Page 10 of Hotter in the Hamptons

It took Lola a moment to realize that the sound of waves crashing on the sand was coming from the actual ocean outside her window and not from her favorite white-noise soundscape on the Calm app.

She opened her eyes and smiled. As if to greet her, a nearby seagull squawked loudly.

Sunlight streamed through the white linen curtains. She felt good—much better than yesterday. She stretched her arms over her head, shaking free of the blankets that were now a tangled mess around her ankles. Three orgasms plus ten hours of sleep had done the trick. Her hangover was gone. She grabbed a cotton waffle robe from the dresser, wrapping herself in it.

Ryan was in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the news on his phone.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps and then grinned as he assessed her. “I’m sorry, I’m looking for my friend Lola? I don’t know if you’ve seen her.”

“Lola?” she murmured, floating to the coffee maker. “Hmm, sounds familiar, but no, I don’t think so. I am Lo la , lady of the vacation home.” The coffee steamed thickly as she poured it into a mug and then drowned it with half-and-half.

“Yes, bitch,” Ryan squealed. “You are so back. What happened? You look refreshed and amazing .”

“I had a really nice night with myself.” She smiled into her mug. It wasn’t just the orgasms; it was the anger she’d unleashed on Aly. It had felt really good to yell at her. Cathartic. Suddenly she wasn’t carrying around all the dead weight of resentment. She was, for the moment, liberated. She should really yell at people more often. “Oh, and I have something to tell you.”

“Spill.”

“I was right .”

He put his phone down and arched a waxed brow at her. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Our neighbor.”

He thought for a second, then gasped. “No!”

“Yes. Aly Ray fucking Carter, next door to us for the whole summer.”

She was savoring this. Her run-in with Aly might not have been a delight, but letting Aly have it—and getting to gossip with Ryan about it now—absolutely was. At the very least, she was vindicated.

“How do you know?” His voice came out frantic, somewhere between panic and laughter.

“I went over there to introduce myself. With a bottle of wine. That I then dropped on my foot.” She held her bandaged foot out for him, and he recoiled. “It was a whole thing. Anyway, that’s my story! What happened to you last night?”

“No, no, no,” he said, as she knew he would. “Sit your ass down and tell me exactly what happened, start to finish, and spare nothing.”

She laughed and did exactly that.

Well, not exactly that. Her story for Ryan ended when she left Aly’s house, not when she retreated into the depths of a hot hate-fuck fantasy in the guest bedroom.

“Girl,” he said. “Aly living next door and tending to your wound is crazy .”

“Crazy,” she confirmed.

“And what kind of journalist can afford a house out here?”

“Well, it’s her parents’ house,” Lola said. But then, not wanting to seem suspicious, she added, “But, yeah, I know. Nepo babies, right?”

“Isn’t her whole thing being, like, an antiestablishment socialist or whatever? Like, does Diet Prada know the creator of #SecretTrustFund has a secret trust fund? I feel like they should know!”

Lola laughed. “I don’t think they’d care, but I love you.”

“I’m so proud of you for laying into her,” he said. “That fucking bitch.”

And then Ryan’s face did the thing it did when he wanted to be real with Lola but was afraid of hurting her feelings—a passing frown, a pulse of the vein in his forehead.

“What?”

“Lola, listen,” he said. “Does Aly staying next door mean we’re about to spend the whole summer talking about her? Because I would die for you, but that sounds really boring to me.”

That stung a little. “Mean.”

“I’m not trying to be mean . I just really want to relax, and I don’t know if I can relax if you’re freaking out, and if she’s always twenty feet away, how are you going to not be freaking out?”

“I promise you, it’s not a big deal.” Lola lied through her teeth. “I am fine and chill. I was just excited to tell you I was right, but beyond that, who fucking cares?”

“I mean, that’s what I’m saying. She can go kick rocks in Birkenstocks.”

Lola laughed. “I think you mean old Celine slides.”

“Not you memorizing her shoes,” he groaned. “Do we hate her, or are we in love with her?”

Lola clenched her jaw. He didn’t really think she was in love with Aly; after all, she had her history of heterosexuality on her side. So there was no reason for him or anyone to think that. Especially since it wasn’t true. Definitely not true.

She changed the subject. “What do you want to do today?”

“I want to get a deep, dark base tan by the pool and play Nicki too loudly.”

Lola considered this briefly, but there was no part of her that could lie still today. She was practically vibrating with energy. “Hear me out: What about instead, we go into town?”

“Town?” he groaned. “With all the people? ”

“When did you develop agoraphobia?” she shot back.

“I just thought we would be doing a little more lying low and a little less seeing and being seen,” he said. “At least on day one.”

She pouted.

He sighed. “Okay. What do you want to do?”

Lola studied her nails. “Coffee, shopping, lunch, pool, nap, alcohol, dinner, more alcohol, maybe drugs? In that order?”

“Ambitious,” he said. “But fine. Only because I love you and I want you to have your perfect day.”

“With my perfect friend,” she replied.

“Maybe someday we can have my perfect day,” he mused.

“What would your perfect day entail?”

