This Is Paradise Read Online Free Page B

freefall.
    As we drive home, we think of nothing but her words.

    “Like go home now?” Cora asks us. We are standing outside the Lava Lounge, the music still ringing in our ears and the trade winds cooling our damp skin. It’s nearly two in the morning.
    “Can surf early tomorrow,” Lani says. “Mean da swell, yeah.” Australia’s eastern coast has seen record storm activity in the past week, and the newscasters claim that the weather system is finally headed north. We’re giddy with the promise of six-foot faces on the south shore.
    “Let’s check the water before we head home,” Mel suggests.
    We leave behind the club and Kūhiō Avenue, with its explosion of car horns and police sirens, men hawking coupons for an indoor shooting range—half off for women!—and prostitutes whispering “Aloha” in lilting voices. When we reach the beach, the night is suddenly quiet, and we breathe deeply of the salt air. In the distance, the waves at Pops are gilded by moonlight, and we watch them rise and lumber along, slow and unambitious. By the morning we want them stacking up clean and high.
    We pause outside the Banyan Hotel, the warm light from the lobby casting our shadows across the water’s edge. The tide sucks at the sand beneath our toes like a vacuum. We look into the hotel, and we can almost understand why here, in Waikīkī, the world appears perfect. The hotel lobbies are brimming with flower arrangementsand sticky with the scent of ginger. The island air is warm and heavy as a blanket. And the people are beautiful. Tan and healthy, with muscles carved from koa wood and cheeks the color of strawberry guava. These people—our people—look fresh as cut fruit, ready to be caressed, to be admired. These are people to be trusted. This is not New York or Los Angeles. No, Hawaiʻi is heaven. A dream.
    Not far from us, we hear someone moan, and we giggle. A girl says, “No,” and we take a step in the direction of the voice. But her husky voice is muffled, and in the next moment we think we hear an excited “Oh.” We stop. We see this all the time. Tourist couples think the beach is some private fantasy island. Like no one can see them out there, when they’re about as hidden from view as mating monk seals. How many times have we glimpsed naked ass, white as moonlight, pumping away for all it’s worth?
    We think of all the tourist women who have come here and taken a man to bed with them—or the men who have taken women. Are they proud of themselves, these tourists? Do they feel they’ve acquired the most exotic souvenir, or that they are now true islanders?
    Our mood gets heavy fast. We tell each other to loosen up. Tomorrow the surf will be high and we’ll wash away all these questions in the water. We start to walk back to the street. We pause when we hear splashing nearby and a small, thrilled shriek, but when we look down the beach all we see are shadows staining the sand.

    For the first time since we were college kids, we dream of the rolling ocean. Not of boardrooms or courtrooms, classrooms or meeting rooms, but of waves, of
room
, as much as we can bear, and the space of the sea. We dream we are falling deep into the ocean. At first the water is warm, comforting even, but suddenly we are scared. We can’t find our way up or out. We need air, and none exists beneath the weight of all this water. We hear a woman screaming for help, and we’re not sure if the voice is ours or someone else’s.
    When we awake, our quilts are kicked to the foot of our beds. Kiana has balled her sheet in her hand. Esther’s pillowcase is clammy with sweat. Jason takes Paula in his arms, presses her tear-dampened face to his shoulder, and tells her that everything will be okay.
    But we don’t think everything is okay. Something is amiss, muddled. Years have passed since we listened to our dreams, since we were youthful enough to trust them. Now we take the time to hear ourselves. In the quiet of our bedrooms, we