Chapter Nine
Seeing West’s father walking toward us on this tiny island, in linen shorts and an open-collared floral shirt, is a little like seeing a wildcat at the mall: mortal danger completely out of context.
However… he is also oddly compact, standing a good six inches shorter than his barefoot wife. Listen, I try not to play into stereotypes, but as Ray Weston crosses the beach—wiry, unsmiling, irritation hovering like a cloud around him—the aforementioned wildcat looks a little less intimidating.
“Didn’t believe you’d show up,” Ray calls from about twenty feet away.
Not Hello, not Welcome to the island. Just snark from the top of the page. Didn’t West say he hasn’t seen his father in nearly five years?
“Liam, darling!” the woman cries, opening her arms as she jogs the last twenty feet to us. Liam picks up his pace a little, folding her into his arms as they meet. There’s something heart-achingly lovely about it, how real the embrace is, and it catches me off guard. My mind whispers, Celebrities, they’re just like us!
I reach them just in time to see the painfully awkward moment when West looks over at his father and the two men seem to struggle with how to greet each other. They settle on a quick, hard handshake. Now, I read a lot while working at the Pick-It-Up; whatever I could find near the registers. Lots of magazines, journals, comics, travel brochures, newspapers, almanacs—I’m not picky. It means I’ve accrued a lot of random knowledge in my many years spent selling Red Bull and Snickers. I know a little about a lot of things, and I’ve learned about people, too. Ray offered his hand palm down: a classic dominant move.
I try to imagine shaking my father’s hand in greeting and, honestly, I cannot.
I meet Ray Weston’s eyes, and they’re the same color as West’s, but whereas on West I’d describe them as butterscotch, honey, whiskey, on Ray the color lacks all warmth. They are brownish, khaki, muddy beige. His are the amber eyes of a predator.
And even though West greeted his mother first, and warmly, he presses his hand to my lower back and angles me to face his dad. “Anna, this is my father, Ray Weston.”
“Yes, hi,” I say, and extend my hand to him. “Nice to finally meet you.”
Ostensibly, this is the first time he’s meeting his daughter-in-law but he doesn’t even look at me when he briefly shakes my hand with a powerful squeeze that has me fighting a wince. “It’s been so long,” he says to his son. His smile is a sneer. “I’d forgotten what you look like. This wife of yours keeps you locked up.”
Houston, we have a problem(atic man).
“Chained, too,” I say, and wink. “But only when he asks for it.”
Abruptly, loudly, West rolls past this. “And my mother, Janet.”
Janet steps close, her hair in a perfect white-blond chignon, her collarbones so defined they’re like hangers holding up her delicate yellow sundress. I have to assume she has an extremely deft plastic surgeon, because she somehow looks like a twenty-five-year-old sixty-year-old.
“Anna, darling!” The woman I need to remember is my actual mother-in-law air-kisses both of my cheeks. “My goodness, in person your hair is so pink!”
As far as first-ever greetings go, it’s weird, but I don’t have time to ruminate on it because she leans into West’s other side, speaking in a low voice as if I can’t hear her from only a foot away: “Did I tell you a group of employees got together and wrote a letter to headquarters asking us to revise our corporate policy on piercings, hair color, and visible tattoos? It failed, of course. Too trashy for the stores. Unappetizing, you know?”
I feel my jaw slowly drop, imagine my mouth opening wider and wider until I become a pink-haired travel-grimed version of The Scream. This woman is savage.
Straightening, she adds, “But on you, Anna?” Her eyes do a sweep of my head. “Lovely.”
I smile. “Thank you, I think.” I’d briefly debated going back to a more respectable dark brown before I left, but ultimately decided against it. I barely feel like myself in this costume; the last thing I need is to have that feeling confirmed each time I look in the mirror.
She rolls on: “Have you two seen your bungalow yet?”
“We were just heading there to freshen up,” West says.
