CHAPTER 10 – COMING CLEAN #2
I don’t blink. “You were on a live cam. Username ‘BunnySnowGirl.’”
Eliza stares at me, open-mouthed. For a second, I see the wheels turning—calculating, rationalizing, maybe even plotting a denial. But she’s not a good liar. Never has been.
Her eyes fill with tears, and her voice comes out in a ragged whisper. “I—Jack—It’s not what you think.”
I laugh, and it’s the ugliest sound I’ve ever made. “What I think is I saw my girlfriend, the woman I’ve been fucking for months, getting railed by a pink dildo for a crowd of anonymous perverts. Am I off-base?”
She starts to cry, real tears, but not the delicate movie kind—full-body, shoulders-shaking, air-gasping sobs. She drops her head to her hands, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
I want to hold her, but I stay perfectly still.
After a minute, she forces herself upright, eyes red but focused. “Please let me explain,” she says.
I nod, but don’t say anything.
She takes a breath. “I started doing it last year, before I met you. I was broke, saddled with student loans, and the law firm was paying me shit. Someone I knew in college made a ton doing cam shows during the pandemic. She told me about it, and I thought I’d try it for a month, just for a little bit. ”
She swallows hard. “It was supposed to be one time. But it paid so much more than anything else I’d ever done, and it was easy, in a weird way.
I could be whoever I wanted. I didn’t have to pretend to be smart, or perfect, or even myself.
I could just perform, then log off, and go back to real life. ”
She wipes her eyes, shoulders slumped. “I should have told you, Jack. I was going to, but I kept waiting for the right time, and there never was one. And then I fell for you and I thought if you found out, you’d never want me again.”
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.”
I can’t help but laugh, but it sounds mirthless. “Anything is possible,” I say. “Trust me.”
She looks crestfallen at those words, staring down at her fingers.
A long silence. The wine is gone, and I reach for the whiskey instead, pouring two fingers each.
“I’m not judging you, Eliza. I know you feel like you’ve fucked up, but trust me, I’ve done worse things,” I say finally, and her head jerks up, eyes wide.
“Don’t get me started on some of the black-market shit in Kabul.
Or the illicit arms deals in Guam that resulted in sure-fire death.
If you think showing your tits to strangers is the worst thing in the world, you haven’t seen the specter of war. ”
She looks stricken, and I feel a piece of the ice melt.
“But you have to be honest with me. No more secrets,” I say, voice hardening just a bit. “I’m not your dad, not your warden. But if you want to keep this up, you tell me. If you want to stop, you tell me. Either way, I’m not going to walk away. But I need you to be honest.”
She reaches out, takes my hand. “I want to try to stop,” she says. “For real. But if I slip, or if I can’t, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
I squeeze her hand back. “Deal.”
She slumps in relief, like she’s just finished a marathon.
“I love you, Jack,” she whispers. “I don’t want to fuck this up. You mean too much to me.”
I’m not a man who says it lightly, but the words are there before I can catch them. “I love you too, Eliza. Even if you’re a pain in my ass, and a constant headache. I can’t seem to keep my mind off you, and my obsession’s only getting stronger by the day.”
She flushes a little, squeezing my hand.
“Me too, Jack. Me too,” she says in a soft voice.
We sit there, side by side, staring at the dark window like it’s going to tell us what comes next.
After a while, she shifts and rests her head on my shoulder. “So what now?” she asks, voice small.
“Now, we sleep,” I say. “And tomorrow, we talk. And talk. And talk.”
She nods, subdued. “I know. Thank you, Jack.”
I tuck her closer. “I love you, Eliza. Now let’s go upstairs.”
We get up slowly, and I lead her to the master bedroom.
I undress the beautiful blonde, and she seems even more precious than before.
Her shoulders are slim, breasts big, and her hips flare wide.
She’s as docile as a child, but I merely pull her into bed with me before tucking her in against my side.
Sure enough, Eliza’s breathing slows, her grip on my hand goes loose, and I can tell she’s finally, really asleep.
I lie awake a while longer, listening to the silent house, the steady tick of the clock down the hall, and the soft inhale-exhale of the woman in my arms.
It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.
And in the dark, I find myself grateful.