Page 124 of Off the Grid

“Just come out with it. You didn’t have to invite us over—although we love that you did—to tell us you’re falling for Spencer Riggs,” Isabella says.

“We already figured that,” Gia adds.

“I NEVER said I was falling for him,” I assert.

Their laughter rings out. “Uh-huh,” they say in unison as they tap their glasses against one another’s.

“You two are annoying,” I grumble. “Even though you’re wrong.”

“And we love you madly,” Gia says. “Even though we’re right.”

“No—”

“Save it, Camilla. You’re wearing the new shoes even when we’re not around. You scheduled an appointment to get your hair done again without us prompting you. And you’re unbuttoning the top buttons of your shirt and showing a little cleavage with that tank top underneath. I mean, that screams I’ve got a man all over it.”

Now or never, Camilla. She just gave you the opening you needed.

“About that,” I say and then blow out a long exhale that definitely piques their interest.

“About what? All of it? We’re right about Riggs? What?” Isabella asks through a laugh.

“Not about Riggs. About me. About my clothes. I . . .” Nerves rattle inside me, but this is Gia and Isabella. My girls.

Curious eyes study me as I resolve to follow through with the decision I made last night.

The one to finally let Riggs all the way in and tell him what happened. He keeps opening up to me and I keep deflecting.

But he’s right. I can share my body with him, but not real parts of me.

Besides, it’s time. I’ve spent six years hiding something that isn’t my fault. Like a dirty secret . . . that I didn’t bring on myself. I want to be open with the man who helped me see that.

But these two women who have stood by my side and held my hands, unknowingly helping me. They deserve to know.

I want them to know.

Gia looks at Isabella, suddenly concerned, and asks, “Sweetie, what? You’re scaring us.”

This is the new me—Camilla Moretti—strong and in control.

I take a deep breath and then meet their eyes. When I speak, my tone is even and unemotional. “He told me I asked for it because of what I was wearing. That I deserved it.”

“Let me at that fucker,” Gia says, throwing the pillow on her lap to the floor and starting toward the door. “I’ll rearrange Riggs’s face in—”

“No. No. It wasn’t him.” I laugh, the idea ludicrous. The sight of her fuming mad and ready to defend me is the most beautiful definition of our friendship I could ever experience. “But . . . thank you.”

“Then who?” Isabella asks as Gia sits back down, her face pulled tight, and eyes alive with anger. “What? Talk to us.”

Each of them reaches out to hold one of my hands in silent support.

“I . . . the details don’t matter.”

Gia squeezes my hand, the three of us at the edges of our chairs, a small circle. “Tell us only what you want. We’re here to listen. To support you.”

“And to feel fucking horrible for teasing you about your clothes and not considering the fact that there might be a reason behind it,” Isabella says with tears swimming in her eyes. “A real reason.”

“I don’t blame you. You didn’t know. Couldn’t have.” I smile. “It was six years ago. Before we met. Like I said, the details are irrelevant at this point, but as you seem to already have worked out, I was in a situation where I didn’t give consent. He took what he wanted and insinuated I’d wanted it, based on what I was wearing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Isabella murmurs with tears welling in her eyes.