The Paradise Problem (49)

“Julia and I got the outfits together,” Reagan says. “We were going to go when I got home. Does she think I won’t see her posts? I’m on an island, not Mars.”

I have no idea what the hell all of this is about, but obviously Anna seems to. “Maybe Eileen invited Julia?” she asks.

Reagan sucks in an angry breath. “Whatever! They’re barely even friends. Julia knows I hate Eileen. She pantsed me in PE last year!”

“She didn’t,” Anna says with the appropriate level of dismay.

“They suspended her, and she blamed me! She’s been so mean ever since.” Reagan sends a hand across her tear-streaked cheeks. “She’s always trying to start drama with everyone. Julia should have said no. She’s been my best friend since first grade!”

“How about this: when we get back to California, you and I will go to Disneyland in matching outfits, and Eileen and Julia can suck it.”

Reagan nods. “Okay.”

“Dang it. If I had some paper, I’d show you something I do to make myself feel better.”

Reagan reaches into her little sparkly evening bag. “I have one of the welcome programs. Will that work?”

Reagan hands it to Anna, who takes it and pulls something out of her own bag. “Perfect. We wouldn’t normally do this with a Chanel lip pencil, but desperate times and all that.” Anna turns the program over and lays it flat on her leg. “Before we start, if any adults ask,” she says, and I bite back a laugh at the dramatic clearing of her throat, “I am not encouraging you to make fun of someone. That’s not what this is about. Even if they maybe, possibly deserve it a little. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. How often do you draw?”

“Almost never,” Reagan admits with a laugh.

“That’s fine,” Anna says, smiling over at her. “The nice thing about art is that it can be terrible, and people will still call it art.” She bends, beginning a sketch I can’t see. “But this here? This is also self-care.”

Reagan giggles.

“I had this boss, this guy named Ricky,” Anna says, turning the page to come at her drawing from a new angle. “I’d worked for his parents for a few years, but then he took over the store. He was a lot younger than me. Like seven years.”

“But you’re only like twenty-five.”

“Right? With an eighteen-year-old for a boss. And one day, he asked me out on a date.”

“He what!”

Anna nods. “I said no, of course, and he fired me not long after.”

In the shadows, I suck in a breath to keep from reacting audibly to this. Is this why she was fired the night before I came to her apartment?

“That isn’t fair!” Reagan protests.

“It isn’t fair, you’re right. It’s terrible. And there isn’t much I can do about it because lawyers are expensive. But you know what? Drawing terrible pictures of him made me feel incrementally better.” She turns the paper to face Reagan, who bursts out laughing. “I don’t know what Eileen looks like, but you can make it accurate.”

She hands Reagan the lip pencil. Reagan works for a bit, before Anna quietly says, “Give her a pimple.”

With another giggle, Reagan bends, drawing on the paper.

“Oh, a mustache, love it,” Anna says, leaning in. “I’ll have to give poor Eileen my waxing lady’s number.”

Reagan pulls back, admiring their handiwork, and Anna puts her arms around my niece.

“I’m sorry, honey. This is hard, but we’ll have as much fun here as humanly possible.”

Reagan’s next “okay” is muffled by Anna’s shoulder, but I hear it anyway, watching her thin, pale arms come around my wife’s waist. “Thank you, Auntie Anna.” Anna stills for a moment, and I think it hits us both at the same time; she’s not just my wife, she’s Reagan, Lincoln, Nixon, and GW’s aunt, my siblings’ sister-in-law, and my parents’ daughter-in-law. As an only child, she’s never had those things before, and this suddenly feels so much bigger than just the two of us. I knew what I was asking her to give while we were here, but had no idea what I was asking her to give up at the end of this.

Just then, over Reagan’s shoulder, Anna’s eyes go wide as she spots me, watching her give my niece something I’m sure she rarely gets anymore—the pure, undivided attention of an adult. Anna lifts her fingers in a subtle wave.

What an asshole I was for thinking she snuck out with Jamie. What an archaic, bullshit reaction. I can’t help the smile, can’t help the thought as it rises like the dark tide only a handful of yards away: it’s complicated, but I’m so grateful that Anna’s here.





Seventeen


ANNA


Well, West Weston isn’t a liar, I can say that much.

A little cuddly? The next two mornings I wake up plastered to him, with one leg thrown lustily over his hips and one arm around his rib cage. And today is the worst. If mornings one through three were cuddling, morning four is a full-body dry hump.

I’m not just plastered to him, I’m on top of him. My legs are on either side of his hips, my face is in his neck, my fancy tank top has ridden up, and my boob is just right there! Pressed to his! Every morning so far we’ve been super “cool” and very “chill” and not awkward at all as we get out of bed, pretending like I haven’t migrated over to his side of the bed. But this morning it takes me exactly seven seconds of drowsy, cozy bliss to realize why I’m so warm, why the bed is so soft, but somehow also really… really… hard?