Chapter Seven
Once, when we were roommates, Anna flew to Seattle with a friend. It had been her first time on an airplane, and she struggled so much navigating the travel website that she brought me her laptop at midnight and asked for help. I finished the transaction for her, prebooked the car to the airport, and then quietly tracked the ride the day she left to make sure she got there okay. When she got home, she made a point of thanking me for the help. Apparently, the trip itself was fine, but the highlight for her had been flying on an airplane.
Even if it was a spectacular flight to Seattle, I’m betting that experience is nothing like this one, where we each get a small pod with a fully reclining seat and a TV screen that extends on a long, automated arm, controlled by a remote. I watch her push every button on her seat and giddily open every gift bag to reveal a sleeping mask, slippers, pajamas, and all manner of toiletries.
“Can we live here now?” she asks, tugging the sleeping mask on and letting it sit over her forehead. She pulls out a bottle of hand lotion and squirts a thin line down her forearm, happily rubbing it in. “This seat is better stocked than my bedroom and bathroom combined.”
“Trust me, you’ll be more than ready to get out of that seat when we land in Singapore.”
A female flight attendant comes around with a tray of bubbly wine. “Would you like some prosecco before takeoff?”
“How much is it?” Anna asks, and the woman laughs sweetly like Anna is joking.
“It’s free, Green,” I murmur, my stomach sinking with the realization that we should have been practicing for this charade for a lot longer than the thirty hours we have until we reach Pulau Jingga. Of course she wouldn’t be accustomed to any of this.
Anna’s face lights up. “Free? Oh, hell yes then!” She takes the flute and holds the bubbles to the light. “West, this is so fancy.” She sits back in her seat and looks around. “You’ve flown a lot, right?”
I decline a glass of prosecco and look back over at Anna. “A fair amount.”
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen someone do on the plane?”
“I sat next to someone who was giving themselves a pedicure.”
“That person deserves jail time.” She brings the glass to her lips, taking a tiny sip. “Mmmmm.” Anna turns to meet my eyes. “And by the way, it’s anything over ninety-nine.”
“What’s that?”
“A fever,” she says, taking another sip.
“Okay. Well. The island has a physician in residence so you should be fine. I’m sure your skills won’t be needed.”
“That’s good because I don’t really have any unless someone breaks a leg and wants me to paint them a new one.”
It’s quiet for a moment and I close my eyes, leaning my head back against my seat.
Her voice comes out echoing, as if she’s speaking the words directly into her prosecco: “I’ve never been a girl for hire before.”
I sit up again, feeling the need to address this misunderstanding. “Okay, I realize that’s not what you were asking for help with in the restroom, but you do know that I don’t… I’m not thinking we’re going to… you know.”
Anna smirks at me. “Are you trying to say the word sex aloud, Dr. Weston? You’re saying you’re not expecting sex?”
I feel the shifting of a few passengers around us as they turn our way. “Of course not,” I whisper.
“I appreciate that. And I’m not for sale in that way.” She pauses and then grins at me. “But for two hundred thousand—”
“Anna.”
“I’m kidding! God, lighten up.” Careful of her nails, she gingerly pulls out a pencil and a thick sketchbook. As she flips through it, I catch flashes of drawings, and a handful of vivid watercolors. Coming to a stop, she smooths a hand over the blank page and looks up at me expectantly. “I have thirty hours to learn everything I need to know about being a med student married to a bajillionaire. Let’s start with your family. Tell me about your mom.”
“Her name is Janet Weston. She’s been working for the company since she was fourteen. That’s how she met my father, Ray—they worked together at the flagship store in Harrisburg, where she started as a cashier. She comes from a middle-class family, but you would never know it now. She doesn’t have an official role at the company anymore, or if she does it’s, like, president of customer experience or something.”
Anna’s smiling at me like I amuse her. “I meant more as in, is she nice? Does she have hobbies or a favorite band?”
I close my eyes, thinking. I love my mother. I see her vulnerabilities, her strength. I see what she has to put up with every day. But I’m not sure I’d ever describe her as nice. “I suppose it depends who you are. She may be nice to you because you have something she wants.”
“I do? What’s that?”
“Access to me.”
“Oh. Power. I like it. I’m not sure how to wield it, but I like it. And you have three siblings, including Jake?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the second oldest?”
“Correct. Alex is the oldest. He’s married to Blaire. They have four children—Reagan, Lincoln, Nixon, and GW.”
Anna smacks my shoulder. “Look at you! Did you just make your first joke?”
“I wish.”
I give her a second to absorb this. “How old are these kids?” she asks.
“Reagan is twelve, Linc is eight, Nix is five, and GW is two. They’re cool kids.”
“And Alex does what?”
“He’s the chief financial officer for Weston Foods,” I say. “Blaire is the former head of HR but quit when she got pregnant. They were married soon after.”
“The CFO was banging the head of HR? Escandaloso!”
I sigh. “Yes.”
“Okay, what are they like?”
Shrugging, I tell her, “Alex is weak and insecure.”
“Wow, straight into the deep end.”
“There’s no point sugarcoating it. His only goal in life is pleasing our father.”
“I would never have guessed any of you have daddy issues.”
I choose to ignore this. In fact, Anna couldn’t guess the half of it. “Blaire had it mostly together until she had three kids under the age of ten and another on the way. Now I think all she wants in life is a girls’ trip where she has accidental sex with a waiter. Or several waiters. Don’t be surprised if she asks us for a threesome.”