“We put you in number three. Right in the middle between Alex and Blaire’s two and ours. They’re adorable.” Her eyes wander to the top of my head again. “Though the sheets are white… I’ll ask Gede to switch them out for something dark in case the pink bleeds.”
West presses closer to my side and my throat goes tight when his hand slides down my forearm and wraps around mine. “I’m sure the resort can manage, Mom.”
“Had to book a trip to paradise to lure you out of that dusty office,” Ray says with a derisive lean to the words.
West’s reply is smooth and calm: “We wouldn’t miss Charlie’s wedding for anything in the world.”
“Missed my sixtieth birthday party, though, didn’t you?” Ray says.
If there was a camera nearby I’d be looking straight into it. I am flabbergasted.
Janet’s nervous laugh cuts the tension like a shard of glass through flesh. “Oh, it’s so nice to all be back together!” She reaches for West’s free hand. “Just wonderful!”
The two men are doing some sort of eye-contact wrestling match, and I realize we need to break this up before it escalates into something physical. I lean into West’s arm, pressing my cheek to his shoulder. “It’s great to see you both. I think I’m going to take my husband to the bungalow for a bit, if you know what I mean.”
“She means for showers,” he says quickly.
“Yes. Showers together,” I say, grinning. “After all these years, I still can’t get enough of him.”
“Okay. Well. That’s nice.” Janet pats his hand in hers. “Don’t forget about the cocktail party at six.” She leans in, kissing her son’s cheek again. “Can’t wait to get some time with you all to myself.”
She gives me a meaningful glance, and Ray doesn’t bother looking at either of us again as the two continue down the beach.
ONCE I’M SURE THEY’REout of earshot, I exhale forty metric tons of held breath. “Jesus. That was intense.”
West drops my hand, and I don’t miss the way he wipes his palm on his pants. “That was nothing.”
“Awesome.” I jog to keep up with his power-walk pace.
A tall white bird watches us from a nearby tree. It has a slender, reddish beak, with a bright yellow top and its head tilts curiously as we pass, as if it’s wondering, What the hell is the hurry? Frankly, I agree.
“What’s up with your mother and pillowcases?”
“She’ll look for anything to hold over you.”
“Well, that was a dumb one,” I say, “given that every woman on this island likely colors their hair.”
“Yep.”
“Any other potential pitfalls to anticipate with her?”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’ll hate my answer,” he says.
“Let’s hear it anyway.”
“When it comes to me, defer to her. She thinks I will always love her the most. She’ll drink like a fish, but you should 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?”
He lets out a weary sigh. “Green. I warned you you’d hate my answer.”
“Fine. Fifties housewife it is.”
“Anna,” he says finally, very gently. “The truth is, you could just smile on my arm and be okay. I promise I’m not trying to leave you unprepared. The sad reality is that my parents are unlikely to pay you much attention regardless.”
I picture David Green meeting someone I was literally married to and not taking a very keen interest. I try to imagine him only now meeting someone I’d been married to for five years, and I just can’t. It would never happen. If I as much as mention a third date, Dad wants me to bring the guy over for dinner at home. We’d never set foot on a beach like this—would never in our lives be able to afford even the coach-class plane fare—but we have something much more valuable.
I glance up at West and feel a pang of sadness for him.
We continue in silence. At the edge of the beach, the soft sand gives way to craggy rocks, and a smooth wood-slat path has been built into the side of the cliff, making it easy to walk along the wide curve of the island. We come around a bend and now that we’re right in front of it, I gasp at the view: the wooden path branches off into five long, narrow bridges over the water, leading to the overwater bungalows. Each is about a city-block distance apart, making them incredibly private.
It’s this moment right here when it sinks in that we won’t just be sharing a room for ten days; we’ll be sharing a bed. “Ope,” I mutter, pulling up short at the bridge that we’ve been told is ours, the third down the path. “I should have anticipated this.”
“Anticipated what?”
“Unless that tiny, romantic hut has two doubles inside it, we’ll be sharing a bed.”
