Page 1 of Hotter in the Hamptons

It was a minor decision before a major meeting, but Lola Fine felt paralyzed by it: her trusty pink Miu Miu flats—scuffed and worn from years of city sidewalks, bought at full price after her first major brand deal—or her black Prada slingbacks, a recent, lavish gift from a publicist that hurt like hell but looked insanely chic.

The flats were definitely less sexy, but they were practical. Plus, they reminded her of a Lola from long past: that starry-eyed, aspiring fashion darling who worshipped at the altar of Sienna Miller and dreamed in dress patterns, who’d moved to the city by herself to see if she could also be part of that glittering, exclusive scene she’d read about in magazines.

But which version of her would be more likeable today—and more importantly, which would be more forgivable ? The aspirational content creator with seven-figure savings and in-season style, or the earnest fashion girl who doesn’t try too hard? She wasn’t sure.

The one thing she was certain of: the Pradas gave her blisters. Did she really want to limp her way from Soho to Brooklyn? No. She did not.

Ten minutes later, the trusty flats squeaked on the concrete floor as she breezed through the airy lobby of her apartment building. It was the right choice. She felt like herself. (Though she’d also stashed the Pradas in her bag, just in case she decided on the way that she didn’t want to feel like herself. It was best to be prepared.)

She waved to the graying doorman, Hector, who greeted her with a warm nod.

“No packages for you this morning, Miss Lola,” Hector said.

“It happens,” she replied breezily, trying to hide her frown.

Last year, the building’s management had bought a new cart just so the doormen could take Lola’s mail up to her. Otherwise, her daily onslaught of packages—PR gifts of varying designer clothes, shoes, high-end beauty products, luxury home decor, up-and-coming books, the occasional athletic gear—was unmanageable.

But this week, there had been no packages at all. Not that she really cared about the gifts themselves; the thrill of brands sending her free stuff was long over. Designer bag blended into designer bag, something that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. Though she’d become famous for her personal style, these days, she felt as if her entire aesthetic was decided by various marketing teams that selected pieces for her to promote on their behalf to her five million followers.

No, it wasn’t the lack of packages that bothered her—it was the implication of their absence. It had been a hard few days.

The cream ruffles of her new Chloé maxi dress swished against her waxed, self-tanned legs as she made her way to the exit, her gold bracelets jangling on her wrists. She’d put her favorite pink Guerlain lipstick on, expertly obscuring the tiny scar on the top of her lip. If nothing else, she thought, she looked great today. She smelled great too; she’d sprayed Daisy Wild on her pulse points, relishing the fresh scent. On regular days, the fragrance made her feel like she was prancing whimsically through a field of jasmine, her head floating through the clouds. Today, though, the scent seemed to poke cheekily at the low thrum of anxiety in her chest, urging, almost aggressively, perk up, babe! She was forcing herself to listen.

Ever the Virgo, she supposed she was controlling what she could. And if she couldn’t make strangers be nice to her online, she could at least make herself look perfect for the task at hand. She was determined to fix her mess.

Hector held the door open for her, and she stepped out onto Mercer Street.

New York summer always felt like a hot bath. Across the street, a horde of young men in tailored three-piece suits—Goldman Sachs interns, she guessed—looked ready to drop dead of heatstroke. The air smelled like steaming garbage. Her feet immediately started sweating in her flats, and though she’d gotten her hair blown out at Jenna Perry the day before, she couldn’t resist throwing it into a quick topknot, her neck already damp beneath her blond mane. She’d take it down before the meeting, but for now, there was literally no way she’d survive her hair plastered around her throat. The thought alone made her shudder.

And yet there was something that felt like magic about Manhattan in June, when the chilly, unpredictable spring days finally unfolded into the blazing heat. Lola was born and raised in Los Angeles, so the East Coast’s shifting seasons were still novel, those tiny changes that built on each other until suddenly, one day, everything felt new. She hoped she never got used to the romance of it. It made her feel invincible.

