Thirty
ESSIE
A ll weekend, I don’t tell Dalton about Weston, and luckily, I don’t have to yet. On Monday, instead of going to Hannington-Hale, Dalton and I pull up at Hawthorn Hall, Alyssa and Dalton’s ancestral home in Rhinebeck where we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving and the wedding. At the end of a tree-lined road, green tendrils of vines emerge from the ice-frosted ground, coating the estate in centuries-old vegetation that weaves and tangles through black shutters against the pristine white siding.
It’s unusual to see my three younger brothers on the stone steps of a house with an indoor fountain that exceeds our collective net worth, but they’re here. Luis and Tommy, the twins, have facial hair now—hideous and thin, but they love it. They’re freshmen at MIT, both eighteen and studying computer science, and I’ve gotten so much more sleep now that they’re in the same time zone as me. Christian, at twenty, is the closest in age to me and a sophomore at Boston College. We exchange a look before he hugs me, and I recognize the flat line of his mouth, tucked as if to say, The fuck is going on right now .
Dalton greets each of my brothers with big bear embraces, playing the role of a good host even though he just arrived. His game is subtle, but I see how he can tell the twins apart even though he’s only met them once before; how he shakes Christian’s hand when they end their hug like he’s acknowledging him as the oldest boy; how he leaves generous space between us when we’re around my brothers—soon to be his as well.
When it comes to Dalton, the twins are like moths to a flame. Christian gives me one more extended look, and I dip my chin in acknowledgement: We’re four poor kids from California whose mother immigrated from Mexico when she was nineteen, and we’re about to get a twenty-nine-year-old, six-foot-five financier with a trust fund and a roman numeral IV after his name for a brother.
The scenario is even more surreal when I think about how I work with this guy and fuck him too.
Alyssa breezes into the foyer next and makes a beeline for me. Her arms wrap around my back while she murmurs, “My love, I’m so happy you’re finally here,” and I can’t comprehend how a hug could bestow a feeling of home in a place I’ve never been and with a woman I’ve only known for two years.
I look at Dalton, who’s already glancing in our direction with a half-smile on his face, and despite how much I’ve dreaded this week, this moment is a snowdrop flower emerging through the winter ice.
The chill turns stark when I notice my father standing by the staircase. Only then does the riskiness of our contract dawn on me.
We’re surrounded by the very people who cannot find out what we’re doing, and the final days of this arrangement will be surreptitious and rushed.
Done.
***
“The reactions are…mixed,” Cora says, as she studies her laptop screen. The rest of our friends arrived at Hawthorn Hall after dinner on Wednesday, and Valeria, Cora, and I (and Pierre) immediately started our end-of-month camming data deep dive.
“They’re positive,” I clarify.
Her eyebrow rises. Cora is brilliant and has a brain for research—and I do realize when I’m being annoying.
“People who are angry are more likely to express their anger through comments because they have nowhere else to do it. People who are happy have two ways to express their feelings: comments or through their money. Look at the profits per viewer.”
Cora’s eyes scan the screen. “Well, shit. Nice job, babe.”
“Can attest,” Valeria chimes in, “that adding a dick to a stream increases profits.”
Right then, Dalton enters the estate’s library where we’ve set up our laptops. He’s holding a plate of cookies and three cups of coffee, and his face lights up when he sees me.
“I’ve been wandering the house for, like, eight minutes looking for you three.” He pauses before he places the plate on the end table between our armchairs. “This is one of those moments when it’s clear I’m super out of touch, isn’t it?”
“Shocked you can hear us over the sound of your portfolio going to the moon,” Cora replies, all sarcasm as usual.
Valeria reaches over and takes one of the cookies. “Dalt, Essie was showing us the numbers from your streams. Congrats.”
Dalton fist bumps her. “Hey, thanks,” he says before he scoops me out of my armchair, sits, and stations me on his lap.
When I shoot him a look, he shrugs. “You’re not worried someone is going to walk in?”
