already been brought in and unpacked for us; our clothes hang in the closet or are neatly folded on the shelves nearby. I haven’t seen most of what Vivi bought for me, but I’m praying that somewhere in the dozens of outfits there is a pair of shorts and a T-shirt I can pull on before curling up with my sketchbook in a papasan chair, because this Chanel doesn’t breathe in ninety-five percent humidity.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of my clothes. They feel Velcroed to my skin, itchy and definitely unfresh. Looking to make sure West is still staring morosely out at sea—he is—I toss all my clothes in the woven hamper and climb into the shower, turning on all three showerheads.

If I had to choose between this shower and a lifetime supply of Takis, I would choose this shower. If I had to choose between this shower and seeing Pick-It-Up Ricky-Derrick walk face-first into a sliding glass door at a party, I’d choose this shower. If I had to choose between this shower and a date with Harry Styles… I would choose Harry Styles, but I’d hesitate. This is the best shower of my entire life.

Unfortunately, if West is feeling what I felt ten minutes ago, then he’s itching to get out of his clothes, too, so I turn off the water and wrap myself in a giant, fluffy towel. “I’m done!” I call, grabbing a hairbrush and padding barefoot into the bedroom area. West passes me as I sit on the end of the bed facing the water.

When his clothes land with a whoosh-scratch in the hamper, I ignore the way the sound makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. I ignore, too, the gentle slap of his bare feet stepping into the shower and the way his low groan of pleasure rattles down my spine. Did I make those noises when I was in there? Oh God, I think I did. I think I spent the entire shower talking dirty to the hot water and organic bodywash.

Now he’s totally naked behind me. Why do I care! He’d been naked on the other side of a wall from me hundreds of times when we lived together, and it barely registered. But it all feels different now, because we are pretending to be in love, pretending to be familiar in a way that I honestly cannot imagine being with anyone, but maybe especially him. I have no idea how often married people have sex, but I happen to like sex, and I like to think if I was married, I’d have it a few times a week, at least? Five years times fifty-two weeks times four times a week is, like… I have no idea, but it sounds like a thousand. A thousand times we would’ve had sex—at least! A thousand times his naked body is supposed to have touched mine! I should at least know what that looks like before I try to pretend to know it, right? For realism’s sake?

Wrong, my conscience whispers. You should be ashamed of yourself, Anna.

My awareness of his nakedness is like a mallet tapping at the inside of my forehead. I draw the brush through my hair, trying to think about unappealing things. Bug bites. Flat pillows. Gas pain. Yeast infections. But nothing entirely distracts me from those low groans he lets out every now and then.

He peeked. He had to have. Right? He definitely peeked. Just a tiny twist of his head, chin tucked to shoulder, eyes lifting for only a beat to catch a glimpse of me in the shower.

Under the guise of brushing the hair at the nape of my neck, I turn my head, drawing the pink strands forward. I lift my eyes for the tiniest beat, but it’s long enough to completely destroy any illusion I have that West is some stuffed-shirt, uptight loser and I’ll be able to share a room with him without peeking again. His head is tilted back into the water spray, eyes closed, hands sluicing suds down his very fit torso. He looks like he’s in a bodywash commercial. My fingers ache for my sketchbook, wanting to capture every line and ridge so I can gorge myself on it later. His body is like carved stone, his legs thick and muscled. The rest of him? Goddamn.

I have a lot of faults. I drink milk from the carton, I never make my bed, I am slothful, and sometimes I’ll just set the new roll of toilet paper on top of the empty roll instead of changing it. A monster. I am also gluttonous: I don’t want a few peanut M&M’s; I want the entire bag. Why have one margarita when three is such a nice, satisfying number? Everyone knows why! And that’s why I go back for seconds right now. But karma is Team West: his eyes open just as I glance again. They widen and he reaches down to cup his Goddamn before he turns, facing away. “Anna,” he says, his voice spluttering in the water’s spray. “Are you peeking?”

“No! Sorry!” But frankly, (1) I’m not very sorry, and (2) him facing away isn’t any better, because I am a sucker for a great ass, and his is probably ranked between the Grand Canyon and the Great Barrier Reef on a list of things everyone should see at least once in their lifetime.

“I couldn’t help it!”

I roll over on the bed, clutching the towel to my chest so I don’t wind up totally naked, and press my face into the soft comforter. The water turns off, the sound of a towel being pulled from the rack reaches me, and then West’s feet pad over to the bed. I know he’s standing there, staring down at me with that increasingly familiar look of dismay on his face. I brace myself for a lecture about how I must do better than be a trash-can horn-goblin about his nakedness, about how I have to behave like a grown-up for the next ten days.

“Don’t yell at me,” I mumble into the pillow. “I’m sleep-deprived and generally incorrigible.”

The mattress dips and I crack one eye open. West has planted a knee on the bed and stares down at me, one hand clutching the towel wrapped around his narrow, muscular waist. “Calm down,” he says, smirking. “I peeked, too.”

Ten

LIAM

From the ages of six to twelve, I played Little League. I quit once I started middle school and girls or computers took over my every waking thought, and by that point I was also desperate to avoid my father’s competitive intensity whenever possible. But for those seven years, I was one of the best kids on the team.

At least when it came to fielding.

At bat, I was a distracted mess, unable to follow the golden rule: Keep your eye on the ball. No matter how often my dad ordered our nanny to pack a lunch and take me to the batting cages to practice, no matter how much he berated, threatened, or taunted me after games, I was never confident in the batter’s box. If I made contact, I’d slug it, sure. But at least half the time, I’d strike out.

“You’re pulling your head,” Dad would yell at me after every game. “Watch the ball hit the bat! For fuck’s sake, Liam, focus!”

He was right. Focus was always a challenge, and apparently it didn’t end with baseball. I came here with the knowledge that all I need to do is limp this lie to September, and I can finally exhale, but we’re less than an hour into this farce and I’m already off track: I peeked, and it was a huge mistake. It’s not that I didn’t know Anna was attractive all those years ago; it’s that we barely saw each other, and I was so driven to finish my degree and never have to work for my father again that Anna—attractive or not—was easy to overlook.

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