Naomi wondered how many women who got asked to be maid of honor used to fuck the groom, and on camera no less. She sighed.

“You don’t have to wear a dress,” Clara said, as if that would be the biggest point of contention. “You can wear one of those jumpsuits that make you look like you’re gonna murder everyone and then use their warm blood for your lipstick.”

It was useless for Naomi to try to hide her smirk. “I have been meaning to pick out a new signature red.”

All humor aside, weddings meant family and toasts and line dancing. Cake cutting and smiling for hours’ worth of pictures. Bachelorette, bridal shower, rehearsal dinner. They meant open bars and men who thought they knew her because they’d jerked off to her videos a few times. Naomi felt the commitment closing like a lasso around her, ready to yank.

“Please, just say you’ll consider it.” Clara shoved her dark hair out of her eyes. She’d gotten bangs in January—despite Naomi’s many adamant warnings—and they were finally starting to grow out.

Naomi folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t have to consider it.”

Clara’s face fell like a stack of cards.

“Obviously, I’ll be your maid of honor.” There had never been a question, really.

“You’re serious?” Clara literally clutched her pearls.

“No, this is one of my many hilarious jokes,” Naomi said flatly.

“Ahh. Thank you. Thank you.” Clara jumped out of her seat to throw herself into Naomi’s arms.

Maid of honor was never a title Naomi had expected to earn. She had a lot of friends and various lovers, both past and present tense, but she still kept most of them at arm’s length. It was kind of nice, maybe, that she was important enough to someone to be invited to stand up next to her on one of the biggest days of her life.

“Yay!” Clara shouted into her ear.

“Yeah, yeah.” Naomi didn’t mind the responsibility as much as she minded the tradition. And the guest list. Knowing Clara’s family, the Wheaton-Conners nuptials would be no small affair.

She groaned. Love really was a terrible weakness. No other vice made you vulnerable in quite the same way. Naomi wasn’t a monster. Despite the consequences, she still loved people. She just tried to keep it to a minimum, firmly believing that you didn’t have to be close to love someone, you just had to be committed.

Like her parents, for instance. She loved them fiercely. They had moved from Boston to Arizona last year to retire and were now members of an elder living community that all available evidence suggested was also a nudist colony.

Apparently, getting naked for public consumption ran in the family.

Naomi couldn’t remember if the community didn’t allow cell phones or if the inhabitants just never had any pockets to carry them in. But either way, the result was she spoke to her mom and dad every few months and saw them once a year or so. Neither party seemed to mind.

“Can we talk about business now that you’ve gotten what you wanted?” One was Naomi’s cap for tender moments in a day.

Clara finally released her and plopped into the chair across from Naomi’s, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her co-founder was practically glowing now that she’d received good news. “Where do you want to start?”

Naomi opened one of the meticulously color-coded spreadsheets Clara had built to organize their daily status. Sometimes obsessive, type A overachievers came in handy. “Partnership strategy?”

She scrolled through the file before reading aloud. “We’ve got a team of female engineers coming in on Wednesday to pitch sex-tech prototypes.”

That should be fun. Expanding the line of merchandise in Shameless’s business model was a priority for this year. So far, they’d limited their merchandise to purely aesthetic items: coffee mugs, stickers, pins, the occasional decorative cross-stitch bearing their tagline, “Equal-Opportunity Orgasms.” The Shameless brand held weight, and Clara and Naomi subjected any extensions of the company to extensive vetting.

Naomi scanned for the next item. “Casting new performers for the sixties series?” One of their content priorities for the next few months was developing different videos dedicated to enjoying sex in the later decades of life.

Clara flipped through her planner. “Auditions will be held Thursday through Sunday. Cassidy is running the show, but of course if you want to stop by, you’re welcome.”

Cassidy was their executive producer, and Naomi trusted her completely. They’d worked together before Naomi had left to run Shameless, back when Cass was making queer erotic films out of her garage. Cassidy was essential in helping make their site more inclusive. She was also the elder queer who had helped baby Naomi navigate coming out as bi over a decade ago. It had been a no-brainer to make her one of their early hires.

Naomi marked the dates in her own iCal. “Got it.”

Clara absently straightened Naomi’s Post-its to ninety-degree angles. “Hey, how was that conference you went to on Monday?”

Naomi ran her nails across a run in her silk skirt. She could hardly confess to Clara that she’d spent the better part of the last few days thinking about a smoke-show rabbi who’d made her an offer she’d had to refuse.

“It was nice. I learned a new approach for how to optimize subtitles for audio-impaired subscribers.”