The Cost of Luxury

Phoebe was quiet for a moment in a way that was unusual even for her, which made everyone assume she was about to say something either very profound or very illegal, and in Phoebe’s case those two categories had a habit of overlapping. She was staring into the fire, but not in the reflective way the others were. It was more like she was watching something else entirely, something none of them could see, and deciding whether or not it was worth commenting on.

“I like her,” she said finally.

There was a pause.

Ross blinked. “The med student?”

Phoebe nodded as if this were obvious. “Yeah. I mean, she sounds like she was having a good time.”

Monica turned slightly. “She was using him.”

Phoebe shrugged. “So?”

That landed differently than she intended, which was often the case with Phoebe, because she did not experience moral language the same way other people did. Words like using and being used did not carry the same weight for her. They were just descriptions of motion, like walking or driving or falling in love with someone who owns a loft overlooking a baseball stadium and doesn’t introduce you to her friends.

“I mean,” Phoebe continued, “she liked him. She just didn’t like… the daytime version of him. That’s not evil. That’s just scheduling.”

Rachel frowned. “That’s not how relationships work.”

Phoebe looked at her. “It kind of is, though. Most people just don’t admit it.”

She shifted slightly, pulling her knees closer to her chest, the firelight catching in her eyes in a way that made her look less like she was part of the group and more like she had wandered into it from somewhere else entirely.

“I actually get her,” Phoebe said.

Chandler glanced at her, but didn’t interrupt.

Phoebe continued, more casually now, as if she were talking about something she had already made peace with a long time ago. “I’ve been her. Not the med student part. I don’t do school. But the… you know. The arrangement part.”

There was a small silence again, but this one was different. This one had weight.

Joey, sensing none of it, said, “Arrangement?”

Phoebe nodded. “Yeah. Like… Dubai.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Phoebe smiled faintly, as if remembering something mildly amusing rather than anything that might require emotional processing.

“I used to go to Dubai a lot,” she said. “Well, I say used to like it was a job. It kind of was. Except I didn’t have to show up on time unless I wanted to.”

Monica’s expression tightened slightly. “Phoebe…”

Phoebe waved her off gently. “No, it’s fine. I’m not ashamed of it. I mean, I was very well compensated.”

Ross looked like he was trying to decide whether to interrupt or call a lawyer.

Phoebe continued anyway.

“There were these men,” she said, “not like… creepy men. Well, some of them were creepy, but not in a dangerous way. More in a ‘you own a private jet and don’t know how to talk to women without sounding like a press release’ way.”

She leaned back slightly, looking up at the night sky as if she were reading from it.

“They didn’t want to be famous,” she said. “That was the thing. They had money, like real money, but they didn’t want attention. They wanted… access. To things. To places. To people. To me, apparently.”

Rachel blinked. “Phoebe, are you saying—”

“I’m saying it was very structured,” Phoebe said, as if clarifying a misunderstanding in a business meeting. “Like, no commitments. No emotional confusion. Just: if I text you, you better be at the airport. And if I don’t text you, you don’t exist.”

Joey frowned. “That sounds… kind of intense.”

“It was very efficient,” Phoebe corrected. “And honestly? Kind of relaxing. No guessing. No ‘what are we.’ No brunch expectations.”

She smiled a little at that last part, as if brunch itself were a form of emotional manipulation she had successfully avoided.

“They’d fly me out,” she continued. “Private jets, yachts, those weird parties where everyone is wearing white and pretending they don’t know each other’s last names. And I’d stay in these hotels where the towels are thicker than most people’s personalities.”

Monica’s face had gone very still.

Phoebe noticed, but didn’t stop.

“And I took advantage,” she said simply. “Clothes, jewelry, whatever. I was very convincing when I needed to be. I could make a man feel like he was the only interesting thing in a room full of mirrors.”

Ross finally spoke, carefully. “And you… enjoyed this?”

Phoebe looked at him like the question was almost sweet.

“Of course I did,” she said. “I was twenty-something. I was in Dubai. I was on yachts. I had a tan I didn’t earn. What part of that am I supposed to regret? The sex? I love sex. The head? I didn’t swallow. Men get turned on when a woman spits their own cum back in their mouth. The anal sex? As long as they used a condom and lube, I was cool.”

There was another pause, heavier this time.

Then she added, almost conversationally, “I usually dumped them before they could dump me. That part was important. It kept things honest.”

Joey frowned again. “Why?”

Phoebe shrugged. “Because otherwise they start thinking they own the story. And I don’t like that.”

She leaned forward slightly, warming her hands by the fire.

“I always thought one of them would eventually be… I don’t know. Charming enough. Or funny. Or something. Like, statistically, if you meet enough rich men in enough private jets, one of them has to have a personality, right? Dorian Grey had to be based on a real guy.”

She smiled faintly.

“They never did. I got handcuffed and spanked. But there was never any caring and romance.”

That landed differently.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just final.

Phoebe looked around at them then, finally noticing the silence she had created.

“What?” she said. “You guys have all seen the pictures. I post them. You like them.”

Rachel spoke carefully. “We didn’t know that’s what it was.”

Phoebe tilted her head. “What did you think it was?”

No one answered immediately.

Because the truth was, they had all assumed something softer. Something more curated. Something that fit inside the comfortable distance of Instagram: exotic travel, glamorous men, a life that looked like a fantasy but didn’t require explanation.

Phoebe nodded slowly, as if accepting that gap between perception and reality without surprise.

“I mean,” she said, “it’s not that different from normal dating. Just… more expensive. And with better lighting.”

Monica finally spoke, her voice quieter now. “Phoebe, that’s not—”

Phoebe held up a hand gently.

“I know what it sounds like,” she said. “But I wasn’t trapped. I wasn’t naive. I wasn’t… whatever word you’re all trying not to say.”

She looked into the fire again.

“I was just having fun.”

There was no apology in her voice. No defensiveness either. Just a simple statement of fact, like someone describing weather.

“And honestly,” she added, “it was better than most relationships I’ve had. At least, everyone knew what they were doing. No one was pretending it was about love.”

That last word hung in the air for a moment.

Phoebe glanced at Chandler then, briefly, almost kindly.

“Except maybe you,” she said softly. “You all keep pretending it’s about love.”

Chandler didn’t respond.

He just looked at the fire.

And for the first time that night, the group didn’t laugh.

Because Phoebe, who had always seemed like the least anchored of them all, had just described something none of them were entirely sure they wanted to recognize.

And the fire kept burning anyway.