Page 22 of Hotter in the Hamptons

When Lola woke up, it was dark out, and Justin was gone.

She turned the bedside light on. His closet door was open. Inside, a single velvet hanger swung. Otherwise, it was empty.

She sat up.

Had he taken all his things while she slept?

She made her way into the hallway. His photos were gone from the wall. She went to his office. It was surprisingly cluttered. Upon further inspection, she realized he hadn’t taken anything with him, just moved it all in here.

In the kitchen, there was a note on the island.

I’ll come back and get all my stuff when you’re not here , it read in Justin’s perfect blocky handwriting. Sorry to leave while you’re asleep. Easier this way. Let me know when to come by. I love you.

She sat down on a stool, put her hands in her face, and sobbed.

Not because she regretted anything. She knew this was the right thing for both of them. She cried because she knew it was definitely, absolutely over. Even if they weren’t meant for each other, she was really going to miss him.

She already did.

When she couldn’t cry anymore, she took out her phone.

Might as well just get everything over with.

Can we talk? she texted Aly.

She wanted to hear Aly’s voice while she explained to her why she so desperately needed to be alone right now. She owed it to her. She owed it to herself too. What happened between them was meaningful. It was maybe one of the most meaningful experiences of Lola’s life. She wanted to end it in a way that honored its importance. If she couldn’t do it in person—couldn’t simply walk over to Aly’s Hamptons house and ring the doorbell—talking on the phone would have to do.

She thought of everything that had transpired between them. The interview, that electric first meeting. The betrayal of the article. The shock of Aly next door. Them fighting all around East Hampton. And then the anger and tension giving way to something new. Lust. Affection. Love. Aly pressing her against the wall. Aly’s hands all over her. Her hands all over Aly. The way touching Aly felt so different from anything she’d ever experienced but also so intuitive, like she was born to do it. Aly’s dark moods settling in like a storm, then lifting, replaced by that wisecracking grin that made Lola swoon. Aly driving, Aly cooking, Aly asleep beside her.

Was she really ready to let it all go?

She was.

Because Aly was amazing. But she wasn’t Lola’s person. And Lola didn’t want to be in another five-year relationship with someone who wasn’t right for her, no matter how good it felt moment to moment. It would be selfish to do that to someone again. Besides, Lola didn’t need another person. She needed herself.

Aly replied: So you’ve made up your mind about us.

Lola groaned. She really wished Aly could be slightly less Aly-like sometimes. I would really like to talk to you , she wrote. This isn’t the kind of thing I want to text about.

Within a few seconds, Aly said, And that’s my answer.

Lola didn’t know what to say. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Before she could text back anything, Aly sent, Have a nice life, Lola.

For a second, Lola wondered if she was going to cry some more. Instead, she started laughing.

It was just so fucking ridiculous. And childish. It told her everything she needed to know about her decision: mainly, that it was the right one. Often, the way people act in a breakup justifies the breakup itself, she knew.

When she settled, she wrote, This is such a stupid way to end things, but if that’s what you want, fine. I hope you have a nice life too. Thanks for changing mine. I’ll never forget you.

Aly didn’t respond.

Lola didn’t expect her to.

So that was that. Nearly three months of falling in love, over with a text. It stung, even while she knew it was for the best. Aly might have been the best sex of her life—yes, she thought, even better than Justin—but it came at a cost, and that cost was that she also made Lola feel insane.

You don’t end up with a person who makes you feel insane, she thought. You sleep with them until it’s no longer fun, and then you get out while you still can—hopefully with your dignity intact.

She was a new Lola. She knew how she deserved to be treated. There would be no going back.

***

The next day, Lola started making clothes.

When the puffed-sleeved polka-dot dress was done, she moved on to the seventies maxi dress with long bell sleeves and orange flowers, which she turned into a mini dress and added lace trim. When that was done, she dove into her closet, pulling out sweaters she hadn’t worn in years and pinning them into different shapes, finally deciding to cut them up and make a long, patchwork cardigan.

