“And . . .”
“I was in a sorority.”
“No shit. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Greek gal.”
“Oh you’d be surprised,” I say. “A few of us even posed for Playboy. ‘Women of the Pac-10.’”
“Really?”
I shrug, the billionaire’s screams still loud in my mind. “I had different priorities back then.” I glance over at her. “Different boobs, too.”
She smiles, and that gets me thinking about it for real. The Playboy photo shoot, when I stood in a cold studio, wearing nothing but a pair of USC Trojan boxer shorts, grinning like an idiot for some sweaty, hairy, middle-aged photographer in a cargo vest and matching pants who kept telling me to arch my back. And the worst part was, I wanted his approval. I craved it. When he said, “Yeah, that’s hot,” I was thrilled. . . .
“Sometimes I worry I passed it on to Emily.”
“Passed what on to her?”
“I don’t know. . . . Vanity? Insecurity? Kardashianism?”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Wendy says, “with being proud of your body. Hell, I wish I had Playboy photos of myself at twenty.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Nothing. There are no buts. That kind of attitude—that guilt. Blaming yourself in any way for the actions of horrible men—or boy, in your case. It’s what allows that thing we just dumped in the river to survive and flourish.”
I stare at her. She sounds exactly like Joan. And, in the moonlight, she almost looks like her.
“I’m not kidding, Camille.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“You just remind me of someone I once knew,” I say quietly. “Someone who helped me.”
“Did she pose for Playboy too?”
“I don’t think so.”
Wendy snorts, goes back to the compass. “Then I don’t want to hear about her,” she says.
WE FOLLOW THE rest of the instructions—sixty degrees southeast one mile, a quarter of a mile southwest, the cold air pinching our faces until finally we reach a small hill that leads up to a road, where a solitary car is parked. “That’s gotta be the ride, right?”
I nod, but Wendy grabs my arm.
“Okay, so since we aren’t going to be able to talk once we get there, I’m thinking we should have like . . . a code.”
“Huh?”
“In case something happens. If someone saw us on the dock . . . if one of us gets in trouble.”
I look at her, my face reflected in her glasses. I’ve thought about this during the walk. But I haven’t brought it up. I was the one who opened the trunk, after all. I’ve broken enough rules for the night. “You’re right,” I tell Wendy.
“I mean, I know we can’t talk after this, or see each other again. But . . .”
“Just for emergencies.”
“Yes.”
“I think we should.”
“Okay, good,” she says. “Because I have an idea. If there’s any trouble . . . we post on The Bachelor Reddit thread.”
“And then what?”
“Nothing. We just know something’s gone down.”
“But what if it’s a warning that needs to be explained?”