The Paradise Problem (14)
“I’ll be there in thirty.” Vivi’s love language: coming to the rescue. She hangs up without further discussion, and instead of plugging in my phone like a normal person, I toss it to the mattress beside me. Vivi’s coming, I tell myself. Just breathe.
But I can’t. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I should. And if I do, I absolutely don’t know how to prepare. Why the hell did I say yes? And how can I ensure that I don’t end up being completely fucked over by a man who has spent his academic life so far learning how money works?
* * *
IT TAKES ALL OF fifteen minutes for me to explain the situation to Vivi, but another forty-five for her to stop screaming about how crazy and amazing this all is long enough for her to register that I’m in a blind panic.
“Babe, babe,” she says, cupping my cheeks. “There is no downside here. Are you kidding? This is life-altering good.”
“You don’t see a downside because you love chaos.”
“I do not!” she protests.
This liar. I’ve read that people who grew up in an unstable environment often seek out that unpredictability. This couldn’t be further from the truth with Vivi. Her childhood was idyllic; her parents are actual angels. Personally, I think she loves chaos because she’s a Scorpio.
We both scream when the doorbell rings and stare at each other in shock.
“Is it him?” she whispers.
“I don’t know!” I whisper back.
“Do you think he’s bringing you a briefcase of money?”
My eyes go wide. “Is that really how they do it?”
With glee, I fling the door open. It isn’t West with a suitcase of money. It’s a courier in a blue and yellow uniform.
“Oh,” I say, deflating. “Hello.”
“Name?” he asks, looking down at a clipboard.
“Anna Green.”
Vivi leans over. “I thought it was supposed to be Weston.”
“Right!” I say. “Anna Weston. Wait.” I speak to her out of the side of my mouth. “Would I go Weston? Wouldn’t I firmly stay Green?”
The guy clears his throat and looks at me, flat boredom in his gaze. “Either is fine. I have both here.” He passes over an envelope thickly stuffed with papers. “This is for you. Liam Weston asked that you review and sign. In fact, he said, ‘Tell her to actually review this, and then sign.’?”
“Wow, drag me, West,” I whisper.
“Once you’re done,” the dude says, “come back out. I’ll be over by my van and can bring the rest up.”
I take it with a mumbled thanks and close the door again.
“Holy shit does West Weston love a contract.” I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit. “You bet your ass this time I’m going to read every single word of this.” I open the envelope and the thick stack of documents slides heavily onto the tabletop. Staring down at it, I amend, “I’m going to read some of this.”
“What did he mean, ‘bring the rest up’?” Vivi asks, parting the curtains at the front window and peeking out at the parking lot. “Maybe you sign that first and then get the briefcase of money.”
I have no idea what “the rest of it” could possibly be, but there’s no time to think about that now. The top sheet is a nondisclosure agreement stating that I’m not to share the terms of this arrangement or the conditions of our marriage with anyone for all of eternity, otherwise West can sue my face off. Whatever, easy. I just won’t tell him about Vivi, whom I presume is grandfathered in anyway: I haven’t signed anything yet.
But beneath the NDA is a contract detailing what I’ve agreed to do: I’ve agreed to remain married to William Albert Weston until September first of this year or a mutually agreed upon date of our choice, whichever is later. I’ve agreed to come to the wedding of his sister, Charlotte Weston, to a man improbably named Kellan McKellan—I bark out a laugh—on the private island of Pulau Jingga from May first through twelfth. I’ve agreed to play the role of a happily married woman, to engage with all wedding guests appropriately and as needed. The contract states that West will fill me in on the details of what he’s told his family about our life together “no later than May first” which, frankly, makes me very nervous. If there’s so much backstory that he didn’t have time to put it all in the contract, is it really possible for me to remember everything I’m supposed to have been doing for the past five years? I couldn’t even remember to put two dollars in the Pick-It-Up till.
There are a lot of zeros under the “Payment Terms” section, which is pretty exciting, but there are even more stipulations about what actions on my part would forfeit said payment. Some are obvious: Of course, West won’t pay me if I accidentally or intentionally mention that I recently got canned from my convenience store job, or that I reside in a shithole apartment in Northridge, or if I reveal anything that doesn’t align with the details he’ll share with me “no later than May first.”
But other things are in here, too. Requirements about my hair, my makeup, my clothes, my foul language (okay, fair), my use of recreational or illegal drugs (also fair). Each of these clauses is a rubber mallet to my feminist knee-jerk reflex, but simply put, if he doesn’t get his money, neither do I. Scrounging around the kitchen, I find a nearly dry ballpoint pen and sign the contract, reminding myself what a hundred thousand dollars can do.