Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“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.