Page 56 of The Paradise Problem

Reagan’s next “okay” is muffled by Anna’s shoulder, but I hear it anyway, watching her thin, pale arms come around my wife’s waist. “Thank you, Auntie Anna.” Anna stills for a moment, and I think it hits us both at the same time; she’s not just my wife, she’s Reagan, Lincoln, Nixon, and GW’s aunt, my siblings’ sister-in-law, and my parents’ daughter-in-law. As an only child, she’s never had those things before, and this suddenly feels so much bigger than just the two of us. I knew what I was asking her to give while we were here, but had no idea what I was asking her to give up at the end of this.

Just then, over Reagan’s shoulder, Anna’s eyes go wide as she spots me, watching her give my niece something I’m sure she rarely gets anymore—the pure, undivided attention of an adult. Anna lifts her fingers in a subtle wave.

What an asshole I was for thinking she snuck out with Jamie. What an archaic, bullshit reaction. I can’t help the smile, can’t help the thought as it rises like the dark tide only a handful of yards away: it’s complicated, but I’m so grateful that Anna’s here.

Seventeen

ANNA

Well, West Weston isn’t a liar, I can say that much.

A little cuddly? The next two mornings I wake up plastered to him, with one leg thrown lustily over his hips and one arm around his rib cage. And today is the worst. If mornings one through three were cuddling, morning four is a full-body dry hump.

I’m not just plastered to him, I’m on top of him. My legs are on either side of his hips, my face is in his neck, my fancy tank top has ridden up, and my boob is just right there! Pressed to his! Every morning so far we’ve been super “cool” and very “chill” and not awkward at all as we get out of bed, pretending like I haven’t migrated over to his side of the bed. But this morning it takes me exactly seven seconds of drowsy, cozy bliss to realize why I’m so warm, why the bed is so soft, but somehow also really… really… hard?

I peel myself away and carefully—oh my God, so carefully—slide from the bed. I’m sure I leave a boob imprint on his chest. But to be fair, his enormous boner probably leaves a matching imprint on my thigh. I’m doing everything I can to not think too much about that, but Goddamn.

I’m also trying not to think too much about how he gets up ten minutes after me, pulling on running shorts and leaving to go for a jog on the beach barefoot and gloriously shirtless. Or about the way he doesn’t even make a millisecond of eye contact. Odds are good he’s aware that I spent most of the night sleep-humping him, and now I must live the rest of my life with that humiliation.

To distract myself, I reach for the small watercolor palette I packed, my brushes, paper, and a cup of water, and walk out to the balcony to paint the sunrise. The view is just… unreal, a horizontal rainbow that touches everything with rose-colored light. Even if I woke up to this every morning for a hundred years, I would never get sick of it. The sight of it changes by the second and, flat brush in hand, I wet the paper and start with a section of cobalt blue near the top, letting the color diffuse at the bottom. I drop in gauzy streaks of raw sienna, rose, and violet. I’m still learning how to paint with these nails, but manage to add my horizon and mirror the sky in the water, laying down a touch of vermilion where the rising sun is most intense.

Despite the ever-present toxicity that is the Weston clan, the trip has been amazing. Yesterday, West and I attempted to escape the oppressively rich crowd and take a boat to one of the smaller islands, but Reagan and Lincoln spotted us on the dock and asked to join us. I’ve never spent much time with kids before, but it ended up being way more fun than I expected.

West is a great uncle. He’s patient and funny, and Linc looks at him with stars in his eyes. While West and Linc attempted to fish yesterday, Reagan and I talked about school and boys, music and life and friends. She showed me the sketch we’d done together and how she’d added train tracks for Eileen’s braces, and a conversation bubble over her head that said, “I’m a buttface.” I should have done the adult thing and reminded her not to call people names, but that kid pulled Reagan’s pants down in front of a gymnasium full of sixth graders; Reagan deserves to be a little salty.

When my phone pings in my backpack, I dig it out, my pulse taking off when I see a text from Vivi.

Hey favorite.

Hey. Is my dad okay?

He’s perfect.

We just watched the Lakers cream the Suns.

He ate an entire burrito.

Oh, that’s amazing!

I was just checking in to see if you’ve banged the husband yet.

Well, this is a track change. I stare down at the screen, wondering whether Vivi installed a camera in the robot suitcase and watched me sleep-hump the poor man last night.

Absolutely not.

It’s just a matter of time, Anna.

No.

I hit Send, and then send another, just to be clear:

No.

There’s a story behind your need to repeat that.

I don’t need these ideas in my head!

We kissed the other night.

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