Anna leans in. “Okay, and how should I answer?”
I ignore this, too. “You already know Jake.”
“Jake Weston. Youngest son. Happy drunk. Charms everyone. Slept with my friend Isabelle in college. Reviews were mixed.”
“He’s CMO, head of marketing for Weston Foods now.”
“Jake?C-suite? Man, there’s a bell curve for everything.”
This makes me laugh. “Just remember, he’s the only one who knows the truth about us.”
“Can I be honest? That feels dangerous. He’s got a streak of Satan in him.”
“I know. I made sure to compensate him for his cooperation on this trip.”
“He’s as rich as you. What on earth did you give him?”
“My Warriors season tickets. Courtside.”
Anna whistles. “Let’s hope that’s enough to keep him silent.”
“If it’s not, I’ll kill him.”
I feel her looking at me for a quiet beat. “I think you’re joking. I’m not sure.” Anna downs the rest of her prosecco. “A hint of danger. I like it.”
“And Charlotte,” I say, thinking. “Charlie is the baby of the family and absolutely a daddy’s girl. She went through a rebellious phase in high school, but she met Kellan—”
“Is now a good time to discuss how you looked at me like I was lobotomized when I thought your name was West Weston and yet a man named Kellan McKellan actually exists and will soon be your relative?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that. He’s a great kid. His parents are unbearable.”
“I would imagine.”
“Kellan and Charlie met at USC. They’re great together. He works for his parents’ industrial glassware company and she’s a VP in the Weston Foods commercial group.”
“Sorry—how old is she?”
“Twenty-three.”
“And a VP?”
“Raymond Weston never met a nepo baby he didn’t like.”
“You’re—what? Thirty? Thirty-one? You’d be the head of something, too, then, right?”
“Thirty-one. And yes.” I drag a hand down my face. “As I said, my father eventually wanted me to take over the CEO role, but had I joined the company, I would have currently been the chief operations officer.”
“What’s that?”
“A COO is second in command. The role implements strategies into daily operations.” Off her blank look, I say, “I would have overseen store logistics and managed all of our tech advances.”
“Tech? But you’re an anthropologist. That seems… like not the right fit.”
I take a beat to steady my pulse and figure out how to answer this. “I grew up obsessed with computers,” I say, “and even developed some software for the family when I was younger.”
“But you aren’t doing that now?”
“I still like tinkering with programming, but my interests moved away from computers after…” I pause, amending, “In college. Now I have a joint appointment in economics and anthropology.” I’ve told her this before, but at least this time, she’s mostly sober. “My research is on sociological anthropology, specifically the ethics and behavior of people working within a corporation, but also how a good business does not encourage a one-size-fits-all approach. How microcultures within corporations can be a positive thing and contribute to the broader company culture, how they make employees feel more valued and seen.”
“So you’re definitely not being chased through the jungle, then, you little liar.”
“It’s all boring family dynasty shit,” I tell her.
“Nothing boring involves the word dynasty.”
“Here’s what my wife would know,” I say, redirecting. “She would know that I don’t like my father’s way of doing things. She would know that my grandfather was a little eccentric.”
“Eccentric. Another word only rich people use. For the rest of us, I believe the word is nutty.”
“That fits, too. But I adored him,” I continue. “My wife would know that if he were still alive and running things, I might have stayed with the family business. She would know that I don’t like to talk about what happened between my father and me. So much so that I haven’t seen my parents since around the time we got married.”
“So, something specifically happened that sent you as far away from your family as possible?”
“Yes, but she would also know to leave it alone.”
“And my husband would know that I wouldn’t marry someone who keeps enormous secrets,” she counters.
I turn, meeting her eyes. “My parents have never once talked about it, so trust me, they’ll have no problem believing that we don’t talk about it, either.” I blink away, fixing my gaze on the back of the seat in front of me.
I can feel her staring a beat longer before she turns away to hand her empty flute to the flight attendant. Anna returns her focus to me. “Okay, what else?”
“What else what?”
At this, she laughs. “What else do I need to know about you, West?”
“Just… make up whatever you want.”
“No way. If you don’t get paid, I don’t get paid. Tell me something. Some things. Hobbies? Favorite foods? Ticklish spots? Secret kinks? I should know you better than anyone if we’re married, right?” She jerks away, as if she’s just remembered something. “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?”
I have no idea what to say to this. My brain is still stuck on the word labia.
“If you’re wishing you chose someone else,” she says, picking up the box, “I know the feeling. I made the same wish two days ago while having my upper lip threaded.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “The point is, we’re getting divorced in a few months anyway, so we don’t have to seem very close. The more distant we seem, the better.” I look at the velvet box between us. “Are you going to put the ring on?”
She creaks the box open and then immediately snaps it shut, dropping it on the console between us as if it burned her.
“I can’t wear that,” she says, voice shaking.
“Why not?”
“That diamond is like… the size of my nipple.”
I find myself fighting a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
“I thought the necklace was bad, but this is obscene. Like, if we crashed into the ocean that thing would drag me straight to the bottom.”
“What if I told you it’s fake?”
She looks at me. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
She narrows her eyes, and I hear it, too, the way I paused a beat too long. “Are you lying?”
“Just put it on, Green.” I lift my chin to the box. “We’re taking off soon and it could slide into the interior of your seat. They’ll have to disassemble the entire thing to get the ring out.”
“Why would they bother if it’s a fake diamond?”
I exhale a laugh, sending a hand down my face. It’s going to be a long flight.