She’d wanted to take a Citi Bike to Fort Greene, a quiet, hip neighborhood in Brooklyn with historic brownstones, a leafy park, and a smattering of exquisite little restaurants and bars. She’d always preferred a bicycle to taking taxis or Ubers or, in more recent years, brand-sponsored Uber Blacks. In fact, riding a bike was one of her favorite parts of living in Manhattan. She loved whizzing past all the people, feeling like she was flying through the veins of the city itself, the wind in her hair. When she first moved here, her old bike was how she learned the streets, memorized the grid and the neighborhoods, falling more and more in love with the pulse of this place by the day. It was her city, she felt. And she was New York’s.

But even she knew she shouldn’t attempt to bike over the bridge in couture. She needed to make a good impression, which meant she couldn’t risk getting bike grease all over herself, as she was prone to do.

Not to mention the heat. She didn’t want to arrive to her interview with the famous Aly Ray Carter looking sweaty. No, it would be an Uber for her today. She needed air-conditioning like she needed Aly to write a redeeming profile of her.

At least that was what her team had been telling her. A flattering profile would turn things around. And Aly specifically needed to be the one to write it. No one else had that kind of cultural cachet with the fashion-obsessed women who followed @LolaLikes on Instagram, TikTok, and X (which Lola had never stopped calling Twitter).

As though she’d been manifested from Lola’s thoughts, a teenage girl wearing a Marine Serre T-shirt and cargo pants—a living billboard for Gen Z—walked by. They made eye contact, and Lola offered her a smile. The girl smiled back, looked away, and then whipped back around, recognition flickering across her face. “Oh my god, wait, sorry, Lola Likes?”

Lola, who was waiting in the doorway for her Uber, smiled, unsurprised to be recognized on the street. She was, if anything, a little bored of all the fanfare, though there was also some relief to it in this moment; at least she still mattered. At least what she’d done was not bad enough to prevent a random Gen Z on the street from wanting to talk to her.

“Yes,” she said. “Hi!” She expected the girl to ask to take a picture with her. She always said yes when asked.

“Rough week, huh?” the girl said instead. “I would not want to be you.”

Lola’s heart sank to the sidewalk. Usually, girls in their twenties told Lola the exact opposite. They were jealous of her life. They wanted to be her. But apparently, not anymore. She felt a small flame of embarrassment lick up her stomach as she tried to keep the smile firmly in place.

The girl looked Lola’s outfit up and down. “Slay, though.”

Then she turned and kept walking.

Slay, though? She blinked back tears. How could two words—two stupid words at that—be so cutting? She’d just been read to filth in a matter of seconds, and Lola was shocked by the sting of it. She’d never had an encounter with a fan like that, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many people were now out there hating her. Every time she tried to tell herself it wasn’t a big deal—that no one other than a specific slice of the internet knew what was happening—she was proven wrong.

The black Land Rover pulled up to the curb, and she felt grateful for the privacy it would give her.

“For Lola?” she asked, sliding in. She felt herself briefly relax in the dark, quiet, cold safety of the car, with its tinted windows and classical music. No Gen Z could hurt her here.

Lola’s phone started vibrating. It was Ryan, her best friend. A picture of him she’d taken at Coachella popped up, grinning at the camera, his brown curls loose in the breeze, the pink mountains and palm trees behind him, a dirty martini in his hand.

“Howdy, babe,” Ryan said.

“Hi, gorgeous,” she answered, slightly perked by his small-town Texas drawl. “Do you think slay can be used pejoratively?”

He laughed. “Definitely. Especially if it’s being used by a teenager.”

She groaned. “Why are you literally psychic?”

“It’s my gift.” She could hear him smiling on the other end. She envisioned him as he often was, puttering around his Lower East Side studio in his Free City sweats and Gucci fur loafers (“house shoes,” he called them).

“What are you doing today?”

