In the moment, at least, Jenny wants nothing more than to let go of it, to let go and hold fast to him instead, Cameron seeming strangely like the first real hope she's had, the first person in her corner, regardless of what he doesn't know. In a way, it feels almost like he's a symbol of what might have been — he's well-educated and worldly both, some strange middle ground of what she wants and what she knows she needs, what could have been just within her grasp but was let go of, foolishly, naïvely. It is, perhaps, because she wants to that she knows she can't. Someday, farther down the line, when they've known each other more than a scant few minutes (that feel like much more, somehow), she'll tell him the whole truth of it, what she did and why her future seems so bleak, but this is too nice for now, nothing she wants to weigh down with such dismal talk. He's right. This is a break, and what good is a blank slate if she drags her past along behind her? "That's what I'm hoping to do," she says, an admittance in and of itself. There are some things done that she can't undo, physical proof that what happened did indeed take place, and someday she'll have to face that, but it isn't as if she has any reason to be thinking that far ahead just yet. The rest doesn't need to define her. "You're the first person I've told about any of it."