Around three in the afternoon, my friend Noelle came over with Thai takeout and the expression people wear when they know enough not to say “Are you okay?”
Noelle and I had met in college in the least cinematic way possible—fighting over the last open outlet in the library during finals week. She had copper-colored curls, a laugh that came out in bursts like she was surprising herself, and a moral compass so functional it made other people seem underfurnished.
She set the food on my counter, took one look at my face, and said, “Tell me everything, but if you try to defend them, I’m leaving.”
So I told her. Naples. The text. My mother’s voice. The photos. The seating chart draft without my name. The money.
When I got to the total, she put her fork down very carefully. “You gave your brother seventy-seven thousand dollars?”
“Technically forty-eight in direct transfers and the rest in covered vendor costs.”
“Alyssa.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
The basil and fish sauce smell from the takeout filled the kitchen. Outside, a siren passed, then faded. Noelle leaned back against my counter and studied me with narrowed eyes.
“Did Camille know?”