“Equinox before work, and then I’m going to the wrinkle doctor on my lunch break,” he said. “I need to freeze my face before East Hampton.”

Lola had recently asked her own dermatologist for injections. The doctor had refused, rolling his eyes as Lola pitched the idea of “baby Botox” for her nearly invisible crow’s feet, telling her she didn’t need it—and this gave Lola a renewed appreciation for the effortless, smooth glow of youth still on her face, even while she knew the sun was rapidly setting on her twenties.

Her thirtieth birthday in September already loomed large. She had always assumed that by thirty, she’d be happier than she felt now—more confident, more excited about her life. As it was, she mostly just felt kind of bored, like she was going through the motions of what was expected of her. And at the same time, she felt a confusing sort of desperation to hold on to what she had, despite how little joy it recently brought her. She’d worked so hard to get to this place. And she’d come a long way—when she’d first started out, all she’d had was an obsessive vintage habit and a blog she’d poured her heart into that got barely two hundred clicks a month, mostly from her parents. Now she was someone who had her whole closet curated for her based on which brand cut the biggest check, with the clout to get into any fashion week event, restaurant opening, or club VIP. With millions of followers who wanted to be just like her…except, did they still?

That scathing Gen Z sure didn’t.

Regardless, she wasn’t sure who she’d be without her lifestyle and the many, many people who followed it. When you stripped Lola Likes away from Lola Fine, you were left with just…fine. And Lola hadn’t worked this hard to be just fine .

“Don’t get too much Botox,” she said. “You’re perfect as is.”

“Exactly. I’m trying to maintain it. Listen, will you please reconsider coming to the Hamptons with me this summer? You are the only bitch in NYC who would say no. Giancarlo didn’t leave me his house keys and car so that I could drink rosé alone.”

She laughed. Ryan was a publicist at the Lede Company, and Giancarlo was one of his wealthiest clients. His Hamptons home would be, without a doubt, stunning beyond reason.

“So there’s part of me that does want to, but I really feel like it’s important for me to be here for the next few months. Plus, I can’t leave Justin for that long, and you know how he feels about going east instead of west.” Her boyfriend, Justin, was from LA too and took every opportunity he could to go home and see his family. Whenever she asked him about going to the Hamptons, he always countered with, “Why not Santa Barbara?”

It was a fair question, but it made her bristle. She loved her family—and his too, for that matter—but something about going back home always made her feel like she was going backward in time. Her life was here. New York was here.

Lola examined her nails. They were almond shaped and freshly painted with her go-to shade, Ballet Slippers. Simple but still a statement, just like the delicate heart tattooed along the side of her right pointer finger.

“You say that every year,” Ryan sighed. “You need to get your FOMO checked by a doctor.”

It was true. Lola hated leaving New York. But she feigned innocence. “Do I?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t come with me even if you weren’t canceled.”

Lola bristled, though Ryan was the only one allowed to joke with her about the fate she’d recently brought upon herself.

The Uber was on the bridge now, and the crisp Manhattan skyline cut across the clear blue sky, looking like a still from a rom-com.

“Yeah, but now I really mean it,” she said. “I can’t come. Plus, Justin and I have that Capri trip in July.”

“Y’all’s life,” he sighed. “I wish I had a Justin to go to Capri with.”

“Maybe you’ll find one in the Hamptons.”

Ryan had a never-ending stream of gorgeous lovers, but like many people who hadn’t become confident until later in adulthood—he’d grown up chubby and been incessantly bullied for it—he had trouble committing to any of them. His fitness addiction and the attention it brought him didn’t help the fact.

“Girl, I doubt it!” he yelled, loud enough that Lola had to pull the phone away from her ear. “There are no gorgeous Black doctors out East. The Hamptons are full of WASPS and wannabes. That’s why I need you with me. You, me, and this perfect Nancy Meyers cottage. What could be better?”

