The Paradise Problem

by Christina Lauren

I haven’t quite wrapped my head around how this will work—how this messy, stoned, unemployed wreck of a woman will fit into the glossy stories I’ve carefully manicured over the past several years, but here I am.

Being an artist is sometimes about not being afraid to do it badly first.

“Can you play the part? Don’t call me ‘dude.’ Don’t rave about your favorite bongs and Takis and flavors of White Claw.

If I had to choose between this shower and a date with Harry Styles… I would choose Harry Styles, but I’d hesitate.

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.

It’s a good thing Anna isn’t my real wife; I would constantly worry that my proximity to this world would destroy her.

I wrap my arms around West’s torso. “My Ken’s job this week is Beach.”

I realize, just before we touch, that he’s about to erase everything I know about the act of kissing.

With a smile forming against my kiss, West tilts his head and takes me with a heat I could not have predicted but which makes me feel like I’m falling backward into clouds.

I feel the ground shake beneath me, but it isn’t the noise in the room. It’s the realization that whatever I thought kissing was before was a poor, diluted impostor to that.

The end of the kiss isn’t a passive closing off, an easy pulling away. It’s forced, it’s purposeful, and with the warmth of her lips on mine, it’s nearly impossible.

But when she comes down the stairs, hurrying, like she’s in a rush to get to me, I let go of all the rational hesitations, the reality of our circumstances, and walk faster, too, desperate to get to her.

“Even if you told me the offer was all fake, and you don’t actually have two nickels to rub together,” I tell him, “I’d still stay and help you pull this off. I’m your ride-or-die, West Weston.”

She reaches forward to adjust my lapel and our eyes meet. Her smile has a tiny bit of the real Anna in it. A tiny bit of knowing. Does she see straight through me? Does she know that every time I look at her, I want to run?

This place is full of beautiful gowns, but nobody looks like her.

Finally, I can translate everything aflame in my thoughts and it’s all just the complex sequence of wanting someone in a hundred different ways.

“Liam?” He goes still. “Yeah?” “I had the best night of my life tonight.” He’s silent in response for a few seconds, and then I feel the lingering press of his lips to the crown of my head. “Me, too.”

It’s too soon to feel what I’m feeling, but I let it wash through me anyway, because it solidifies my resolve to get this precious woman out of here as soon as humanly possible.

Marrying her for student housing was the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done, and it turns out it might have been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I’m sure I look like a lovesick idiot, but I truly do not care. How did I not notice this perfect woman years ago when she was just across the hall?

“I want you to know—I need you to know—that I am not ashamed of your path as an artist. Not for one second. I think the real you is wonderful, exactly the way she is. You are funny, courageous, creative, and silly. You are honest and vulnerable. You are forthcoming and self-reliant.

“I am well on my way to falling for you, and fuck anyone who makes you feel small. Fuck them.”

I gave you my body and my heart because of what you make me feel, not because you’re rich. Your money is the thing I like the least about you.”

I’m the only one here offering you unconditional support and love—and I’m not even asking you to choose me. I’m asking you to choose yourself. Because they won’t.”

“When we care about someone, they deserve the benefit of the doubt. We have to consider not only what they did, but also why they did it. Intent matters,”

“I want all of you. I want to give you everything I have.” His lips linger on mine one more time. “There are no strings attached to what I’m offering,” he tells me. “I just want you. I just want to love you.”