The Paradise Problem

by Christina Lauren

West’s eyes are the color of sunlight passing through a glass of whiskey.

I’m too lazy for an influencer life.

“Are you shitting my dick right now?”

“What in the smelling salts waistcoat gentleman shit is that?”

Google tells me that West is the son of a billionaire, and a glance at my banking app tells me I am a thirty-dollaraire.

Personally, I think she loves chaos because she’s a Scorpio.

“Research?” “Designers, real estate, restaurants, travel.” “How do you know all of this?” I ask. Vivi shrugs. “Real Housewives.”

She leans forward and hugs me. “This is going to be a disaster. I’m so excited!”

“Oh, shit.” “What?” “Wouldn’t I have a ring? I didn’t even think to buy one!” “Oh, right.” I reach into my pocket and pull a ring box out, setting it onto the console between us. “There you go.” Anna stares down at it. “This is so surreal.” “What’s that? “This just—even as a little girl,” she says breathily. “This is exactly how I dreamed it would happen.” “Are you ever serious?” Her smile straightens and she gapes at me. “You’ve told me I’m supposed to be a married medical student on the way back from Cambodia. I’m wearing actual Chanel and two days ago had my labia waxed by a woman with hands bigger than yours. My fake husband just dropped a ring box onto the console between us and said, ‘There you go.’ And you want me to be serious?”

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

Is that why, in the end, I chose art? Because it’s forgiving? My brain wasn’t wired for medicine, fine, but was I drawn to art because the bounds are loose and subjective?

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

Houston, we have a problem(atic man).

never have more than two drinks per evening. Smile a lot. Don’t ever finish what’s on your plate, even if I do.” “Exactly how far back in history would you like me to go? Will I still be able to vote?”

There’s a real Isle Esme feel to the decor (if you know, you know), with carved bamboo, recycled teak, jellyfish light fixtures, and a massive canopy bed.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of my clothes. They feel Velcroed to my skin, itchy and definitely unfresh.

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.

I would constantly worry that my proximity to this world would destroy her.

“Do less, but better,”

Whenever someone asks me what my Enneagram is, I’m like, ‘Whichever is the lazy, affectionate, cheese-loving one.’ ”

She says this like any other fact: it’s hot today, the sky is so clear, my mother wasn’t ready to be a mother.

“Don’t you fucking touch the lips,” he says, voice hoarse. “You look amazing.”

I want him to take what he loves in his family and leave the rest, to build a perfect combination of chosen family and given and finally find some relief from whatever the history is with his father.

“There’s nobody more fearless than people who can’t have dairy,” he says. “My wife can’t tolerate cheese but she’s always the first to suggest pizza.”

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

“West Weston,” I say, resting my hands on his chest. “Who knew you had it in you?” He smiles knowingly down at me. “I’m pretty sure you did.”

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.

Just ask. The two sexiest words ever spoken by an unreadable man.

I am a sex demon in disguise.

I absolutely do not look down at his shorts; what kind of a trash goblin do you take me for? But if I did look down, I would see quite a tent happening. “Careful where you swing that thing.”

I have always been an oversharer. Whether I slept badly, am experiencing some minor tummy upset, or have strong emotions about the ending of a long-running TV series, chances are, if you ask, I’m going to tell you how I feel. If someone doesn’t really care how I am, then why not just say hello and go about it? I prefer honesty, I prefer openness, I prefer real. I know I’m lucky to have been raised by a dad who impressed upon me the importance of sharing my emotions,

Does she see straight through me? Does she know that every time I look at her, I want to run?

I give her an apologetic smile. “I was thinking I might check in on my sister. I haven’t seen much of her since we’ve been here. I’ll find you when I’m done?” Her face falls but in true Anna fashion, it bounces right back again. “Okay, yeah.” With a little smirk, she stretches, kissing my cheek and whispering, “See ya later, weirdo,” in my ear before she walks across the room to the bar, where Jake and Jamie are talking. Feelings I thought I’d banished return, hot and insistent. Is she doing this on purpose? Walking to Jamie to make me jealous?

that I finally register the unnamed cocktail of anguish that’s been churning in me all day.

It is the comfort of having an ally. It is the powerlessness of infatuation. It is the terrifying beginning of more.

I was an upbeat kid, and when I wanted to feel bad, he let me feel bad. The only thing he ever said was “It’ll get better.” And he was never wrong.

Right now is the time in life that teaches you you’ll get through it even if you hate it.”

This is an objectively weird situation. And I’m weird all the time. But I’m not cold weird. I’m not hurtful weird.”

“Is there anything you own that you cherish? Or does the ability to buy anything make everything lose its value?”

And this, right here, is where I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I’m supposed to laugh at Anna Green, ravage her, or marry her all over again—but this time for real.

“I guess now is when I tell you the truth,” I say with quiet solemnity. “You may have noticed that I sparkle in the sunlight. That my skin is like marble.” I pause. “This is the skin of a killer.”

“I know you didn’t mean to, but that’s almost word for word what Richard Gere says in Pretty Woman before everything goes to shit.”

I KNOW HOW MUCH money my family has. In abstract terms, at least, I know that it is in the billions. Alex got a Lamborghini Gallardo for his eighteenth birthday; Charlie got a Friesian horse from the tooth fairy. Hell, she got two whole houses as wedding gifts. And without really batting an eye, I agreed to pay Anna a hundred thousand dollars to tell a lie. I know the absurdity; I can see it, even if sometimes only in theory.

It’s so much. Weddings are supposed to be celebratory and grandiose, but this is bordering on grotesque.

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 turn my head, meeting my father’s eyes across the room, and the way his glimmer in the strung lights tells me he’s led us straight here. We walked directly into his trap.

My optimism about the world and the people in it has been ripped wide open, exposing the stain of humanity underneath it; I can’t unsee that. And I won’t ever forget this bone-deep feeling of humiliation, either, especially when there’s no way for me to exit this island before someone who witnessed that garbage diatribe sees me. This is very much a “never show my face in this establishment again” kind of situation, and yet I am unable to exit said establishment, being that it is an island in the middle of an ocean.

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

Nothing feels lonelier than fighting with him right now.

“Maybe not,” I say, “but I think you do. 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.”