She left the house once to go to the art store, where she bought fabric paint and brushes, stopping at her favorite bodega for an iced black coffee and an egg-and-cheese bagel. God, how she’d missed a good, greasy egg and cheese. She ate it while she walked back to the apartment, grease on her chin and her mouth in a wild grin. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue, the birds chirping madly in leafy, green trees, the traffic a thrilling cacophony of honking and shouting. She was home, and everything felt new. Like she’d been flipped inside out and could feel for the first time again, nerve endings exposed. She was raw, stripped bare, totally vulnerable, and absolutely, completely alive.

She peered directly into the faces of everyone who walked by, filled with curiosity. Who were they? What were they like? What did they dream about? Who did they love? Some people smiled at her, and others averted their gaze, but it didn’t matter. There was promise and potential everywhere.

She was, for the first time in a long time, coming unstuck.

When she got home, she took out the vintage overalls and began painting an intricate floral pattern up one of the legs: a pale green tendril with delicate leaves and bright pink flowers.

She lay her creations around her apartment on display.

She knew if anyone were to walk in, they would think she was having a manic episode. But they’d be wrong. Lola had never felt more sane in her life.

She tried everything on, taking a picture in the full-length mirror of each one. Then she texted them in a batch to Ryan.

What do you think?

I think you’re a little rusty , he replied.

Oh my god , she responded, but she was laughing as she texted, You’re so mean.

Sorry!!! he replied. I like that you’re doing this. Honestly. I really think this is what you’re meant to be doing. Proud of you bb.

She sighed.

Maybe she was rusty. It was always hard to tell the actual quality of her own creations because she loved them too much to be objective. But it was possible she had a lot to learn. She could see that.

She opened her laptop and pulled up the Fashion Institute of Technology website. Maybe, she thought, she could sign up for some classes. Brush up on her skills. Get back in the weeds of fabrics and designs.

Or maybe, instead of dabbling in classes here and there, she could enroll in a proper certificate program. Actually learn something all the way through, become an expert at it. Do it for real. FIT offered certificate programs in Haute Couture, Draping Techniques, Pattern Making, and more.

If Lola was being honest with herself—something she was too scared to be in the past—nothing had ever sounded more interesting. She wanted to learn all of it.

And then perhaps someday she could launch a line of dresses. Not as a collaboration with Shopbop nor even as Lola Likes but as herself. Lola Fine. A bona fide designer. Maybe eventually she could open up a little boutique somewhere downtown or even in Brooklyn, where she’d display her dresses and tailor pieces for clients in the back. Eventually, she’d show at NYFW or maybe even Paris instead, where all the cool brands were heading these days.

Instead of getting paid to wear clothing other people designed, she could get paid for other people to wear her designs.

Maybe someday when she was an accomplished, world-famous designer in her fifties, with a short, gray bob and tortoiseshell glasses, she’d get hired to be the creative director at a luxury heritage brand, putting her stamp on something that would be seen and worn by millions of people.

Lola had never bothered to try to picture herself at midlife.

Imagining it now made her feel tingly all over.

***

A few days later, she decided it was time, at last, to face her followers.

She couldn’t hide from them forever.

Wearing her dress made from the Gucci scarf and polka-dot shift dress, she sat at her desk and turned her ring light on. She placed her phone on its stand. She didn’t have a plan, but maybe, she thought, as she opened Instagram, that was good. Maybe she should just speak from her heart and not try to curate the truth.

She hit the little icon to post and then toggled over to LIVE.

Her face was reflected back to her, a nervous gloss of sweat on her forehead, her skin still tan from the summer. Behind her, her office was a chaotic mess.

She watched as ten people joined, then twenty.

“Hi, guys,” she said. “I’ll just wait for more people to get here.”

She picked at her nails as she watched the count go up and up. When there were two hundred people watching, she started to talk.

“I totally understand why you all canceled me,” she began.

Five hundred people now. Then six hundred. She forced herself to stop watching the number.

She continued. “I said something problematic. I deserved the criticism. If we can’t criticize each other, there’s no point to community, to any of this. I’m glad that I was given the opportunity to learn that what I did was wrong, and I’m even glad there are consequences to doing the wrong thing. I don’t want to live in a world where people can say offensive things and not be held accountable.” She took a breath. “Of course, I didn’t imagine my life would fall apart in the way it did.” She laughed nervously, briefly wondering if this was a mistake, but willed herself to keep talking. “Just for context, my boyfriend ended up leaving me. My team put me on pause. I thought my life was over. I didn’t know who I was anymore. But when I started thinking about it, the truth is that I haven’t known who I am for a long time.”

