The Paradise Problem (25)
I picture David Green meeting someone I was literally married to and not taking a very keen interest. I try to imagine him only now meeting someone I’d been married to for five years, and I just can’t. It would never happen. If I as much as mention a third date, Dad wants me to bring the guy over for dinner at home. We’d never set foot on a beach like this—would never in our lives be able to afford even the coach-class plane fare—but we have something much more valuable.
I glance up at West and feel a pang of sadness for him.
We continue in silence. At the edge of the beach, the soft sand gives way to craggy rocks, and a smooth wood-slat path has been built into the side of the cliff, making it easy to walk along the wide curve of the island. We come around a bend and now that we’re right in front of it, I gasp at the view: the wooden path branches off into five long, narrow bridges over the water, leading to the overwater bungalows. Each is about a city-block distance apart, making them incredibly private.
It’s this moment right here when it sinks in that we won’t just be sharing a room for ten days; we’ll be sharing a bed. “Ope,” I mutter, pulling up short at the bridge that we’ve been told is ours, the third down the path. “I should have anticipated this.”
“Anticipated what?”
“Unless that tiny, romantic hut has two doubles inside it, we’ll be sharing a bed.”
West shakes his head. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
But when we reach the end of our long, curved bridge and step onto the deck of the beautiful bungalow, we see the seating options: two round papasan chairs facing the ocean. Inside the long, narrow bungalow is a single enormous bed and along one wall a carved wooden bench that’s barely wide enough for West’s left thigh.
“I think that’s just meant to be decorative,” I whisper. “I’m not sure you’ll fit. Unless you sleep in a coffin perched on top.”
West frowns at the bench. “I’ll make it work,” he mumbles.
“The bigger problem is that.” I point down the length of the bungalow, which is essentially a long rectangle, with the bedroom portion taking up roughly two-thirds, a small half wall behind the headboard, and a bathroom occupying the very back third of the space. While the sinks and closet are hidden by the partial wall, the shower is gloriously open and visible even from the entrance. The only space that closes with an actual door seems to be the tiny room with a toilet inside. Help. I cannot imagine pooping in there when West is anywhere in this bungalow with me.
“I can shower in the spa,” West says.
“That won’t look suspicious.”
“We’ll just have to time it all strategically.”
“Or we’ll just have to decide to deal with it,” I say. “After meeting your parents, I can’t imagine seeing me naked will be the hardest part of this trip.”
“Point taken.”
I do have a point, but I can’t help the warm crawl of awareness that he is a man, and I am a woman, and we are going to be cohabitating in this very small, very romantic place. “Okay, let’s just put on our big-kid pants—or take them off, I guess—and deal with it.”
He stares. I stare back. West blinks a few times, rapidly. “What? Now?”
“West, we’ve been traveling for seven hundred hours. I need a shower. Don’t you?”
“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.