“Maybe I can come out for a weekend,” she conceded, and she could sense his eye roll. “I just feel like if I’m not here, who is going to fix things?”

“Is there anything I can do? To help rehabilitate your image?”

Lola sighed. “I wish.”

“I still maintain it wasn’t a big deal. And I was there.”

“I know.”

The day her life fell apart, Lola had been on Instagram live while she and Ryan tried on clothes at a trendy new boutique in Nolita. Salesgirls were plying them with glass after glass of chilled champagne until the clothes and the bubbles and the smell of her perfume left her smiling and dizzy. Lola had connected her iPhone to the speakers and was playing her favorite early-2000s pop playlist while clothes, bags, and shoes piled up around them. Everything she and Ryan did together felt like a movie montage—a whole party broken into dazzling still images and open-mouthed laughs—and this had been no exception.

As Lola swirled back to the changing room in a particularly flowy maxi dress, Ryan had handed her a serious-looking olive-green pantsuit. It was not her usual style at all. She tended to lean boho, kind of a 1970s-rock-star vibe; a Zillennial Daisy Jones, as her followers often pointed out. But Ryan had insisted. “You’re legally obligated to try on the most expensive thing in here,” and she found that idea so funny, she couldn’t resist. She was also more than a little buzzed.

She came out of the dressing room in the suit, her body swallowed by the aggressive structure of the straight-leg trousers and oversized blazer.

“Oh, Lola,” Ryan gasped, putting his champagne down. “Mother is really mothering.” He held the phone pointed at her so her fans could see. Ryan was always pushing her to be edgier in her fashion decisions; sometimes she trusted him, and other times she wasn’t sure if he was just messing with her for a laugh.

“Really?” She turned around, doubtful, looking at her ass over her shoulder. It was hidden beneath the blazer—a shame, given it was usually the star of the show.

“Lola no likes?” he asked.

The words that ruined everything left her mouth before she even gave them a second thought: “It’s just very lesbian chic, I think.”

From the look on Ryan’s face—panic—she instantly knew she’d messed up.

She tried to correct: “Not that that would be a bad thing! I just feel like, this suit? It’s, like, very menswear inspired. Which is great. It’s just not really me. It’s almost giving Ellen.”

“Not it’s almost giving Ellen ,” Ryan whispered, equal parts amused and horrified. “Girl, we’re still live.”

“No, wait, I love when people are lesbian chic. It’s such a good look,” Lola said, becoming flustered and starting to sweat, the suit all of a sudden feeling heavy and hot, claustrophobic. “It’s literally chic. Lesbian chic. It’s just not my look .” She wondered how many times she was going to say the words “lesbian chic” before someone stopped her.

She hated that she couldn’t see the comments as they rolled in, but she already knew in her heart what they would say.

“I love all gay people! I’m here with Ryan! My best friend! Who is gay!”

Ryan groaned, laughing. “ Lo la.” He slid to the floor.

“Okay, that’s it for now! See you guys later!” She’d grabbed the phone and ended the livestream. “Shit.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan said, nearly hyperventilating with nervous laughter.

“Will you tell me what they’re saying?” She whispered, giving him back her phone.

“Gird your loins,” he sighed.

She held her hands over her face.

“Okay, I’m in your DMs. Here we go. Why do you hate lesbians? Why are you so homophobic? Yikes, y’all. Everyone needs to calm the fuck down. I’m not reading you all of these. Sorry. Oh, wait, here’s a good one: it says, Lola I WISH you were a lesbian! And this one says, Show me your feet. See? Not all bad.”

Her hands still over her face, Lola said, “Is lesbian chic an offensive phrase?”

“Not objectively, my dear, but we live in strange times,” Ryan said.

Over the course of the next day, Lola lost twenty thousand followers.

The comments on her posts devolved into heated arguments over who is allowed to say what.

The boutique got in on it too, captioning a photo of a model in the suit IT’S JUST VERY LESBIAN CHIC. It got around seventy thousand likes, while the boutique itself only had twelve thousand followers.