She paused. A series of hearts fluttered up from the comments.

“The most unexpected part of all this was that after my life fell apart, I fell in love. With a woman. With the specific woman who called me out for losing myself. I’m sure you all read her article. What Aly wrote about me was true: I stopped standing for anything. I stopped being myself. And because she saw me, like really saw me, I fell for her. And what we had this summer was beautiful.

“But that experience is not my identity. I don’t know what my identity is. It sucked to have our relationship leaked on the internet, because it robbed me of the chance to define it for myself first. I would really appreciate you guys giving me some grace here. I don’t know if I’m bisexual or queer or just a straight girl with really good taste in women. But whatever the case, I think I deserve the right to figure it out away from scrutiny.”

She paused, not wanting to get too upset. More hearts popped up from the comments. There were suddenly 10k people watching. She swallowed and then kept going.

“But I guess what I’m trying to say is that who I am is more than who I’m dating. And I’ve put off figuring that out for a long time. I hid myself in relationships and brand deals, and I lost sight of what I want and what makes me happy.”

She felt suddenly like she was going to cry and blinked back the tears before continuing.

“Listen. Being loved is great. I was loved by someone for five years, and it was the best. And I was loved by all of you for so long. But ultimately love and adoration and money and brand deals and likes don’t make you who you are. That’s not enough to sustain a person. What sustains you is the fire inside you. And you need to keep that fire lit whether you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend or a million followers or one. My problem was I let that fire die. I forgot who I was. And I’ve decided that the only way to find myself is to be alone for a while. Otherwise, I think I’ll just keep distracting myself with what other people want from me.”

She imagined Aly hearing this. She hoped she would.

“I don’t know if my life is supposed to be about sponsored content and brand deals. All I know is it stopped feeling meaningful. And I know that it’s an incredible privilege to say that about something so lucrative. But it’s the truth. I started to feel empty, and I don’t want to live that way anymore. I want to do something creative. Something fulfilling. I feel like I’m starting over. We should all be so lucky as to get fresh starts sometimes, I think. So that’s what I have to say. If you’re all cool with it, I would love to start posting again as I figure out this new chapter of my life. But if not, I guess you’ll let me know. Thanks for listening to me ramble. I hope this made sense. I hope that if you’ve experienced something similar, you feel less alone.”

She wasn’t sure how to sign off, so she simply ended the livestream.

Within seconds, her DMs started filling up.

But she felt afraid to read them. She didn’t want to hear people yelling at her, telling her what she’d done wrong this time. So she simply flipped her phone over and went to bed.

***

Lola woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating on her nightstand, a jarring, loud buzz.

She squinted at the screen as her eyes focused. It was a little after 8:00 a.m. Ryan was calling. He never called her this early.

Which meant someone was dead or in trouble. Her heart started pounding with fear.

“What’s wrong?” she picked up. “Are you okay?”

He laughed. “Girl!”

Okay, so no one was dead. Then why the early call? “Oh my god, what ?”

“They love you,” he said.

“Who?” She got out of bed and opened the curtains. Light filled the bedroom.

“Everyone.”

She felt a rush of bright, glittering hope in her stomach, putting him on speaker as she pulled up Instagram.

There were too many notifications for her to understand what was happening—likes, tags, follows, DMs, all of it.

“Can you give me a quick summary of what the fuck is going on?”

“Your confession last night was recorded and shared to TikTok,” he said. “The youth have declared you iconic and uncanceled. Oh, and you’re Mother again.”

“Oh my god,” she said, the gravity of this finally hitting her. “They forgive me?”

“They more than forgive you, babe. They stan an authentic bicurious queen. They think you slayed your comeback. They love you. And I watched your video, so I know being loved by strangers is not the point. But isn’t it a little exciting?”

“No, it’s very exciting,” she laughed. “I’m still me.”

She looked out over Soho, bustling with rush-hour traffic. There was a whole world out there just waiting for her.

“A new version of you, though,” he said. “Lola 2.0. Look through all your shit and then call me back. We need to celebrate.”

