The Paradise Problem Read Online Christina Lauren

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Chick Lit, Contemporary Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 576(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
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“You don’t think the leaf is dirtier than the sand?”

“Isn’t sand literally dirt?”

I shake my head, laughing, and look out at the water. Anna threads her arm through mine, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Is there anything you own that you cherish? Or does the ability to buy anything make everything lose its value?”

Taking a deep breath, I think about the question. “I know this might surprise you, but I don’t live like this at home. I own a house, but it’s not marble floors and chandeliers. It’s pretty basic.”

“No helicopter pad? No butler?”

“Sorry to disappoint. I was never that into stuff,” I admit, and then catch the sound of it, a dickish, superior side of myself I dislike. “I traveled with my grandparents more than Alex did; he didn’t like the change in his routine and he was an incredibly difficult child if his schedule was disrupted, so every summer until I was about fifteen, when my grandfather died, I would go on all these amazing adventures with Granny and Grandpa. On safari in Tanzania, on a boat in the Greek islands. Japan, New Zealand, Tonga, Peru.”

“Wow,” she says on an awed exhale.

“I always assumed I was so grounded—like rooted in reality or had a perspective on the world my siblings didn’t have because I’d seen so much of it and didn’t ever really want things. Looking back, I was insufferable. I’m sure I made Alex feel like a materialistic idiot. Because, of course, the punch line is that I had more privileges than any of them. I didn’t only have money—I had love, I had access, I had our father’s esteem. I had the knowledge that I could walk into any room in the world and get exactly what I wanted.” I look down at the sand between my feet, realizing I’ve rambled off topic. “The things I own that mean the most to me are my grandfather’s watch and my grandmother’s wedding ring. But I think the better answer to your question is that the second part is true: when you can afford anything, nothing is interesting anymore, and there’s something really depressing about that.”

She takes a deep breath, and I hear the question she doesn’t ask: And yet you want more money?

“What about you?” I ask before she can take us down another road. “What’s your most cherished possession?”

“Probably my kitchen drawer that’s full of packets of red pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese.”

I laugh. “Jesus Christ, okay, never mind.”

She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Why not that drawer, though? I mean, it makes me so happy that I know I can always find a pack of cheese for whatever I’m eating. I guess I could say one of my paintings, but in an ideal world, I’d sell them all off. My AirPods? I loved those. But they were stolen out of my car the night before you came to my door, and look, I’m still breathing.”

“Exactly. It’s just stuff.”

“So then what loss would devastate you?” she asks.

This one here on the island, I think immediately. Losing the battle that loses the war.

But I can’t say that aloud, even if she already suspects it’s true. And when I try to think of a better answer… I can’t. I am suddenly, devastatingly aware that I have made this battle with my father the most important personal event in my life.

After I’ve been quiet a long time, Anna leans forward into my field of vision. “I’m sorry. I went way too serious. Should we talk about red pepper flakes and Parmesan again?”

I laugh, leaning forward to kiss her. “Yeah, maybe. Although I’m not sure what more needs to be said about packets of shitty pizza parlor cheese.”

“Well, in fact I do have a Parmesan cheese story,” she says. “And it relates to you.”

“I can say with confidence that no one has ever said that to me before.”

“The night after you moved out of our apartment, Vivi came over. We ordered some Enzo’s and camped out in the living room. A giant veggie pie, real sloppy. But they forgot the cheese packets—a tragedy—so Vivi went digging into our fridge, where luckily, I had that enormous Kraft Parmesan can.”

I laugh, remembering. “That can was unreal. You wouldn’t be able to get through that much cheese in three lifetimes.”

“Oh, but I’d try.” She rests her head on my shoulder again. “Anyway, when we cleaned up later—”

“Wait, you cleaned up?”

“Har,” she says, lifting her head and smacking my arm. “Viv was in the living room and called out to me, like, ‘Hey Anna, I’m going to throw the can of Parmesan to you to put away.’ ”

“I feel dread.”

“So she launches it across the living room and her throw is really great. I mean, professional quarterback great. It sails perfectly over the countertop and into the kitchen—”


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