Page 105 of Masks and Mishaps

“Dalton’s right,” I confirm. “I didn’t like being poor and vowed I would never be poor again. I’ve paid for my degree by camming. I’ve put money away for the boys. Can you say the same thing?”

“Do not actually answer,” Dalton warns when my father’s lips part.

“And yes,” I go on, feeling the lump in my throat fade with each word, “for the last month, Dalton has cammed with me. Christian, that’s what you saw when you walked into the library.”

“Thanks, by the way,” Dalton remarks before flipping off my brother. “Super cool of you to think I’m capable of murder.”

“My bad. Next time I find a big naked dude wearing a ski mask, I’ll definitely give him the benefit of the doubt,” Christian replies, shooting Dalton a look before he faces me. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Like I said, I’m not ashamed. I wear a mask because I want to protect my career options, but I like what I do. I love it, actually.”

But Christian shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry I never knew how bad it was when we were kids. I’m sorry you went through that alone.”

I squeeze his hand again. “I never wanted you to know. It means I did a good job; I took care of you.”

“But who took care of you?” he questions. He looks across the room at Luis and Tommy, whose expressions have lost their jagged edges and now resemble the same remorseful look Christian is giving me. “Tell her you’re sorry.”

“I’m so sorry,” Luis says immediately. “You shouldn’t have had to…”

“But thank you,” Tommy adds. “We turned out all right.”

“I love you,” is my response. “And you’re far better than all right.” I face Dad again, and his somber expression is a jarring juxtaposition to my brothers. Still, I take a deep breath and say, “Dalton and I are done. We always planned to stop before the wedding, and I’ll be done with camming altogether once I graduate.”

I wait for a response, but my father doesn’t say anything. His expression is illegible, and his eyes seem to flicker over my face, traveling from feature to feature like he doesn’t recognize me.

“Don’t use the word whore,” I go on. “You couldn’t begin to understand the complexities of sex work, so you don’t get to use it.” I pause. “Tell me you understand.”

My father stares at me for a long time and eventually shakes his head. “I don’t know how you can ever be happy living the life you do. I don’t know how either of you,” he says, glancing at Dalton before looking back at me, “can look at yourselves in the mirror.”

My stomach roils.

“Your mom would have hated this,” he finishes before he looks away.

That one does me in. Tears pool in my eyes, stinging in stark contrast to the trails of goosebumps prickling over my skin. No matter how many times I say it,I’m completely fine, I’m completely fine, I’m completely fine, I’ve never been completely fine.

I loved her; I’ll always love her. The only forever I’ve accepted is the space she left behind, the part that draws from the unconditional, devoted love that encapsulated her very being. To take the grace and resilience my mother gifted me and to distort it into shame is reprehensible.

“I’m done,” I decide, feeling my lip curl as I speak. “I’m done with you—for good.” I glance back. Dalton looks like he’s summoning every bit of restraint he’s repressed over the twenty-nine years of his life, but it’s a testament to his affection for me that he doesn’t move. I face my father again, and when a tear finally escapes, I say, “Have a great wedding. I won’t be there.”

“But I will,” Dalton finally chimes in, throwing his arm over me. “I’m going to be at the motherfucking altar, Porter, reminding you how small you are. I’m going to be there for the rest of your pathetic life. When you die, I’m going to be at your deathbed, making sure you know how badly you screwed up. Think I won’t? Try me. I’m too damn rich and too damn petty.”

I look at Dalton, overcome with…something. My father has never, ever heard me before today, and I’d never really heard him either. This conversation was long overdue—far longer than I’ve even known Dalton—but he gave it to me. He gives me everything.

Looking at Dalton and taking in the exquisite lines of his face and his intense, proprietary stare, I wonder how I’m supposed to go back to normal. More profoundly, I feel the one thing I know I’m not supposed to. “Thank you,” I say instead, but the depth of the revelation spills over and beyond the eight letters I just spoke.

Dalton’s stare is eight letters long as well:I love you.

Or perhaps it’s eleven letters:I love you too.

“Well, Happy Thanksgiving,” Dalton says aloud, glancing around the room. “Anyone want to say anything else before we all awkwardly go back to our rooms and talk shit about each other?”

Alyssa clears her throat. “Porter?”

“Yeah?” he says, facing her.

“We need to talkright now.”

Thirty-Seven

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