“Something a little more X-rated than errands on Main Street.” He grinned.

***

It was eighty degrees and sunny out, if a little chilly in the shade, but as Lola pulled clothes from her mess of a suitcase, she thought not of being comfortable but about what she’d most want to be wearing if someone important spotted her. Anyone important. Anyone she may want to impress with her city-meets-Hamptons chic look.

A SIEDRéS halter dress would do the trick. She assessed herself in the mirror, her hair still damp from her much-needed shower. With a plunging V-neck and a hemline that fell just past her ass, even Lola knew it was a lot of skin. But it was summer. Hell, she’d probably look appropriate wearing her bikini on the sidewalk.

Lola tossed her wallet into her white Jacquemus Le Chiquito bag and hesitated before leaving her phone where it lay, charging on the nightstand. She had no one to call, no emails to answer, no notifications worth checking. She was scorned, but she was free. That had to count for something. What would a day be like without her phone? She was about to find out.

She forced herself not to look at Aly’s house as she walked to the car. Be calm , she thought. Be cool. Be casual. You are a hot babe going into town. She doesn’t need to see you checking to see if she’s looking.

Still, as she slid into the passenger seat, she couldn’t help it—she snuck a peek. All she got were drawn curtains and pretty roses. If Aly was watching, it was from a vantage point Lola couldn’t see.

“Maybe she’s still sleeping,” Ryan said, reading her mind.

“Who?” Lola said, fiddling with the seat belt while Ryan rolled his eyes.

He drove them to Sant Ambroeus with the top down. Warm salt air tangled Lola’s hair, and she put the radio on, finding the local pop station. Ryan turned the volume up. It was all very dreamy. She could almost pretend that she wasn’t here to recover from the implosion of everything she loved.

“Earth to Lola,” Ryan said. “We’re here.”

He had already parked in front of Sant Ambroeus, the Southampton outpost of the trendy New York City Italian restaurant with green-striped awning against classic red brick. In the city, it was famous for its fashionable lunch crowd, iconic magazine editors picking at salads while models sipped their iced coffee. The out east location was sure to be just as fabulous.

“Sorry,” she groaned, snapping out of her daze. “I’m so spacey today!”

It was almost 11:00 a.m., and the line already snaked out the door, guests queuing for the chef-curated seasonal menu and Italian seaside vibes. Girls in vintage silk slip dresses and Chanel sunglasses held hands with their boyfriends in polo shirts, everyone looking well rested and tan and—she noted with some annoyance—in love. Men and women nuzzled into each other. The Hamptons were romantic. Just not for her.

It was a weekday, but no one was rushing off to work—this was not the place for working nor rushing. It was a place for enjoying yourself, having a glass of wine before noon, indulging in the frivolity of summer without schedules and meetings and sinking follower counts. Lola hoped the atmosphere would rub off on her soon. Despite her refreshed start, something about the Hamptons suddenly felt like an ill-fitting skin.

As they walked up, Ryan shot her a sidelong glance. “Girl, are you trying to have a nip slip before lunch?”

She looked down. Her boobs seemed to be ignoring the boundaries of the neckline, desperate to break free. They looked great, though, and she didn’t want to put them away. “You mad about it?”

“No, I love your gorgeous tits,” he said. “But you look like you’re going to the club.”

“Life’s a club,” she said. “We don’t need a reservation, do we?”

“We obviously have one.”

“God, I love publicists.” She paused, thinking of her own former team, then added, “Sometimes.”

As it turned out, Ryan had booked them not just a table but the best one, in the corner, where they could see the whole restaurant.

As soon as they sat down, though, Ryan’s phone rang. “Frozen cappuccino,” he muttered to her before picking it up. “Katherine, hi,” he said, automatically switching into his professional work voice, standing up, and mouthing sorry before walking back outside.

Alone in the restaurant, without her phone to scroll through, Lola surveyed the scene.

Conservatively dressed women as small as birds were picking at avocado toast while their children stared at screens and their gray-haired husbands talked to one another about golf. The waitstaff exchanged knowing glances across the room. The restaurant smelled of coffee and maple syrup and sunscreen. She scanned the room for familiar faces—with a sharp eye for one in particular—but came up empty.

That was when she noticed people were staring back at her. She was suddenly struck by the realization that she was not invisible. On the contrary, she was a canceled, Instagram-famous blond. Queen of the bland. Her heart sank in her chest. She wondered who around her had read Aly’s article. If they’d sent it to their friends and laughed at her. If, later today, they’d go back to their rental homes and say, “You’ll never guess who I saw at Sant Ambroeus.”

Or maybe everyone was staring at her because of what she was wearing. She felt, all at once, too large for the café. She’d wanted to look sexy and important and instead only succeeded in looking like she was trying too hard. She glanced down at her dress, how it clung to her, showed too much body. The humidity was making her hair twice its normal size, and her skin glistened with sweat. What were you thinking? she asked herself. She’d dressed for revenge—a small part of her had hoped Aly might see her and feel bad all over again—but this was no revenge outfit. She had only succeeded in humiliating herself. Again.

