Page 6 of Hotter in the Hamptons

#Blandification had been trending for twenty-four hours when Lola decided getting out of bed was no longer worth it.

With Justin still in LA, her bedroom had become a graveyard of Dim Sum Go Go containers and empty Avaline wine bottles. The curtains stayed closed. The only light she wanted to see was from her phone, which she couldn’t look away from while she festered in her Free City sweatpants.

The backlash was relentless.

On TikTok, a teenager gripping a mini microphone in front of a green screen screeched, “This is why we should all be anti-blandification!”

Another recited a list: “Here are the five blandest influencers I’m unfollowing this week.”

Someone else made a video called “A day in the life of a W-2 Girlie.”

Another video called for the death of everything Lola had recommended to them over the years—Saint James iced tea, D?EN dresses, Onitsuka Tigers sneakers.

Someone else dueted with the video and staged a funeral, dropping products into a hole in the ground.

“Miu Miu flats are dead,” the girl in the video said solemnly. “May they rest in peace.”

Time started to lose its meaning. Lola slept when she was tired. She woke up when she couldn’t deal with the nightmares anymore. She went back to sleep when the nightmare of being awake became too much.

On Instagram, people combed through Lola’s grid, commenting, Wow, I never realized how bland this all is.

And IS this the best we can do??

And Lmao she really does look like AI.

Her DMs overflowed with nasty comments from girls who, just a week ago, had hounded her for links to buy every last thing she owned.

How quickly they’d turned on her.

On the media side of things, articles were written in response to Aly’s and published in well-respected publications like Vanity Fair and The New Yorker . Lola watched as notable intellectuals engaged with Aly’s ideas. Which meant her downfall wasn’t just trending—it had become the discourse.

Even her parents, who were chronically offline, called and left a voicemail. She couldn’t bring herself to listen to it, but the transcription read “Honey, we’re worried about you. Call back when you can.”

She didn’t call them back. She was too ashamed. Their sympathy would not feel good; it would just remind her of how badly she’d failed.

Because Aly, of course, was right. About everything. Lola had become bland. She was nothing but a corporate shill. She’d lost herself in an ocean of brand deals until there was nothing about her life that really felt like hers. And now the world knew. She knew too. She couldn’t lie to herself anymore when the truth was there in print.

And she was alone in it, the shame and the failure. Every choice she’d made had brought her here. She couldn’t blame anyone—not even Aly. Aly was just good at her job.

She ignored calls from Justin. She couldn’t stand to hear him feel bad for her. Instead she let it go to voicemail and then texted sorry, napping or call you back in a sec , never following up.

After she’d been in bed for two whole days, there was a knock at the front door before she heard the familiar sound of Ryan letting himself into the apartment. “Lola,” he called and then sang, “Lolalala.”

“Bedroom,” she wailed.

Standing in the doorway, his arms full of Loops Beauty face masks and a fresh bottle of Chopin vodka, he sighed. “Oh, babe. Have we decided to just bed rot through this?”

She put a pillow over her face and groaned into it. “I’m trying to pass away.”

He sat at the edge of the bed. “No, you’re not. This will be over in three to five business days, tops.”

“No, it won’t,” she said. “Stop being a publicist, and just be my best friend.”

She grabbed a mug from the nightstand. It had a dried tea bag in it, which she plucked out and then dropped on the floor. She held the mug out to Ryan, and he dutifully filled it with vodka, a grimace on his face.

“That fucking bitch,” he said, taking a sip directly from the bottle. “I can’t believe she did this to you.”

“Did you see that blandification is still trending on Twitter?”

He rolled his eyes. “Babe, no one cares about Twitter.”

“Media people do!” she cried.

“Yeah, and who the fuck cares about media people?”

He was trying to get her to laugh with him, but she couldn’t.

“Ugh,” she said. “I just feel like the whole lesbian-chic thing could have blown over on its own. It was, like, very downtown NYC niche drama. But now it’s like…a national emergency. A national emergency , Ryan! Soon we’re all going to get an Amber Alert on our phones about it.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Have you been abducted?”

