“I don’t want you to wear that,” he said, snagging his finger on the neckline of my shirt. He handed me the white fabric, which, unfurled, revealed itself to be a thin slip dress. I wondered if it was Lonnie’s. He was crouched by his cameras, so I unbuttoned my shorts, thinking he would politely load film or screw on lenses as I changed, but he kept looking up at me. All traces of his smirk were gone, though his face maintained its innocent, full-cheeked appearance, the eyebrows drawn up like an unsure little boy’s. There was nowhere else to go, so I peeled off my shorts in front of him, trying to meet his eye, as if that would help me understand what was happening. He wasn’t looking at my face, he was watching my body. I took off my shirt, then bent to pick the dress up off the ground.

“No,” he said. “You’ll be able to see your underwear through the fabric. Take it off.”

I paused a moment, trying to work things out in my head. Did he regret turning me down back at the beginning of the summer? Was this his way of coming on to me? I was as confused by the prospect as I was excited. I wondered, even more than when James had kissed me, if I should feel remorseful out of loyalty to Lonnie, but my curiosity overpowered any sense of shame. I told myself it was because she was disloyal, sleeping with Carlow in the first place. She should understand that no one really belongs to anyone else. Besides, after our conversation in the water, it was almost like she was giving me permission, like she was trying to pass him off. Why else would she suggest I visit his studio? She must have known what would happen here.

I dropped my panties and unclipped my bra, letting them fall to the floor. He stood, walked over, and handed me the dress. “I want to get your face,” he said, leading me to the window. “Look at your reflection.” I did. I thought I looked good—my complexion tawny from boating the day before.

“You keep a lot of tension in your mouth,” Carlow said.

I gave him a pout. “No,” he said, touching my lips. “Don’t try to make any expression. Forget about them. Look at your nose. Your nostrils are a little asymmetrical. I like that, that’s interesting.”

He snapped a photo. I’d never thought much about the shape of my nostrils before. I didn’t really want my face to be interesting—it almost seemed like an insult.

“Lean your head back,” he said, touching my chin.

The shutter clicked. “Now look at me.”