Page 66 of The Beach Trap

But also: Why didn’t Noah tell me? He let me think he was the gardener, that we were in the same boat, both of us broke and stuck here for the summer, working for the Rooneys. He even let me go on and on about how stuck-up and entitled they are. My cheeks flush with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment. Was he laughing at me this entire time?

Behind the pictures is a white cardboard box, and I open it to find a stack of save-the-date cards, announcing the upcoming marriage of Noah Jameson Rooney Jr. to Annalise Cunningham. My stomach feels queasy. I look at the date: they were supposed to be married last month. June 14.

This must be Noah’s closet, Noah’s bedroom. That’s why it’s gone unused when the Rooneys have been here. And that’s why Noah knew exactly where the condoms were. No luck about it.

Hands shaking, I grab one of the smaller pictures and a save-the-date card and go into the bedroom, sitting on the bed next to Noah. He rolls over and looks up at me.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, giving a lazy smile. “Glad you’re back.”

I press my lips together and show him the picture and the card. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

When he registers what I’m holding, he sits up lightning fast. “Shit. Blake—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was going to tell you last night, but—”

“You should have told mebeforethat,” I say. My voice sounds sharper than I intended; I do remember that he was about to explain about his family, but Kat called.

He cringes, his forehead creased with guilt. “I know. Just—please let me explain. Okay? Before you walk out and never speak to me again?”

“I told you last night I would listen without judgment, and that hasn’t changed,” I say. “But I do want to know the truth now. Thewholetruth.”

He exhales, clearly relieved and a little surprised. “Okay. Where to start. Let’s see—I was groomed my entire life to take over the Rooney underwear company. I started working for my dad after college and continued while doing an MBA. At the time, the company wasn’t doing well, and I had an idea to revitalize things. Get a whole new generation excited about buying our products.”

“You came up with UnderRooneys,” I say, which makes sense.

He nods. “I convinced my father to let me take the reins on the project. I was in charge of it all—the design, the marketing,everything. The product sold better than my wildest dreams. It was exhilarating; we were bringing in more money than any year in the last decade. My dad was thrilled. But then...”

“Someone leaked the information about the sweatshops,” I say as it dawns on me. “I read about it online. The company lost a lot of money.”

His reluctance to tell me makes sense now, and I feel myself softening further. He’s embarrassed he was part of something like that. He must have left the company, which caused a rift in his family.

But Noah shakes his head. “No, that’s not—let me back up. About a year ago, I went with some board members to tour our factory in Malaysia. I was horrified at the conditions. They were working fourteen hours a day; the factories were filthy and hot; people were getting hurt. It felt wrong that we were raking in the dough while our workers were struggling. But when I brought it up with my dad, he brushed it off. Said that this was how the world worked, and I needed to get used to it. But I couldn’t get used to it—I felt like the welfare of those workers wasmyresponsibility. But since my dad wouldn’t listen...”

He trails off, wincing, and it all clicks in my mind in one horrifying instant.

“Youleaked the information,” I say, putting a hand to my mouth.

“Yes.” His jaw tightens. “I went to the media and reported it. Our stock plummeted. Several huge distributors pulled out; consumers boycotted us. The board fired me. My fiancée dumped me. My parents were furious.”

“They disowned you,” I whisper, thinking about those pictures in the closet, facing the wall.

He nods, then looks away. “It gets worse. A few months ago,I got a call from the foreman of that factory. The company closed it down and thousands of people lost their jobs. The foreman wanted me to know that it was my fault. That he and every other worker in that factory blamed me—personally—for the fact that they couldn’t feed their families. And he was right. He was absolutely right.”

My heart drops. I can see the pain on his face, the guilt weighing on him.

Noah runs both hands through his hair, looking exhausted and defeated. “I’d been so self-righteous, acting like a goddamn martyr for standing up to the big, bad corporation, when in actuality, I made everything worse.” He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Anyway. After that, I needed to get away from everything. That’s why I ended up here, squatting in my family’s beach house. I have no idea what to do next. How do I even begin to make amends for what I’ve done? When you assumed I was the groundskeeper, I just went with it. I shouldn’t have lied to you, Blake. But I have to admit, it was nice for a little while. Pretending to be someone else. Pretending I didn’t belong to the Rooney family.”

I’m stunned speechless. This is what Noah has been keeping inside of him all this time. So much hurt and shame hidden under a veneer of sarcasm. Now he’s split himself open in front of me, and he still seems to expect that I’m going to walk out of here, disgusted, and never speak to him again.

That’s the last thing I’m going to do.

“I wish you would’ve told me earlier,” I say, “but I understand what it’s like to feel ashamed of your family.”

He glances at me, eyebrows raised. “How are you not more upset?”

“I am upset. I’m upset with yourparents.” My voice catches. “It’s not just the company they kicked you out of—they kickedyou out of the family. They took your pictures off the wall, Noah. Who does that to their own child?”

My eyes fill with tears. I’m not just thinking about Noah’s family. I’m thinking of mine—of my own father, cutting me out of his life. He never evenhada picture of me on his walls.

“Sorry,” I say, brushing away my tears. This isn’t about me.

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