The moonlight was silvery and rippling over the surface of the water, the wet skin on Naomi’s cheeks sparkling with tiny droplets as she laughed, and for the first time in my life, I felt complete: I’d given Naomi the life she deserved. That was when I decided not to take over as Naomi’s guardian. She was happy here. For the time being, the best I could offer her was a couch bed in a studio apartment in an overcrowded city—that was nothing compared to this. She’d been through enough, and she deserved space to run and swim in a pool and be a kid.
As I watched her, I realized I had to accept that what my friends and I had done was in the past and couldn’t be changed. Trying to do anything about it now would ruin this life I’d built.
And for my sister’s happiness, I could do anything. I could live with our secret. I could hold it inside forever.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Naomi
April 2023, one month before her death
For several days after Amy’sYourFans video was projected to the class, she refused to eat or leave her room, and every time I saw her, her eyes were swollen from crying.
“It’s all over the internet,” she says the following Saturday, when she finally emerges. “I’m going to lose my job offer at theTimes.”
I hand her another tissue. “Stop, don’t say that.” But I remember all the conversations we’ve had about what this job meant to her. It was the only thing keeping her here, the only thing giving her hope.
Of course, the university had been concerned when they found out about the incident, but Amy refused their offers to investigate. She was too embarrassed to worry about how it happened and just wanted to hide until it blew over.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I tell her. “No one knew it was a random stranger on YourFans…they probably just thought the guy was your boyfriend.” But she only cries harder. “We can explain why you did it,” I try. “You needed the money to pay for school. Not everyone has million-dollar trust funds lying around.”
Amy shakes her head. “It’s not going to matter why I did it,” she says through her sobs. “It’s out there. It’s out there forever.”
Suddenly I remember that someone had stolen her laptop a few weeks ago. She’d left it on the coffee table, she thought, but when she got back, it was gone, and there was no sign of a break-in. “Amy…do you think they found the videos on your laptop?”
She looks up. “They could have. I wasn’t worried about ourresearch—it was saved to the cloud—and I wiped it remotely the second I realized it was gone…but I guess whoever took it had already found my YourFans account.” She drops her head and starts to cry again, and I know nothing I say is going to make it better.
—
At eight a.m.the next morning, I wake with a start to a loud sound. I find Amy in the common area staring at her laptop, pale and unmoving. When I ask her what’s wrong, she shows me the email she received from theTimes.
Ms. Chen,
We are grateful for your time and dedication over the past year. However, we hold our employees to a high standard of behavior in and out of the office. It has come to our attention that you have created explicit sexual content for the site YourFans, and while it is well within your rights to do so, it is not an appropriate image for our company. I hope you will understand. We wish you the very best in your future endeavors.
Best regards,
Tina Davenport
Director of Human Resources
A few minutes later, Tina from HR follows up with a kind phone call, which Amy keeps on speaker so Zee and I can hear. Tina explains that, sadly, the video was seen as pornography, and theycan’t have a sex industry worker on staff,at least not in this political climate. She had nothing against it, herself, of course, but the men in her office were deeply offended.
“Jesus Christ, who are these ‘deeply offended’ men?” Zee says, after Amy hangs up the call. “I don’t understand why men in America are so freaked out by women’s bodies. It’s just a goddamned nipple.”
As if Amy’s firing isn’t enough of a blow, with no support from theTimes,we’ll have to stop the investigation into DuPont as well. It feelslike we’ve failed. Failed Lila, failed theTimes,failed ourselves. As my head begins to throb, I leave Amy and Zee in the common room and retreat into my bedroom, shut the door, and sit on my bed in the dark.
—
The following weekendLiam is away for a tennis tournament, so it is the rare night I spend alone in my bed. I’ve gotten so used to sleeping over at his place that it feels weird to be in my own bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone.
I set my phone down and reach over to pull the flight itinerary from my desk. Two tickets to Croatia to live on a small boat and sail the Dalmatian Islands. Leaving May 31, the day after commencement.
Last night, he’d surprised me with them.
“Hopefully our travel styles match up,” he’d said.
“You like sleeping in until four and going to Drum & Bass dance clubs all night, right?” I teased.