West shakes his head. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
But when we reach the end of our long, curved bridge and step onto the deck of the beautiful bungalow, we see the seating options: two round papasan chairs facing the ocean. Inside the long, narrow bungalow is a single enormous bed and along one wall a carved wooden bench that’s barely wide enough for West’s left thigh.
“I think that’s just meant to be decorative,” I whisper. “I’m not sure you’ll fit. Unless you sleep in a coffin perched on top.”
West frowns at the bench. “I’ll make it work,” he mumbles.
“The bigger problem is that.” I point down the length of the bungalow, which is essentially a long rectangle, with the bedroom portion taking up roughly two-thirds, a small half wall behind the headboard, and a bathroom occupying the very back third of the space. While the sinks and closet are hidden by the partial wall, the shower is gloriously open and visible even from the entrance. The only space that closes with an actual door seems to be the tiny room with a toilet inside. Help. I cannot imagine pooping in there when West is anywhere in this bungalow with me.
“I can shower in the spa,” West says.
“That won’t look suspicious.”
“We’ll just have to time it all strategically.”
“Or we’ll just have to decide to deal with it,” I say. “After meeting your parents, I can’t imagine seeing me naked will be the hardest part of this trip.”
“Point taken.”
I do have a point, but I can’t help the warm crawl of awareness that he is a man, and I am a woman, and we are going to be cohabitating in this very small, very romantic place. “Okay, let’s just put on our big-kid pants—or take them off, I guess—and deal with it.”
He stares. I stare back. West blinks a few times, rapidly. “What? Now?”
“West, we’ve been traveling for seven hundred hours. I need a shower. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “You go ahead. I’ll be outside.”
He walks out to the bi-level balcony, one level in the shade, and one in the sun accessible by a set of stairs on the side of the bungalow, and rests his arms over the railing of the lower level, looking out at the ocean. I follow him out and stand next to him for a moment, taking in the view. The horizon stretches forever and I’m not sure I could come close to capturing the feel of the undulating clear turquoise water. The tide rolls toward us, breaking against the wooden deck piles and stilts supporting the bungalow. We’re several feet above the surface, but it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that the sea is directly under our feet.
“What if there’s a tsunami?” I ask. There are so many great potential answers: Then we make this bungalow into a ship and sail to Singapore! Then we surf our way back to the California coastline! Then we grow gills!
But no. West says, without hesitation: “Then I suppose we get swept out to sea.”
He’s gonna be fun.
I walk back inside, realizing I’d been so focused on the sleeping situation, I haven’t properly flailed over the sheer bliss that is our bungalow. In fact, I’m pretty sure the only thing in here I could afford is the roll of eco-friendly toilet paper I can clearly see from where I stand. And even that looks pretty fancy. 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. Wide windows and the open entrance bring the outside in and allow me to glance over at West, who seems to be mid–mental spiral, managing to look even more morose than he did thirty seconds ago. Isle Esme vibes or not, there will be no headboard breaking here. Near one wall is a chest with our names stamped into the top, a pair of towels folded to look like stingrays, and a jar of chocolate chip cookies that are probably made with the world’s most expensive chocolate but hey, Gede did say it was all-inclusive. I help myself.
For the record: they are fucking delicious.
Our bags have already been brought in and unpacked for us; our clothes hang in the closet or are neatly folded on the shelves nearby. I haven’t seen most of what Vivi bought for me, but I’m praying that somewhere in the dozens of outfits there is a pair of shorts and a T-shirt I can pull on before curling up with my sketchbook in a papasan chair, because this Chanel doesn’t breathe in ninety-five percent humidity.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of my clothes. They feel Velcroed to my skin, itchy and definitely unfresh. Looking to make sure West is still staring morosely out at sea—he is—I toss all my clothes in the woven hamper and climb into the shower, turning on all three showerheads.
If I had to choose between this shower and a lifetime supply of Takis, I would choose this shower. If I had to choose between this shower and seeing Pick-It-Up Ricky-Derrick walk face-first into a sliding glass door at a party, I’d choose this shower. 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.