“I wish!” She put the pillow back over her face.

“Do you want to do a face mask?”

“Okay,” she said meekly into the pillow.

They were sitting next to each other in bed, face masks on, watching Love Is Blind on Lola’s laptop when Lola’s phone pinged. She reached for it, but Ryan snatched it away.

“Let me look,” he said. His face fell.

“Oh god,” she said. “Just tell me.”

“It’s Delaney Summers.”

Lola braced herself.

“She says… Fuck, are you sure you want to hear this?” Lola nodded, and he continued. “She says, ‘Thanks a lot, Lola. I was about to close on a deal with Athletic Greens and they just told my team they’re looking for someone less bland.’”

“I want to change my name and move to Japan,” Lola said.

“Unfortunately, I do think they know who you are in Japan. You have another one. Do you want me to read it?”

“Just tell me everything.”

“‘Hi Lola. I was going to buy a house for my aging parents with the money I was making from my Amazon storefront, but no one has gone to it ever since I got put on a list of the most boring influencers.’”

Lola started to cry. She didn’t hold back; she just sobbed into her hands until she got hiccups.

It was bad enough people were coming for her , but these messages meant the discourse was impacting influencers across the industry too—girls who were her friends, or at least girls she was friendly with. Everyone was being trolled, put under the microscope, criticized using this new filter Aly had designed. Lola could almost handle being the sole recipient of the internet’s rage. But the fact that she’d brought this storm down on everyone? That was unforgiveable.

“I should stop. This is too much. I’m sorry, Lola.”

“No,” she said between sobs. “I need to know what they’re saying.”

They were all mostly the same, though—influencers who had come to yell at her as though she’d done any of this on purpose.

She fell asleep with her head on Ryan’s shoulder.

When she woke up, it was 3:00 a.m., and he was gone.

She grabbed her phone, swiping past the hundreds of alerts that crowded her home screen, and then without thinking twice, she deactivated her Twitter. It hadn’t ever brought in any money anyway.

“Fuck you, Elon,” she whispered.

She got a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer. She took it back to bed and ate the whole thing before falling back asleep. The empty container slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, next to the dried tea bag.

***

Can I do anything? Justin texted. I’m so sorry I’m not there.

It was morning—or at least, morning for some people. For Lola, it was just another moment in one long endless horrible day.

No , she said.

I love you , he sent. I’ll be back in a few days.

Thanks , she replied and pulled the covers over her face.

He texted back a question mark, and she ignored it.

He texted again: Are you mad at me?

No. Just want to die.

Please don’t die , he replied. I need you.

She didn’t know what to say.

She was grieving the death of her reputation but had skipped the denial phase. She was in complete acceptance.

She wondered if all this would feel as bad if it had been written by a journalist she didn’t want to impress. But she really respected Aly. She’d thought they hit it off. She’d thought they liked each other, could maybe even become friends. She’d even thought of Aly with Justin inside her. And Aly had turned around and said the most hurtful things she possibly could. It was one thing to call her out to her face. It was another thing to declare it to the world.

Though Aly was right that Lola had lost her sense of self. She tried to remember the last time she felt truly alive, in love with what she had. It had been years. It maybe hadn’t been since the beginning of her relationship with Justin, back when she was still making her own clothes and doing her own styling. She had been making maybe an eighth of the money she made this year, but it had been more fun, hadn’t it? Hadn’t she loved digging through thrift-store bins to find the perfect pieces, refurbishing them, getting to share photos of her creations with equally passionate people online? How had she let all that slip away? Did money really matter that much to her? It was a horrifying thing to realize.

Meanwhile, Justin texted her updates from LA. His parents said hi, his sisters said hi, his friends from high school that hadn’t known Lola’s name back then said hi. He sent her pictures of palm trees and avocados and the beach. She replied with hearts, unable to muster enthusiasm for the familiar scenes of home but not wanting to hurt his feelings more than she already had.

