The Paradise Problem (26)
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.”