Unfortunately, if West is feeling what I felt ten minutes ago, then he’s itching to get out of his clothes, too, so I turn off the water and wrap myself in a giant, fluffy towel. “I’m done!” I call, grabbing a hairbrush and padding barefoot into the bedroom area. West passes me as I sit on the end of the bed facing the water.
When his clothes land with a whoosh-scratch in the hamper, I ignore the way the sound makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. I ignore, too, the gentle slap of his bare feet stepping into the shower and the way his low groan of pleasure rattles down my spine. Did I make those noises when I was in there? Oh God, I think I did. I think I spent the entire shower talking dirty to the hot water and organic bodywash.
Now he’s totally naked behind me. Why do I care! He’d been naked on the other side of a wall from me hundreds of times when we lived together, and it barely registered. But it all feels different now, because we are pretending to be in love, pretending to be familiar in a way that I honestly cannot imagine being with anyone, but maybe especially him. I have no idea how often married people have sex, but I happen to like sex, and I like to think if I was married, I’d have it a few times a week, at least? Five years times fifty-two weeks times four times a week is, like… I have no idea, but it sounds like a thousand. A thousand times we would’ve had sex—at least! 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.
My awareness of his nakedness is like a mallet tapping at the inside of my forehead. I draw the brush through my hair, trying to think about unappealing things. Bug bites. Flat pillows. Gas pain. Yeast infections. But nothing entirely distracts me from those low groans he lets out every now and then.
Hepeeked. He had to have. Right? He definitely peeked. Just a tiny twist of his head, chin tucked to shoulder, eyes lifting for only a beat to catch a glimpse of me in the shower.
Under the guise of brushing the hair at the nape of my neck, I turn my head, drawing the pink strands forward. I lift my eyes for the tiniest beat, but it’s long enough to completely destroy any illusion I have that West is some stuffed-shirt, uptight loser and I’ll be able to share a room with him without peeking again. His head is tilted back into the water spray, eyes closed, hands sluicing suds down his very fit torso. He looks like he’s in a bodywash commercial. My fingers ache for my sketchbook, wanting to capture every line and ridge so I can gorge myself on it later. His body is like carved stone, his legs thick and muscled. The rest of him? Goddamn.
I have a lot of faults. I drink milk from the carton, I never make my bed, I am slothful, and sometimes I’ll just set the new roll of toilet paper on top of the empty roll instead of changing it. A monster. I am also gluttonous: I don’t want a few peanut MM’s; I want the entire bag. Why have one margarita when three is such a nice, satisfying number? Everyone knows why! And that’s why I go back for seconds right now. But karma is Team West: his eyes open just as I glance again. They widen and he reaches down to cup his Goddamn before he turns, facing away. “Anna,” he says, his voice spluttering in the water’s spray. “Are you peeking?”
“No! Sorry!” But frankly, (1) I’m not very sorry, and (2) him facing away isn’t any better, because I am a sucker for a great ass, and his is probably ranked between the Grand Canyon and the Great Barrier Reef on a list of things everyone should see at least once in their lifetime.
“I couldn’t help it!”
I roll over on the bed, clutching the towel to my chest so I don’t wind up totally naked, and press my face into the soft comforter. The water turns off, the sound of a towel being pulled from the rack reaches me, and then West’s feet pad over to the bed. I know he’s standing there, staring down at me with that increasingly familiar look of dismay on his face. I brace myself for a lecture about how I must do better than be a trash-can horn-goblin about his nakedness, about how I have to behave like a grown-up for the next ten days.
“Don’t yell at me,” I mumble into the pillow. “I’m sleep-deprived and generally incorrigible.”
The mattress dips and I crack one eye open. West has planted a knee on the bed and stares down at me, one hand clutching the towel wrapped around his narrow, muscular waist. “Calm down,” he says, smirking. “I peeked, too.”