Soon enough, Justin stopped asking her if there was anything he could do, which was a relief. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

***

One evening while she and Ryan watched Real Housewives of Salt Lake City during his now-daily post-work “Lola-life-crisis-time,” Lola joked, “What if I did a ‘get ready with me’ about getting canceled?”

He laughed.

“Or!” she said. “A day in the life of a cancelita . And it’s just me in pajamas crying.”

Ryan laughed again but then furrowed his brow.

“I don’t think you should do that,” he said.

“I was kidding,” she whined, switching the TV to Girls , a scene of Hannah and Elijah doing cocaine before clubbing filling her laptop screen.

“That’s so us, babe,” Ryan sighed fondly.

“It used to be us,” Lola said. “Now we live in bed.”

“ You live in bed,” Ryan corrected. “When I leave here, I have a whole entire life.”

He was just joking, but her eyes filled with tears. “What’s that like?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, her phone started ringing, startling them both with its loud buzz on her nightstand. “Jesus Christ,” Ryan said.

She looked at the screen. “Fuck, it’s Todd.”

“Answer it!”

“You answer it.” She put the phone in Ryan’s hand.

He answered but then gave it back to her. She sighed and held it up to her ear.

“Hi, Todd,” she said in a voice so pathetic, she should have felt embarrassed, but instead she felt nothing. She was becoming numb to her own tragedy.

She should have known better than to assume this was the worst it was going to get.

“Lola,” he said, as brusque and businesslike as ever. He did not say how are you ? He also did not say this is not a big deal. Instead, he said, “We need to talk.”

“Okay.” She put him on speakerphone so Ryan could hear.

“I just got off the phone with Shopbop.”

Fuck , she mouthed at Ryan, whose eyes went wide.

A call with Shopbop could only be about one thing: the Lola Likes Dresses contract. The thing she was the most proud of, the first line of clothing she’d ever helped design. The deal that was supposed to bring her back to her original goals of becoming a designer.

“They’ve decided to put the project on permanent pause.”

Ryan grabbed the Chopin and started chugging it.

“What the fuck does ‘permanent pause’ mean?” Lola cried.

“It means they adore you, but they don’t think you can move product.”

“What?” She was yelling now. “Of course I can move product. That’s my whole fucking thing!”

“It was your thing,” Todd corrected. “And you were great at it. You had your followers eating out of the palm of your hand. Those girls would buy whatever you told them to.”

“But now?” Lola asked, though she knew the answer.

“And now, I hate to say it, but you’ve lost your audience’s trust,” he sighed. “They want to be told what’s cool, not what’s…” He trailed off.

“Bland,” she said flatly.

“Right. Not what’s bland or basic or boring, whatever you want to call it. And you know, Shopbop is very it girl, very new, very now. They want their customers to come to them for things that are interesting.”

Tears began pouring down her face before she even registered them. “I’m not interesting enough for fucking Shopbop ,” she sobbed. “I’m not interesting enough to put my name on goddamn maxi dresses .”

She could hear Todd’s uncomfortable breathing through the phone.

Ryan squeezed her hand.

“Look, Lola,” Todd said. “I’ve always been honest with you, and I won’t stop now.”

“Obviously,” Ryan mumbled.

Todd continued. “This summer is going to be rough. There aren’t going to be a lot of deals. I don’t know how useful it is for you to have me hanging around while you ride this out.”

Next to her, Ryan’s mouth fell open.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait, wait, wait.” She had broken out into a cold sweat.

“I’m sorry, Lola,” Todd said. “I think we should put our working relationship on ice for the time being.”

“Todd, what the fuck are you talking about? We’ve been working together since I was twenty-one. You found me! You negotiated my first deal. Do you even remember?”

“Of course I remember,” he said. His voice softened. “Three posts to your grid for $250 and a pair of Birkenstocks. Man, those were the days. And look at you now! We’ve made millions together. For a lot of people, that would be enough.”