“To the library?” He frowns. “Why would someone come to the library? To… read ?”
“Anyway,” I cut in before Cora can verbally flay him for the question, “we’re ahead on my revenue projection.”
He parses the numbers on my forecast spreadsheet. “I hate that cut. Do you three seriously give the site that much money every time ?” He reaches over to pet Pierre’s head, giving Valeria a break from guarding the cookies. “I wouldn’t stand for that shit.”
“There’s no alternative. This is the largest camming site and the customer base is here,” Cora replies.
“Which is frustrating because this isn’t complex tech. It’s video and image hosting with payment transactions. I could replicate it in a couple weeks—tops. Any compsci major could.”
“At least they give you the analytics,” Dalton mentions.
“No, I steal that,” I admit. “I figured out a login to the developer portal, and I pull the data every month.”
Dalton’s eyebrow could high-five commercial airline pilots. “Wait, so the only reason you three were able to have a productive business conversation just now is because you took data that should have been yours in the first place,” he recaps. “But you’re stuck with this site because they own the market.”
“Basically,” Cora replies while Valeria nods.
“That’s predatory as fuck.”
“We know,” I assure him. “Our bodies bring the customers. If we all went to another site, this one would be worthless. Their entire business model relies on us.”
My comment is met with silence. We all know the problem: There’s no alternative. We’re stuck with a single option we’ve learned to make work, but it doesn’t allow most women to make camming into a career without questionable data acquisition and the expertise the three of us bring.
Exhaling, Dalton slides me back onto the chair and goes over to a glass cabinet built into one of the shelves. “Exploitation makes me tense,” he explains before he selects an old liquor bottle and freezes. “What the fuck? This is, like, half-empty.”
Valeria, Cora, and I glance at each other.
“Who did this to you?” he hisses before he looks at us. “I bet it was Everett.”
At the mention of Everett’s name, Pierre hops up with excitement and scurries over to Dalton.
“Yeah, I’ll take you to see your best bud,” Dalton agrees before putting the bottle back.
“Wait,” I say, getting to my feet. I go over to him. “Will I see you later?”
Dalton inhales through his teeth. “It’s risky,” he mentions.
I know, but… “Please? You could do whatever you want. Tie me up and fuck me down, Daddy? Breed me?”
Dalton glances over my shoulder to make sure our friends aren’t listening before he says, “I know you’re joking, but fuck, Essie, I’ve pictured you pregnant with my babies hundreds—if not thousands— of times.”
It’s a thought I’ve never explored, which seems unbelievable now. Would I ever let Dalton put a baby in me? “Oh. Does that turn you on?”
He’s quiet for a beat, brow tense, before he nods—it does. “It’s not just about breeding your tight, perfect body.” His expression is earnest now. “It’s the idea of taking care of you. Not only you, but our kids too. I want to get you—like really get you. Same for our kids. I’d never try to make them into someone they’re not.”
Our kids . “Wow,” I murmur. “Dalt, have you thought about this a lot?”
He raises his shoulder, and the gesture is disarmingly casual. “I would have given all of you the entire world,” he replies in lieu of saying yes. He forces a smile before he says, “Hey, ladies—great meeting. You should table the topic of revenue and roll it over to next week’s agenda. I won’t be there, but you’ve got it under control.” He waves before he leaves with Pierre trotting closely behind.
I return to my chair, brow furrowed while Cora murmurs, “He’s so funny. He knows there’s nothing we can do about the site.”
But I don’t respond.
I’m staring at the door, and reality just hit me. He won’t be there.
At some point, Dalton stopped trying to make me love him. The comments stopped. The longing stares subsided. I thought he gave up this notion of forever—like I had.
But he never gave anything up. He’d been nurturing these fantasies: the life we would never have together in all its tangible and yet fleeting forms. A marriage. Our children. Dalton thought about them . Planned them.
He hid those dreams from me. He hid them for me.
And he’s not going to try to keep me.
After this weekend, we’re actually done.