The top pinned comment on the post was Not it’s almost giving Ellen!

As she lay in bed scrolling through the damage, even Lola had to laugh at that—it was brilliant marketing—though she was also weeping with embarrassment. It was such a fine line between being popular on the internet and being the main character. And you never, ever wanted to be the main character.

The suit sold out within hours, and the brand announced it would be donating 100 percent of the profits to the Trevor Project.

Her team called an emergency meeting the next day.

“We can fix this,” her manager, Todd, had promised her.

“I’m so sorry,” she’d said for the hundredth time. “I didn’t realize that it was a problematic thing to say.”

“It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t,” Todd said. “It’s about perception.”

“Can’t I just match the donation to the Trevor Project?” she asked.

“You should definitely do that,” Todd said. “But that’s just the beginning.”

It was her publicist’s idea to pitch a profile to Aly Ray Carter.

ARC, as her friends and fans called her, was famously stylish, intimidatingly smart, and deeply well-respected. An entire generation hung on her every word. A freelancer, Aly wrote for The Cut , Vanity Fair , Vogue , even the New York Times Magazine , where she penned scathing runway critiques and brilliant cultural commentary. She was often coining new phrases that were quickly adopted into the lexicon—things like STF , which stood for secret trust fund , to call out the way some influencers so obviously lived above their means, and Bushwick University to describe how everyone in a certain part of Brooklyn appeared to be eighteen. Aly’s catchphrases were often printed on T-shirts and sold by The Cut , though Aly was not big on social media, so it was unclear if she understood her own impact.

She was also a nepo baby but had been so open about it that no one could use it against her. Her parents were both editors, her dad high up the masthead at a tech magazine and her mom an executive in book publishing. If anything, Lola thought, this made Aly more alluring—hailing from a long line of tastemakers.

If ARC could write something generous about Lola, it would turn things around. All Lola had to do was make a good impression, something she’d been trying to do in various capacities her whole life.

Besides, the fact of the matter was that Lola was not homophobic. She’d grown up loving and loved by LGBTQ+ people, had only ever lived in places where the queer community was thriving and visible, a regular part of her life. The phrase lesbian chic did not have negative connotations for her.

But according to her audience and subsequently her team, it was not her phrase to use, and a Notes app apology post would not do. Which was how she got here, in an Uber on the first truly hot day of the year, hoping Aly Ray Carter might feel like saving her career.

There was a reckless voice in her head urging her to skip the interview altogether and ride the wave of scandal into obscurity. Maybe she could just start over. If she was honest with herself, that didn’t sound half-bad. But then again, if she was really honest with herself, if she had been all along, she wouldn’t have said yes to the series of deals that launched her into the stratosphere in the first place. Honesty would mean admitting that the more successful she became, the further away she got from her reasons for wanting to do all this. She had never wanted to take photos of herself for a living. But here she was, known for it.

And anyway, the louder part of her was more logical than that. There would be no point in throwing away what she’d built.

“I love you,” Ryan said on the phone. “Good luck. God, it’s such a classic publicist move to get a lesbian journalist to profile you.”

“But also kind of brilliant, right?”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s what I would do too. Tell ARC I say hi.”

“Does she know who you are?”

“I mean, I wish? God, she’s cool. Those Tom Ford sunglasses kill me.”

“Agreed.” Lola smiled, knowing exactly the ones he was talking about. “She’s like, very…” Lola trailed off, searching for the right word. “Hot.”

“Oh, she’s, like, the hottest hot person ever. Total heartbreaker too. The stories I have heard would make your blood run cold.”

“Yeah?” Lola was suddenly and inexplicably curious to know which hearts Aly had broken—and when and why and how.

Just then, the car pulled up to the restaurant.

“Tell me after. Love you.”

“Be careful what you tell her,” he added quickly. “She’s famously a Scorpio.”