“Enough?” Lola was flabbergasted. Ryan’s mouth still hung open. “Enough as in it’s over? I should quit because I’ve made some money?”

“And look,” Todd continued, ignoring her, “we might as well get it all out there. I spoke with your agents this morning, and they think it’s best if we all take a step back.”

Lola was suddenly filled with a rage so blinding, she wasn’t sure if she could survive it. She threw her phone with all her might across the room. It dented the wall with a loud thud before falling to the floor.

“You still there, Lola?” Todd’s voice sounded tinny and faraway through the speaker. “Talk soon.” He hung up.

Ryan leapt to his feet. “That motherfucking traitor,” he spat. He began pacing around her bed, muttering to himself. How angry he was on her behalf almost made Lola feel better. Almost.

Ryan grabbed an empty Stanley cup from the floor and filled it with more vodka.

“Can you do me a favor and tell me if my phone is shattered?”

He picked it up and examined it. “Just a cute crack,” he said. “Honestly, I’m impressed you made it this long without breaking it. I can’t believe you don’t have a phone case.”

He handed over the cracked phone, and she immediately dialed her publicist, Veronica.

“Good idea,” Ryan said while it rang. He splayed across her bed and looked at the ceiling.

“Lola, hey,” Veronica said when she picked up on the third ring.

“Todd is leaving me ,” Lola said, barely getting the words out before she began to spiral. Ryan put a hand on her leg.

“He’s not leaving you,” Veronica said with a heavy sigh, and it struck Lola that Veronica sounded like she was talking to a petulant baby. “You’re just on pause.”

“Wait,” Lola said, the walls closing in on her. “You knew about this?”

Ryan covered his face with his hands.

“Look, Lola,” Veronica said. It sounded like she was walking. Where could she possibly be going? What could she be doing that was more important than talking to Lola about the death of her career? “You know I love you, but the fact of the matter is—”

Lola cut her off. “Not you too? Veronica! We took mushrooms together at Carolina Herrera Fall/Winter twenty-two! Did it mean nothing to you?”

Ryan stifled a laugh. Lola hit him with her pillow.

“Lola,” Veronica said in that same patronizing tone. “You’re still my favorite client. We’re still friends. I just can’t ethically take your money if there isn’t going to be work.”

Veronica’s retainer was $10k per month.

This fucking bitch , Lola thought. And then it hit her.

“It’s your fault that all this happened,” Lola said, her voice rising. “You were the one who wanted me to do an interview with ARC. You. Not me. You set this whole thing up. And now you’re abandoning me?”

“It was worth a shot,” Veronica said, so matter-of-fact that Lola thought she might barf. There was no apology, no remorse, no taking accountability.

“You know what?” Lola said. “You can’t put me on pause if you’re fired.”

Veronica sighed. “That’s really what you want to do?”

“You’re the worst publicist ever ,” Lola said. “I’m better off without you.”

“If that’s your final decision,” Veronica replied, and from the way she said it, Lola could tell she was relieved. Lola understood: no one would want to represent her in this state. She had nothing to offer anyone. She hung up the phone and curled into the fetal position.

“Welcome to my flop era,” she whispered.

Ryan started to pet her greasy hair but quickly pulled his hand away, barely hiding his disgust. “Babes,” he said. He was so drunk now that his words were slurring. “I have to oversee a gallery opening.”

“Now?” she wailed. “You have to leave me now?”

“You know I would never leave you. But it’s a client. It’s for work. I gotta go.”

She buried her face in the pillow.

“Maybe you could try showering while I’m gone,” he gently suggested.

“There’s no point,” she said.

“Call me if you need me,” he said.

“I do need you,” she whispered, but he was already gone.

***

It was almost noon when Lola woke up to the sounds of Justin finally getting home from LA: the front door opening and then his suitcase rolling across the floor. In the night, she had pulled all the white Parachute sheets tightly around herself, trying to mummify.

