Page 8 of The Paradise Problem

“Can you tell me why you’re here?” I ask. “I’m high as shit and can’t tell if I’m imagining you.”

West frowns and glances down at his watch. “High?” he asks. “On…?”

“A gummy.”

His expression relaxes. “Oh.” He looks around the apartment and then back to me. “Is that the same sofa?”

“It has the same bones. I don’t think either it or I will be the same after what my roommate and her boyfriend were doing on it last night.”

“Condolences.”

“Thanks.”

“So, listen, I find myself in a strange situation, and I’m wondering if you can help.” He pauses, and the misery seems to overtake his expression again. “Though I seem to have made a much bigger mess for myself.”

It takes a beat for this to sink in. “You need my help?”

“Yes.”

I press an index finger to my breastbone. “Specifically, me?”

West sighs mournfully. “Yes.”

“Should I put pants on for this? It feels like we’re leading up to a pants-on conversation.”

“That’s entirely up to you.”

I stand, limping in one slipper to the bedroom. When I emerge in a pair of shorts, West is still standing exactly where I’d left him.

“You can sit, you know.” I gesture to the splendor of my living room: the half-empty Big Gulp cup on the coffee table that Jack left a few days ago; the dog toy on the floor that Lindy bought even though we don’t have a dog; the laundry basket overflowing with clean clothes neither of us feels like folding. “I know the place feels like an interior design showroom, but we aren’t fussy.”

With vague trepidation, West sits on the couch. I climb back on, leaving a little distance between us, but reach out to poke his knee. “Okay. You’re real.”

He squints at me. “How high are you?”

“I’m like a five right now. I can’t ever get to a ten. I only sort of like edibles, but I didn’t know what else to do today.”

“A job search felt ill-advised?”

“I thought I deserved a day to wallow.”

He looks around again like he’s not sure I can afford to wallow. He’s right.

“What have you been up to?” I ask.

“I’m a professor with a joint appointment in economics and cultural anthropology at Stanford.”

My brain screeches to a halt. “Wait, are you fucking serious? Like Indiana Jones?”

He exhales patiently, and even stoned me realizes he must get that a lot. He runs a long finger along an attractively dark eyebrow. “This is anthropology. You’re thinking archaeolo—”

“Do you go in caves? Swing from vines?” I lean forward. “Yes or no: Have you ever been chased through a jungle?”

West blinks at me and says flatly, “Routinely.”

I reach forward, slapping his arm. “Shut the fuck up!”

He stares at me, trying to hide how distressed he is over everything happening right now. The I’m doomed look is back. I sit up, trying to compose myself. Truthfully, the man before me does not fit my mental image of a modern-day Indiana Jones. I expected more of a Patagonia half-zip, cargo pants, and well-loved hiking boots look than the expensively tailored white dress shirt and navy pants he’s wearing. His shoes are so polished I could probably lean forward and see my reflection and realize how grubby I look in contrast: A ratty old Tom Petty concert shirt of my dad’s that falls off one shoulder. Terry shorts barely covering my ass. Still just the one slipper.

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