The Paradise Problem (50)
I peel myself away and carefully—oh my God, so carefully—slide from the bed. I’m sure I leave a boob imprint on his chest. But to be fair, his enormous boner probably leaves a matching imprint on my thigh. I’m doing everything I can to not think too much about that, but Goddamn.
I’m also trying not to think too much about how he gets up ten minutes after me, pulling on running shorts and leaving to go for a jog on the beach barefoot and gloriously shirtless. Or about the way he doesn’t even make a millisecond of eye contact. Odds are good he’s aware that I spent most of the night sleep-humping him, and now I must live the rest of my life with that humiliation.
To distract myself, I reach for the small watercolor palette I packed, my brushes, paper, and a cup of water, and walk out to the balcony to paint the sunrise. The view is just… unreal, a horizontal rainbow that touches everything with rose-colored light. Even if I woke up to this every morning for a hundred years, I would never get sick of it. The sight of it changes by the second and, flat brush in hand, I wet the paper and start with a section of cobalt blue near the top, letting the color diffuse at the bottom. I drop in gauzy streaks of raw sienna, rose, and violet. I’m still learning how to paint with these nails, but manage to add my horizon and mirror the sky in the water, laying down a touch of vermilion where the rising sun is most intense.
Despite the ever-present toxicity that is the Weston clan, the trip has been amazing. Yesterday, West and I attempted to escape the oppressively rich crowd and take a boat to one of the smaller islands, but Reagan and Lincoln spotted us on the dock and asked to join us. I’ve never spent much time with kids before, but it ended up being way more fun than I expected.
West is a great uncle. He’s patient and funny, and Linc looks at him with stars in his eyes. While West and Linc attempted to fish yesterday, Reagan and I talked about school and boys, music and life and friends. She showed me the sketch we’d done together and how she’d added train tracks for Eileen’s braces, and a conversation bubble over her head that said, “I’m a buttface.” I should have done the adult thing and reminded her not to call people names, but that kid pulled Reagan’s pants down in front of a gymnasium full of sixth graders; Reagan deserves to be a little salty.
When my phone pings in my backpack, I dig it out, my pulse taking off when I see a text from Vivi.
Hey favorite.
Hey. Is my dad okay?
He’s perfect.
We just watched the Lakers cream the Suns.
He ate an entire burrito.
Oh, that’s amazing!
I was just checking in to see if you’ve banged the husband yet.
Well, this is a track change. I stare down at the screen, wondering whether Vivi installed a camera in the robot suitcase and watched me sleep-hump the poor man last night.
Absolutely not.
It’s just a matter of time, Anna.
No.
I hit Send, and then send another, just to be clear:
No.
There’s a story behind your need to repeat that.
I don’t need these ideas in my head!
We kissed the other night.
Oh and we went to a party that was very fancy.
You would have loved it.
Are you trying to distract me from asking about the kissing?
Yes.
How was it?
The kissing, not the party.
His mouth is really great.
Like, REALLY great
But that’s not why I’m here!
Isn’t it a little bit why you’re there?
To fake-kiss him?
I’m being paid to be the perfect wife and so far I’d give me a C-
I think a perfect wife bangs.
Which is why banging could and should happen.
It would definitely knock you up to an A
Vivienne Amir. pls.
Also never say “knock you up” in a fake-wife situation
You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t already thinking about sex….
Hush
Your last sex was Micah, right?
Micah. A waiter at her parents’ café. Very hot. Very unskilled.
Yes. Two stars. Would not return.
Which is honestly such a bummer
He looked like he knew how to read a map but i guess not
Narrator: Like most men, Micah didn’t stop to ask for directions