He stood in the doorway, sweat glistening on his skin. “Hi, babe,” he said. “I’m here. I’m so sorry I’ve been gone.” His face was full of concern. Then he noticed the state of the room. “Jesus Christ.” He whistled, looking at the nest of garbage around the bed. “Lola, are you okay? I tried calling you so many times. Why didn’t you pick up? Have you just been here”—he gestured at her mess—“like this , this whole time?”

“Everyone dropped me,” she wailed. “Todd, Veronica, everyone.”

His mouth hung open. “Babe, what?” He perched on the edge of the bed. “Sorry, I’d come closer, but I don’t want to get my airplane clothes on the sheets.”

She rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw stars, and then she told him about the phone calls, about Shopbop, about firing Veronica. This was not how she wanted to greet him after he’d been gone for a week. She wanted to leap into his arms and sob into his collarbone. But that kind of affection was reserved for someone who was worth loving. And she didn’t feel worth loving, not anymore.

Justin said, “Do you want to call my parents?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because Todd owes them. They’ve helped him out of way too many messes for him to just drop you like this.” He sounded furious on her behalf, which was nice.

“No, thank you, though. I don’t think that would help.”

“Okay, Lola,” he sighed. “I am just so fucking over all this bullshit.”

She lifted her head up. “Which bullshit?”

He gestured to the window, at the sprawling city below them. “New York. All these fucking pretentious assholes thinking they can say whatever they want about you. About us.”

“You mean Aly Ray Carter?”

“Yeah, I mean Aly Ray goddamn Carter. Like, how dare she? I hate her.” His hands were balled up into frustrated fists. “Who does she think she is?”

Lola sat all the way up then. “I mean, it’s not Aly’s fault. She was just doing her job.” Lola wasn’t sure why she was being put in a position to defend Aly. All this just felt very bad.

Justin was incredulous. “Her job? It was her job to say that you don’t stand for anything?”

She returned to her fetal position, whispering, “Well, she was right. That’s why it’s so devastating. She was right , Justin. What do I stand for? I’m a nothing.”

“Was it also her job to tell the world that you don’t take us seriously?”

The reality of Justin’s anger slapped her in the face. “Oh my god!” Lola cried. “That’s not what I said!”

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me? For my family?”

She put her face in her hands. This had nothing to do with what Aly said about her and everything to do with what she’d said about him —and them as a couple.

“Look, Lola,” he said, sounding like he was gearing up for a speech.

She braced herself.

“Maybe it’s time we leave all this behind.”

“Leave all this behind?”

“Maybe we should just go back to LA.”

Her heart caught in her throat. She always knew he’d say this to her someday, but she never imagined he’d say it now, like this. She didn’t want to hear it. Not yet. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“My parents offered to give us the WeHo house. That means I could take my time looking for a good job, one where I could work during the day. Maybe even open a private practice. We could start over. Have a nicer, easier life, close to family and friends who have known us forever. Don’t you want a situation that’s a little…” He searched her face. “A little kinder?”

Lola tried her best to remain composed, but she was dangerously close to having a total meltdown. She balled her hands into fists, willing herself to be calm.

If he noticed her reaction, he ignored it. “You’re almost thirty. I’m thirty-two. We’ve been together for five years. I know you told ARC that you don’t want to, but I think it’s time we start thinking about next steps.”

“Next steps?”

“I want to get married,” he said plainly. “I want to start a family. You know I do. I’ve always wanted to. And I don’t want to do it here, in this goddamn mess of a city, where we have zero family. We have an out, Lola, a way to leave all this behind and be near people who love us. Why wouldn’t we take it? This was always the plan anyway.”

She looked at his face. His gorgeous, symmetrical, flawless face. A muscle in his jaw was pulsing. His T-shirt didn’t have a single wrinkle in it. He even smelled good. He was still the man of her dreams. But the words coming out of his mouth terrified her.

He said, “Why do you think I went to LA without you?”

“To get an award?”

He shook his head. “To get my grandmother’s ring.”