She was too overwhelmed to properly examine her notifications. There were too many. Instead, she went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee while she microwaved a bowl of oatmeal. Then, as she sat at the table and slowly ate her warm breakfast, she opened her email.

Her inbox, as usual, was a stressful disaster of press releases and newsletters. But there at the top were three messages that caught her eye. The first was from Todd, her former manager.

Great video, Lola. I think the clients are going to love this rebrand. Let’s talk.

She rolled her eyes.

Fucking Todd.

The next was from Veronica, her publicist.

Lola Fine!!!! You are literally so major. We’re all obsessed with what you said live last night. I’ve already gotten a mountain of NYFW invites for you. Are you still out east, or can I have someone deliver them to your apartment? Can’t wait to get back to work. I think a comeback profile in the Times style section would kill. Or a spot on Tinx’s podcast. Something big. Call me.

Lola perked up at the idea of NYFW invites but then felt annoyed. Veronica only wanted a piece of her when things were going well.

The third email was from… Her breath caught. Colette Boucher. The Colette. Aly’s Colette. Lola’s heart was pounding. She forced herself to read slowly enough to take in the words.

Dear Lola,

I was so moved by what you said last night. I think it’s great that you’re taking the narrative back. But more urgently, I loved what you were wearing. Clearly vintage, clearly reimagined. I’d know your style anywhere. Which brings me to why I’m emailing you. I’m going on a book tour next month and having a total clothing crisis. The book is about climate change, so I think it would be a really bad look to buy new clothes for it. I was wondering if you’d be willing to style me, using only vintage and secondhand clothes. Of course, I’ll pay you whatever you want. I think we could have fun. I already checked with Carter, and she’s fine with it. She thought it was a great idea. Also, I just wanted to add, don’t worry about her. She’ll come around. She has a pathological need to be friends with all her exes. Just give her some time. Anyway. Let me know what you think. I’d die to work with you on this.

xx Colette

“Oh my fucking god,” Lola said out loud to her empty kitchen.

Her team reaching out was not surprising. They were a bunch of absolute vultures. But Colette? Wanting to work with her? Wanting to be styled by her no less? That was definitely not on Lola’s bingo card. Colette was potentially the chicest, most intimidatingly hot girl Lola had ever met. And she wanted Lola’s eye for her style? Lola was pretty sure nothing had ever been so validating. The email didn’t even sound like Colette. The xx sign-off? Insanity. Like an alien had hijacked Colette’s brain. Unless…maybe how she’d acted on Fire Island was just a front. Or maybe she had been so triggered by seeing her ex with another straight woman that it brought out the worst in her. Lola had room to forgive Colette for being mean at first—especially after an email like this.

The part about Aly didn’t hurt either. She hoped it was true, that someday they could be friends. That Aly would want that.

She finished her breakfast and retreated to her office. Important emails, she felt, needed to be composed on a laptop, not a phone, which she knew made her more millennial than Zillennial, but she was fine with that distinction.

She opened a new email, adding Todd and Veronica and her agents. There was no need to write them back individually, not when she essentially had one thing to say to all of them.

Hi guys , she wrote. She was smiling as she typed, sitting up straight. This was going to be so deeply satisfying. Please feel free to fuck all the way off . She immediately deleted everything. Too mean. To whom it may concern. Nope, she thought, deleting that too. Too formal. What up, bitches! I hope you all rot in hell! Too insane.

She deleted it and started over, taking a few deep breaths and trying to think of what a normal person might write in this situation.

Hi everyone,

Thanks for reaching out. I appreciate your support. However, I’ve decided to manage myself moving forward. I’m taking on a personal styling client and going back to school. Your services are no longer needed, but I wish you all the best.

There. That was it. Nice, formal, and just a little bit cunty. She didn’t need to burn bridges, but she did need them to know she was thriving without them.

After she hit Send, she went back to Colette’s email.

I’m so happy to hear from you , she wrote, not deleting anything this time, because she knew exactly what she wanted to say. I would be honored to work on this with you. Let me know a good time to connect. I’m back in the city and stoked to get started.

For the first time in a long time, everything she was doing felt right.

She couldn’t wait to see what would happen next.