“Thank you for inviting me here,” I said. “Your home is beautiful.”

“Thank you for coming, Anna,” Jane said.

Everyone took a drink. Silence filled the room.

T.J. – the only relaxed person there – took a swig from the beer he’d helped himself to and draped an arm over the back of my chair.

“The media have asked if you and T.J. would be willing to hold a press conference,” Tom said. “In exchange, they’ll stop bothering you.”

“What do you think, Anna?” T.J. asked.

The idea filled me with dread but I was tired of fighting my way past the reporters. Maybe if we answered their questions, they’d leave us alone.

“Would it be televised?” I asked.

“No. I’ve already told them it would have to be a closed press conference. They’ll hold it at the news station, but they won’t broadcast it.”

“If the reporters agree to back off, I’ll do it.”

“So will I,” T.J. said.

“I’ll set it up,” Tom said. “There’s something else, Anna. T.J. already knows this but I’ve been on the phone with the attorney for the seaplane charter. Because the death of the pilot caused the crash but the supplier of the life raft didn’t provide the Coast Guard-mandated emergency beacon, there’s comparative fault. Both parties are considered negligent. Aviation litigation is very complex and the courts will have to determine the percentage of liability. These cases can drag on for years. However, the seaplane charter would like to settle with you both and then subrogate against the other party. In exchange, you’ll agree not to file a lawsuit.”

My head spun. I hadn’t thought about negligence or lawsuits. “I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t have sued anyway.”

“Then I suggest you settle. There won’t be any trial. You may need to give a deposition, but you can do that here in Chicago. Since you were in my employ when the crash occurred, my attorney can handle the negotiations for you.”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

“It will probably take several months, or more, before it’s finalized.”

“Okay, Tom.”

Alexis and Grace joined us for dinner. Everyone had relaxed considerably by the time we sat down at the dining room table, helped in part by the second round of drinks we all said we didn’t want but drank anyway.

Jane served beef tenderloin, roasted vegetables, and au gratin potatoes. Alexis and Grace snuck looks at me and smiled. I helped Jane clear the table and serve a warm apple tart and ice cream for dessert.

When we got ready to leave, Tom handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a check. We still owe you for the tutoring.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do my job.” I tried to give the envelope back to him.

Gently, he pushed my hand away. “Jane and I insist.”

“Tom, please.”

“Just take it, Anna. It will make us happy.”

“Okay.” I slid the envelope into my purse.

“Thank you for everything,” I said to Jane.

I looked her in the eye and she met my gaze. Not many mothers would welcome their son’s much older girlfriend into their home so graciously and we both knew it.

“You’re welcome, Anna. Come again sometime.”

T.J. took me in his arms as soon as the elevator doors closed. I exhaled and rested my head on his chest. “Your parents are wonderful.”

“I told you they were cool.”

They were also generous. Because later that night, when I opened the envelope they’d given me, I pulled out a check for twenty-five thousand dollars.

***

The press conference was scheduled to begin at two o’clock. Tom and Jane Callahan stood off to the side, Tom holding a small video camera in his hand, the only one allowed to tape anything.

“I know what they’re going to ask,” I said.

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” T.J. reminded me.

We sat at a long table facing a sea of reporters. I tapped my right foot up and down and T.J. leaned over and pressed down gently on my thigh. He knew better than to leave his hand there for very long.

Someone had taped a large map on the wall showing an aerial view of the twenty-six atolls of the Maldives. A public relations representative for the news channel, assigned to moderate the press conference, began by explaining to the reporters that the island T.J. and I lived on was uninhabited and likely sustained significant damage due to the tsunami. She used a laser pointer and identified the island of Malé as our starting point. “This was their destination,” she said, pointing to another island. “Because the pilot suffered a heart attack, the plane crash-landed somewhere in between.”

The first question came from a reporter standing in the back row. He had to shout so we could hear him.

“What went through your minds when you realized the pilot was having a heart attack?”

I leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. “We were scared he would die and worried that he wouldn’t be able to land the plane.”

“Did you try to help him?” another reporter asked.

“Anna did,” T.J. said. “The pilot asked us to put on life jackets and go back to our seats and buckle in. When he slumped over, Anna unbuckled and went forward to start CPR.”

“How long were you in the ocean before you made it to the island?”

T.J. answered that question. “I’m not sure. The sun set about an hour after we crashed and it came up after we made it to shore.”

We answered questions for the next hour. They asked us about everything from how we fed ourselves to what kind of shelter we built. We told them about T.J.’s broken collarbone and the illness that almost killed him. We described the storms and explained how the dolphins saved T.J. from the shark. We talked about the tsunami and our reunion at the hospital. They seemed genuinely in awe of the hardships we faced, and I relaxed a little.

Then a reporter in the front row, a middle-aged woman with a scowl on her face asked, “What kind of physical relationship did you have on the island?”

“That’s irrelevant,” I answered.

“Are you aware of the age of consent in the state of Illinois?” she asked.

I didn’t point out that the island wasn’t in Illinois. “Of course I am.” In case not everyone knew, she decided to enlighten them.

“The age of consent in Illinois is seventeen, unless the relationship involves a person of authority such as a teacher. Then the age is raised to eighteen.”

“No laws were broken,” T.J. said.

“Sometimes victims are coerced into lying,” the reporter countered. “Especially if the abuse occurred early on.”

“There was no abuse,” T.J. said.

She addressed me directly with her next question.

“How do you think Chicago taxpayers will feel about paying the salary of a teacher suspected of sexual misconduct toward a student?”

“There wasn’t any sexual misconduct,” T.J. yelled. “What part of this are you not getting?”

Though I knew they would ask about our relationship, I never considered the possibility that they’d accuse us of lying about it, or think I somehow forced myself on T.J. The seed of doubt the reporter planted would undoubtedly multiply, fed by rumors and speculation. Everyone that read our story would question my actions and my integrity. At the very least, it might be difficult to find a school district willing to take a chance on me, effectively ending my career as a teacher.

When my brain finished processing what her questioning had done, I barely had enough time to scrape my chair back and run for the women’s restroom. I flung open the door of a stall and leaned over the toilet. I’d been unable to eat before the press conference and my empty stomach dry-heaved but nothing came up. Someone opened the door.

“I’m okay, T.J. I’ll be out in minute.”

“It’s me, Anna,” a female voice said.

I came out of the stall. Jane Callahan was standing there. She opened her arms to me and it was so like something my own mom would have done that I threw myself into them and burst into tears. When I stopped crying, Jane handed me a tissue and said, “The media sensationalizes everything. I think some of the general public will see through it.”