Had she humiliated herself last night at Aly’s too? Should she have been less of a bitch while Aly tried to patch up her foot? She wasn’t sure how she should have behaved, given the circumstances. She did feel guilty for the crack about Aly’s career. But Aly had ruined her life. Surely Lola’s one comment didn’t compare to that sort of damage. Still, she found herself wishing she’d been kinder. Maybe if she had, they could have parted as friends. Or at least as not enemies.

But why did she care if they were enemies? Aly had started all this, not her.

The waiter came. Thank god. She didn’t need to slip further into her oncoming spiral.

She ordered their drinks and added eggs, toast, and pancakes, suddenly realizing she was starving.

Ryan reappeared and not a moment too soon. “Am I dressed like an escort?” she said as he slid into the booth.

“Yes,” he said. “But sex work is work.”

She flushed with embarrassment but quickly tried to shake it off. It was not like she could change clothes at the restaurant. “How was your phone call?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said. “But I did get a text from Emmett. God, he’s so dreamy.” Lola registered this information, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the train of her own thoughts currently careening off their tracks. As though sensing that she wasn’t paying attention, Ryan sighed. “What did I miss here ?”

“Just thinking my thoughts.”

He studied her face. “You were thinking about ARC.”

“I hate that you think that.”

Their coffees came.

Lola definitely did not need more caffeine, but she downed it anyway, feeling her internal organs start to jitter. “I bet she doesn’t even come to places like this. I bet she goes to Golden Pear just to seem like a local even though their coffee tastes burnt.”

Ryan sipped his cappuccino. “You’re really putting a lot of thought into this.”

“Well, you asked!”

“It’s true. Okay, what’s the plan for later? You got invited to the Mytheresa x Flamingo Estate pop-up, right?”

Before she could answer, the waiter reappeared, holding plates piled high with steaming, salty carbs.

Ryan laughed. “Jesus, did you order the whole menu?”

“Duh,” she said.

In another life, the spread of food on the table would have made the perfect Lola Likes content. She would have captioned it “Lola likes brUNCH!” I really am bland . A more honest caption would be more like “Holding it together by a thread—but with a cornetto!!!”

She shoved a piece of whole wheat toast into her mouth, not bothering to swallow before she added, “And no, I did not get invited. Or rather I don’t know because I’m not looking at my phone right now.”

“I am sure you got invited,” he said, trying to reassure her, but she didn’t believe him. “And anyway, no one will care if you show up. Emmett will be there, and I promised him I’d stop by, so you can just be my guest, okay?”

“Fine,” she sighed. “But only if I can buy something new to wear.”

“East Hampton is your oyster,” he said. “Let’s plan to go around four, okay?”

She agreed.

***

The new Khaite store was just a couple of doors down, so they walked over after brunch. Lola felt mildly ill; she was a little too full from brunch and vibrating at a high frequency from all the caffeine. But she was determined to enjoy herself. If she couldn’t be happy shopping, she wouldn’t be happy anywhere.

Ryan held up a long, black dress, mouthing at her, Ten thousand?

So maybe the brand was a rip-off, but it didn’t matter. She had money in the bank and wounded pride to heal.

The shopgirl sat at the register, scrolling through her phone. Without looking up, she said, “Let me know if you want to try anything.”

“We will!” Lola chirped back with so much forced enthusiasm that the shopgirl tore her eyes away from the screen to peer her way.

“Lola?” she said.

Lola cringed, expecting the worst. “That’s me.”

The girl stood up. “Oh my god, you’re here! Everyone else is going to be so jealous when I tell them. We all love you. You’re the reason I moved to New York!”

“Wait, really?” Lola flushed. It had been a while since a fan was nice to her.

“Really. Let me know what you want to try on. My manager is going to be so upset she missed you.”

Ryan gave her an encouraging smile, and she grabbed a pale-yellow jersey dress.

“This feels very me.”

“Lola likes!” Ryan sang. “Try it.”

She stripped down in the small dressing room, kicking the halter dress to the side and tugging the high-end piece over her head. It fell softly down the length of her body, the buttery fabric the color of lemon ice cream. That’s more like it , she thought, pulling back the curtain. The only thing out of place was the bandage on her foot, a painful—literally—reminder of everything that had happened.

The shopgirl and Ryan clapped. “There she is,” Ryan said.

Lola grinned. “I need it.”

“And it’s only going to be, what, seven thousand dollars? A steal. I’ll meet you outside.”

If Lola was the girl Aly had accused her of being—someone with no personal style who defaulted to whatever clothing brands were paying her to wear and post about—she would not have bought this dress. She would have emailed a PR girl and asked for a freebie in exchange for some promotion. She would’ve even consulted the company about what color they were trying to push for the season, maybe even curated what would look best on her Instagram grid. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She refused to be. She was her own person, who could make her own decisions, starting with this ridiculous splurge on a yellow dress that she just simply liked .

Of course, even Lola knew Aly’s criticism of her ran deeper than what she was wearing and where it came from. But she had all summer to make over her soul. For now, she’d let herself focus on aesthetics.

She bought the dress, only wincing slightly as the salesgirl ran her card.

***