The Paradise Problem (27)
Ten
LIAM
From the ages of six to twelve, I played Little League. I quit once I started middle school and girls or computers took over my every waking thought, and by that point I was also desperate to avoid my father’s competitive intensity whenever possible. But for those seven years, I was one of the best kids on the team.
At least when it came to fielding.
At bat, I was a distracted mess, unable to follow the golden rule: Keep your eye on the ball. No matter how often my dad ordered our nanny to pack a lunch and take me to the batting cages to practice, no matter how much he berated, threatened, or taunted me after games, I was never confident in the batter’s box. If I made contact, I’d slug it, sure. But at least half the time, I’d strike out.
“You’re pulling your head,” Dad would yell at me after every game. “Watch the ball hit the bat! For fuck’s sake, Liam, focus!”
He was right. Focus was always a challenge, and apparently it didn’t end with baseball. I came here with the knowledge that all I need to do is limp this lie to September, and I can finally exhale, but we’re less than an hour into this farce and I’m already off track: I peeked, and it was a huge mistake. It’s not that I didn’t know Anna was attractive all those years ago; it’s that we barely saw each other, and I was so driven to finish my degree and never have to work for my father again that Anna—attractive or not—was easy to overlook.
In reality, this trip should be very simple. Anna and I need to be in attendance, passably social, and not discuss our inane cover story anywhere in earshot of anyone but Jake. I realize she’s nervous about how well she’ll pull off her role, but what I told her was true: Anna could just smile on my arm and it would be fine. The fact that she’s here should be enough to get my self-obsessed father off my trail.
So the last thing I need to do is add more fuel to the emotional fire. The last thing I need to do is notice her.
But when she steps out onto the deck of our bungalow, dressed for the night’s cocktail party, there’s no escaping it. The dress is black silk, landing high on her upper thigh, and with only a delicate silver chain holding it up over one shoulder. Another crosses her chest, connecting to the opposite strap and, when she turns around and goes inside to grab her small purse, I see the view from behind is even worse: low-cut, with two of those same tiny sparkling chains draped together diagonally across the width of her back.
I hear the creaking, choked sound of my own surprised inhale. The only thing I see is skin.
So much skin, and legs. Legs for days.
“Okay,” she says, returning to the deck and running her hands down her sides, unaware of the way my eyes rake over her. “If this isn’t the right vibe, tell me. Vivi put about twenty dresses in that trunk, and this feels… like, weird to wear barefoot? But I think they’d all be weird to wear barefoot? Honestly, I don’t know why the dress code for everything wasn’t ‘beachy’ but here we are. In silk.”
Finally, she looks up at me, brows raised as she waits for the verdict. I have no idea what my face is doing, but I work to get my voice to come out steady. “That dress is fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s a cocktail party.” I point a finger attached to a very sweaty palm. “That’s a cocktail dress.”
“Okay. I just—” She pauses, fussing with the hem, which, no matter how much she tugs at it, is never getting longer. “Do you have a recurring dream? Mine is that I wake up and plan to wear a new, cute dress that I like but which I haven’t worn yet. But by the time I leave the house, it feels shorter than I remember. Then I get to school—high school, because nightmares are always about high school—and the dress barely covers my ass, and I start to feel really self-conscious. By the time I walk into my classroom, I realize what everyone around me already knew, which is that I’m wearing a shirt and only thought it was a dress, and I’m basically walking around with no pants on.”
“That’s not your nightmare, Anna, that’s you just lounging around your apartment.”
She grins. “Touché.” Another hem tug. “Okay, and also? I didn’t take the tag off this, so you can return it after the trip.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She cups a hand to the side of her mouth. “West. This dress is Givenchy. It was like twenty-five hundred dollars.”
I smile at her and cup a hand to the side of my mouth, whispering, “It’s okay.” Truthfully, I love that she thinks about this. I love that she’s horrified by that price. I’m horrified, too. It’s a good thing Anna isn’t my real wife; I would constantly worry that my proximity to this world would destroy her.
We head back inside so I can cut the tag off for her—it looked like a flat rectangle on her ass, she wouldn’t have fooled anyone—and make our way along the softly lit private bridge to the wooden path, and then to the beach where we can begin to make out sounds of the party in the distance.
From my perusal of the map left in our bungalow, there are a handful of large guest structures on the main island: Two restaurants, two bars, an enormous infinity pool and pool house, a reception hall, the gym, a spa, a learning pavilion for classes and activities, a retail shop, and a greenhouse where guests can help plant, tend, and harvest some of the plants and herbs used on Pulau Jingga. According to the information in our room, the restaurant where tonight’s party is held is known not only for the amazing menu but also for its custom as well as classic drinks, a long list of zero-proof cocktails, and a heavily curated list of top-shelf and very expensive wines and spirits. The itinerary said that dinner will be a mix of drinks and various small dishes prepared exclusively for our party. So, a quick meal and enough alcohol to plow through the night. I can do this, I think. We can do this.