Her mouth hung open. “Her ring ?” she repeated. “Her engagement ring?”

This was not how she imagined a proposal would go.

“I’m tired of our life here,” he said. “You know I am. On nights I’m off work, it’s all I can do to make dinner and collapse in bed. I’m ready for something new. Something quieter.”

She was silent for a long time. She thought about all the signs she’d missed—how burned out he was. How he wanted to stay home with her while she yearned for wild nights. How had she not noticed this growing schism between them?

Was it possible she loved New York City more than she loved him?

No, that wasn’t it. She could love them both. She could speed around on her bike and go to glamorous events and still want to come home to him. But marriage? Was it that she just wasn’t ready to settle down or that she would never want to? That she just wasn’t the type?

“I don’t want to leave New York,” she whispered.

He stared at her, confused, and then he furrowed his brow. He looked furious. “Why not?” he demanded.

“It was always your plan to leave,” she said. “Not mine.”

“You should have told me if it wasn’t what you wanted. All this time, Lola! All this time, I thought we were on the same page about our future.”

“I just don’t think my time here is over. There’s so much I want to do. And I don’t think we should get engaged just because you’re mad about what some journalist wrote.”

“You know that’s not the reason.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just really in my own head right now.”

“In your own head?” he repeated. “Lola, you are never in your own head. You are so in your body that you’ve stopped thinking. All you do is eat expensive food and wear beautiful clothes and feel the sun on your skin and have afternoon sex and go to the spa. You haven’t intellectualized one damn thing.”

She felt her skin flush, nails digging into her palms. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, backpedaling. “That was way more harsh than I meant it to be. But Aly Ray Carter was right about a few things. You’ve been doing what brands wanted for so long that you don’t even know what you want anymore. When I met you, you dreamed of being a fashion designer. Where did that girl go? I never thought you’d want to be an influencer forever. You’ve lost yourself, Lola. And now I’m giving you a chance to find yourself, and you don’t even want to take it?”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Are you trying to neg me into marrying you?”

He threw his hands up in the air. “I’m just trying to be honest with you. I know you’re not happy. This isn’t living, what we’re doing here. It’s an empty existence. You’ve always known I wanted to go back to LA eventually. I told you the night we reconnected.”

The worst part of all this was that he wasn’t off base.

Lola did feel empty. She did feel as though she’d lost herself in a sea of sponsored content and brand partnerships. But was the answer to her problems abandoning her life and becoming Justin’s housewife? Popping out a few babies and vanishing into wealth and obscurity? How would that be finding herself?

It wouldn’t be a terrible way to live, she knew. The WeHo house, which Justin’s parents currently used for rental income they didn’t need, was a mid-century modern stunner. And it would be nice to be close to both of their families.

Maybe she could delete all her social media and live completely off the grid, just a regular civilian, not ruled by the algorithm. Hell, maybe she could even throw her cell phone away and get a landline, something cute and aesthetic, like a pink rotary phone with a curly cord that she could wrap around her wrist while she talked to her mom and wandered around the first floor.

She could start wearing beige linen sack dresses and get really good at braid crowns, learn to grow herbs in their abundant garden and make hummus from scratch and maybe eventually put out a cookbook with a photo of the two of them laughing over salad on the cover. It would be called Lola Likes Greens , if the Lola Likes brand wasn’t totally dead by then. Maybe Alison Roman could develop the recipes with her. Or maybe she could resist monetizing her new gardening hobby and just be happy to do it, not try to turn it into a publicity opportunity.

And then what?

She imagined having two or three daughters—scheduled C-sections, most likely—and then having to navigate their doctors’ appointments and school schedules, their sports practices and music lessons and math tutors, their playdates and the other moms. God, those other moms, with their Land Rovers and their spray tans and the jewelry they’d wear to compete with each other at morning drop-off.

As if Lola would be able to wake up early enough to make morning drop-off.

And where would Justin be during all that? Seeing patients? Doing something that mattered while she still didn’t have a purpose?

