The Collective(37)

“You gonna be okay?” says the bartender as we reach the front door.

“Sure,” I tell her. “She’s just . . . She’s a big Alayah fan.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Those other contestants could give Regina George a run for her money. Who the hell are they to call anybody phony?”

“Right? That’s what I was telling Wendy on our thread.” I clear my throat. “It’s a Reddit thread. We met online.”

“I know.”

I stare at her.

The bartender takes a quick glance behind her, then gives me a wink. “Good luck out there, sister.”

She turns and heads for the bar without looking back at us. Her dress shimmers.

After the door shuts behind us, I lead Wendy to her car. “You got the keys?”

She puts her lips to my ear. “They’re probably watching us through the windows, so I’m gonna let you haul me into the passenger seat.” She presses a set of keys into my palm. Her voice is calm, sober, the slur completely gone. “Once we get out of here, we can switch.”

“We can?”

“She was serving me virgins all night,” Wendy whispers. “We’re everywhere, Camille.”


AS I DRIVE Wendy’s Camry to the Poughkeepsie Galleria, the only sounds are the quiet roar of the engine, the crunch of the wheels on the near-empty road. I keep sneaking looks at her, my partner in crime—the benign smile, the sensible hair, the peaceful gaze, all so removed from the screaming drunk at the Wild Rose. I want to ask her if she’s ever studied acting. I want to ask her a lot of things, really. Her age for one. Back at the bar, I’d figured her for mid-fifties, but during this brief drive she’s looked a few years older or several years younger depending on the light. I want to ask her what she does for a living, whether she’s married, how she stays in shape—anything to break this silence. I want to ask her if she minds keeping quiet as much as I do, but from the looks of her, she doesn’t. I imagine she’s been in the collective longer than I have, so she’s more used to these rules.

I pull into the parking lot, turn off the car, and pop the trunk.

We open our doors silently, walk around to the back of the car, and remove our plastic bags full of clothes before slamming the trunk shut.

Wendy changes in the front seat, I change in the back, yet somehow, it takes us the exact same time to don our black hoodies, black jeans, and black boots. In synch, I think. A well-oiled and silent machine.

A little too silent, but what can you do?

Wendy takes the wheel, and I get into the passenger seat. But instead of starting the car, she sighs dramatically. “Fuck this.”

I turn to her.

“Listen, I know rules are rules, but too much quiet triggers my anxiety. If I have to shut my mouth for this entire friggin’ night, I’ll have a goddamned heart attack.”

I smile at her. I’m not sure I’ve ever liked someone so much after exchanging so few words with them.

“So, Camille. You up for a gab?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”


“I’M GONNA ASK you something,” Wendy says, “and I want you to be completely honest with me.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you ever watch The Bachelor before last week?”

“No.”

“You’re not shitting me. You swear on it. As a sister.”

“Yes. I swear.”

“Okay. I believe you.” She breathes out slowly. “Me neither, by the way. But . . . I think I may have gotten too into character, or whatever. Because I’m kind of obsessed.”

I laugh. “What is it about that show?”

“You too?”

“Yes. I’m so ashamed.”

It’s close to midnight, and we’re heading north on Route 9, as per the second text on Wendy’s flip phone. I have to say, my first impression has proven correct. I really, really like Wendy. Ever since we peeled out of the Poughkeepsie Galleria parking lot, we’ve been talking nonstop.

And while we have indeed broken a rule, it feels like it’s for the better good. I’m not just giving her a ride, after all. We’re doing this assignment together. It requires a good deal of trust, and for that to happen, we have to, at a bare minimum, be comfortable in each other’s company.

So now we are. We’ve even exchanged last names. (Interestingly, Wendy and I are both divorced but have retained our married names. Hers, she told me, is Osterberg—“Iggy Pop’s real last name, but despite my ex’s rangy build and out-of-control stage presence, he’s sadly no relation.”) I know about her ex-husband, how they still work at the same accounting firm and how, more than once, they’ve gotten drunk and made out at Christmas parties. I know about her sister-in-law, an actual FBI agent who “makes me feel like Walter White whenever I’m around her.” She knows about me and Matt—how close we were until we weren’t anymore and how these days I barely know him. She knows how my best friend in the world is Sarge from Protect and Serve and how that may or may not be because my daughter’s heart beats inside Sarge’s chest.

And now we’re on to lighter topics. “I think that if The Bachelor had been around when I was young,” I tell her, “I would have tried out for it.”