Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I sit there, stone-faced, but inside I’m a mess. I want to forgive her, to laugh it off, to tell her it’s no big deal. But it is. I can’t stop thinking of all the guys who’ve seen her slick pussy, jerked off to her tiny asshole, even heard that throaty laugh that belongs to me.
“Why don’t you stop?” I ask, voice sharp.
She looks down. “Because I’m good at it. Because it pays better than my real job. Because I still live at home because I have very little money. Because … because I like the power. It’s the only time I feel totally in control of my life.”
She chokes on another sob. “I know it’s fucked up. I know I should have told you. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jack.”
The words hang there, heavy as lead. She’s trembling, hands clasped in her lap.
I take a breath, long and deliberate. The whiskey from last night is still in my veins, but it’s not helping.
“I wish you’d trusted me,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “But I don’t hate you. I don’t think less of you. I just need you to be honest with me from now on.”
She nods, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I promise. No more secrets.”
We sit like that for a long time, the silence punctuated by her shaky breaths.
Eventually, I reach out and take her hand. Her fingers are cold, but she grips mine with desperate strength.
“I’m not going anywhere, Eliza,” I say, and mean it. “It’s not great, but it’s fine. I can get over this.”
She sobs harder, but this time it sounds almost like relief.
“I don’t want to force you to love me though. I know this is unforgivable—”
I pull her into my arms, cutting off her words as she cries some more. We stay there, bodies pressed tight, as the hours slip by and the world outside the window goes black.
There’s a myth that veterans are good at compartmentalizing. That we can box up trauma, shame, and bad news and file it away like a weapons manual. It’s a lie. The only thing we get good at is not showing the cracks. So when I finally let Eliza go, when her sobs have faded to that sniffling, hollow sound, I look collected, but I’m not. My brain’s doing a slow spin as it tries to reorient on the new reality.
Eliza’s curled into me, face buried in my chest, hands fisted tight in my shirt like I’m a flotation device and she’s lost at sea. I don’t say anything. I run my hand up and down her back, gentle, the way you calm a skittish filly after a thunderstorm. I know there are words I’m supposed to say, but none of them seem big enough for the moment.
After a while, she pushes up, mascara smeared but eyes clear and determined. “You must think I’m disgusting,” she whispers, voice raw.
I shake my head, slow. “You’re not disgusting, sweetheart. I’ve seen much worse in war,” I say. “This? It doesn’t even rate.”
She laughs, brittle and bright, and I realize it’s the first time she’s exhaled in minutes.
“But why’d you keep it a secret?” I ask, not as an accusation, just curiosity. My voice is softer than I expect, almost a whisper.
She pulls her knees to her chest, picking at the hem of her dress. “Because I didn’t want you to think less of me. Because I liked who I am when I’m with you, and I was scared if you found out, I’d lose that.”
There’s a weight in my chest, the kind that comes with knowing you can’t ever truly keep the people you love from pain. I think about what it must’ve felt like for her, hiding a piece of herself, wondering if it would blow everything up.
I pour more wine, for both of us. It’s not the kind of night that gets easier sober.
She takes the glass, hands trembling. “I know I fucked up,” she whispers. “I don’t even know if I want to keep doing it. Sometimes I feel like it’s a superpower. Other times, it’s just hollow. Like I’m selling pieces of myself that I’ll never get back.”
I nod. “But you keep the camera off your face. I saw how you pixelate your features, and you use an alias. You don’t meet people in person. You keep it safe?”
She looks at me, a little surprised. “Always. I’m paranoid as hell. I have two-factor authentication on everything. I never use my real name. My tax guy thinks I’m a freelance web designer.”
I grunt, impressed despite myself. “Have you ever been recognized? Like, in public?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “Never. There are a thousand girls on those sites, and you know my customers can be anywhere in the world. The chance that they’re in tiny St. Cloud, Minnesota, is scarce to none.”