Her heart was pounding wildly. She had broken out into a cold sweat. She tried to breathe normally, but it was getting harder and harder.

She slipped deeper into her spiral, wondering, what would she even do with herself when the kids were at school. Mend their clothes? Start drinking orange wine with two ice cubes every day at 3:00 p.m. in a big straw hat, staring at the hills?

Cut her hair into a sensible, chin-length bob?

Sign up for a pottery class just to feel something?

She had the urge to flip over all the furniture in the apartment.

She knew that other women would jump at the chance to be kept like this by Justin, to live for free and do nothing but vibe in the sunshine. She wished it were appealing to her—she really did.

But it wasn’t appealing. It was nothing short of repulsive.

It felt like admitting defeat.

She had been in Manhattan for over a decade and hadn’t become a fashion designer, the one thing she’d set out to do. The one thing she still wanted to do.

“Justin,” she said, her voice full of all the love in the world. “I don’t want to move back to LA. I’m not done here. I need to fix my shit. Just because everyone is giving up on me doesn’t mean I’m giving up on myself.”

His face fell. “So you don’t want to be with me.”

“What?” she gasped. “No, I didn’t say that.”

“If you wanted to be with me, you’d come to LA.”

“No, babe,” she insisted. “I want to be with you here. ”

But Justin shook his head. “You’ve always known this is what I wanted to do. If you aren’t ready to take the next steps with me, I think we need to reassess.”

“Reassess what exactly?” Her heart was hammering in her chest.

“Us,” he said, looking at her with huge, sad eyes, as though he already regretted what he hadn’t yet said. “Maybe we need to take a break.”

It was like getting slapped in the face. “You want to take a break ? What does that mean exactly?”

“I mean maybe we should spend the summer apart and both think about what we really want—and if what we want is each other or something else. Personally, I think I really need someone who is ready to get married and have kids. Our twenties are over, Lola. It’s getting to be that time.”

“Not you bringing up my biological clock,” she retorted. “I can’t believe you just went from wanting to marry me to wanting to take a break. It’s really all or nothing for you?”

“I want to spend the summer in LA,” he replied. “I got a visiting resident position there. You’re welcome to come with me. In fact, I wish you would—but not if you don’t want to.”

“I can’t believe you’re so willing to throw all this away,” she said.

“I am okay with this life as long as I know it’s leading somewhere,” he responded, all the fight wrung out of him, and for the first time in this conversation, she realized how sad he sounded. “I love taking care of you, because this whole time I’ve been thinking that someday you’ll be my wife. But if you’re not going to be? What is it all for, Lola?”

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t know how.

He stood up. That was when she noticed it: his suitcases were by the door.

She said, “Wait, you’re leaving right now? Did you know you’d be leaving me when you started this conversation?”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said. “I had this whole plan to fly in, propose to you, and sweep you off your feet back to LA with me. I thought it would be romantic. But I guess you’re not coming.”

“What about Capri?” she cried.

“The tickets are refundable.” He shrugged. “It’s just not the right time for us to go on a romantic vacation. Not when we don’t know what we’re doing.”

“Okay, wait. Define break ,” she said. “Will you be fucking other women? Is that what this is about?”

“I don’t want anyone else,” he said. “I want you . I want you to realize you can’t live without me. And I don’t think you can do that with me here.”

“I already know that,” she insisted.

“Sleep with other people if you need to. Personally, I don’t.” He said it so matter-of-factly, no secret meaning or hidden agenda to unpack. No tricks or we were on a break mental gymnastics to maneuver. So simple. So Justin.

And it broke her a little inside.

He walked toward the door. She felt her heart cracking in two, an actual sharp pain in her chest.

“Justin, please,” she begged.

He turned and looked at her one last time. “I love you,” he said.

“Yeah. I love you too.”

He gathered his Louis Vuitton suitcases, tossed his spring jacket over his shoulder. He put his pristine white sneakers on, crouching to tie the laces as tight as they’d go. And then he left.

Lola wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She was too angry.