Page 15 of Summer Skate

CARTER

I T ’ S PITCH-BLACK OUTSIDE AND WE ’ RE CRAWLING on the highway, inching along on the trail of cars trying to get from Southampton to Montauk.

I’m drumming my hands against the steering wheel, trying to keep it together, but after four straight days of weight training at the Southampton Gym, I’m raring to go, to have some fun. So is JT.

“Come onnnnnnn ,” he says.

I jerk my car to the right and start driving on the shoulder. If anyone has a problem, we’ll get out of it. The Rangers’ head of security, a former NYPD chief, gave me a card and said: “If you have any issue on the East End, call this number.”

JT turns to Harps. “Tonight . . . is the beginning of your downfall.”

“I doubt it,” he replies, says nothing more.

JT looks at me. “I was impressed with your political moves last weekend.”

“The Hamptons, man,” I say. “You fuck around with some girl named Barbara and next thing you know, you’re having breakfast with two former presidents.”

“I still don’t believe you didn’t say anything stupid.”

“We mostly talked about hockey.”

“That’s convenient. You know what? I trust you in that situation. I trust you with political dignitaries . . . You make a good first impression. I worry more about your seventh impression.”

“I’m not seeing Barbara seven times.” Under my breath, I say: “I could barely drive to Amagansett with her.” JT laughs.

We ride the shoulder for miles on 27, the two-lane highway connecting the entire East End of Long Island. We drive to some dark part of Montauk, end up at a club, its name, DREAM EAST, lit up in neon blue.

When we get inside, the electronic music is thumping and the bottle service girl that JT has been texting is standing in the crowd, somewhat near the entrance, eager for him to arrive.

He goes up to her and she whispers something into his ear.

They head straight to the bathroom to blow lines.

We might not see him for the rest of the night.

There’s a VIP table in the back waiting for us.

A few pretty girls are sitting on a velvet couch.

I get introduced to a girl wearing a thick diamond choker and a yellow dress.

Every strand of her long hair appears to be a different shade of blonde.

A silver bracelet is halfway up her arm, gripping just below her elbow.

On both wrists are stacks of colored beads, along with a watch that looks expensive.

“I’m Charlotte,” she says.

She’s awfully dressed up for a club in a surf town. As we talk, she cocks her head to the side, lifts her chin when she laughs. It’s as if she’s posing for photos that aren’t being taken.

“I hear you’re going to play for the Rangers!” she yells over the music.

“Yup.”

“What a dream come true!” she says. “You must be so excited! I’ve heard you’re a bit of an instigator. Or is it an agitator? What do they call it?”

I smile. “The life of the party.”

She nods. She is all cheer, so much cheer that I fear I don’t really need to be there.

She is really getting into the music. She knows exactly what to do.

It feels a little rehearsed. Her friends dance with her.

They are holding hands and taking photos.

Selfies. Videos. TikToks. They ask me to take some and one of them instructs me to hold the camera up high.

I take a bunch as they change the tilt of their heads and smooth their hair and adjust their arms—hands on hips, peace signs, pursed lips.

The longer I stand there taking photos, the happier they become.

They yell out compliments, tell me what an excellent Insta-boyfriend I would make.

I hand the phone back, and Charlotte eagerly scans the photos but seems to have mixed feelings about the results.

While they evaluate, JT comes up to me. He looks completely waxed.

Gone . I don’t know what the fuck has happened to him in the past half hour.

“Do you know who that girl is?” he whisper-screams into my ear.

“No. Who is she?”

“That’s Charlotte Chapman. Her dad is the CEO of Chapman Smith. She’s a model and an influencer and a billionaire’s daughter.” He widens his eyes at me. “You do the math.”

I raise my eyebrows and I do.

He takes out his phone, looks up her Instagram.

He hands it to me. @caratsandcashmere . I find out that Charlotte is a girl hawking diamond-encrusted cashmere sweaters.

Charlotte is a girl who owns a store in the West Village.

Charlotte is a girl who attends a lot of flower-filled dinner parties at long tables with her name written in script on the menu.

I look at her latest photos. A picture of a sunset.

The most magical place. Grateful . A bowl of pasta and a glass of wine.

Dinner and dancing every night and lots of gelato!

Incredibly happy. #TomatoMartiniSummer .

Italian flag. Pasta emoji. A video of her hair being blown out, followed by a close-up of a handbag.

So grateful . A piece of fish and a bowl of mashed potatoes on a dark plate.

Home away from home . A picture of herself in a body suit in a bathroom mirror.

Best most exhausting weekend but so fulfilled .

A shot of her in a bathing suit with two other girls.

All three of them are wearing the same sunglasses.

They’re all posed the same way, arched backs, chins up, lips pursed, leaning into each other like swans.

à la mer . French flag. Croissant emoji.

“What did you learn?” JT asks, taking his phone back.

“She’s very grateful.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

She drags me onto the dance floor.

“The summer is flying by,” she screams into my ear. “ Flying . We live by the beach. Do you like the beach? I love the beach. And my family! I just adore my family. They’re like my rock. The most loyal, supportive, loving family I could ever ask for.”

I stand there as she takes numerous selfies with me, turning her face in different directions and changing the position of her lips. She will do anything to get a good shot. She is shameless. It’s my business , she is prepared to say to anyone who might question it.

Her friends approach her. They convince her to leave. There’s another party. I’m surprised by her sudden departure. As a consolation prize, she tells me that they’re going to Sunset Beach tomorrow night.

“What’s Sunset Beach?” I ask.

“ What’s Sunset Beach? ” She laughs. “Oh my god, you have to come! It’s a restaurant-slash-bar-slash-hotel on Shelter Island. You’ll love it. You have to take the ferry to get there, but it’s so worth it. It’s a really pretty ride. Great for photos.”

The next afternoon, the guys and I drive to Sag Harbor. Again, we’re riding the shoulder. This is what we do now. This is how we get around.

We wait for our turn to drive onto the ferry, each car ahead of us slotting into position, guided by a man wearing an orange vest.

“So, this is a hotel? There’s a hotel on an island in the Hamptons?” I say to JT, who is looking out at the water.

“A few. More like glorified motels with fancy shit in them. Speaking of hotels, I forgot to tell you guys. You know that girl from last night? She brought me back to her hotel. The Dunes in Amagansett. Anyway, we start making out in the hot tub. Turns out you’re not supposed to be in the hot tub after eleven or whatever, and there are security cameras, so some bellhop comes out with a flashlight. ”

We start to laugh. The ferry churns beneath us.

“But she can’t find her bikini bottoms. They are nowhere to be found. So being the chivalrous man that I am, I just throw her over my shoulder, and we book it to her room.”

Harps laughs. “God, I’d love to see the face of the employee who found her bottoms floating in the water this morning.”

We drive off the ferry and onto Shelter Island, which is much quieter than Sag Harbor.

It feels remote and secluded, with not a soul in sight and very few cars on the road.

Between all the hedges and shrubbery, you can get a glimpse of the impressive houses.

It is quaint but wealthy, the type of wealth that has been here for a while.

Every store looks weathered. Some parts of the island are more manicured, but then you go around a bend and the landscape becomes untamed.

As we drive, it feels like we’re alone on this island, until we get to Sunset Beach, which is humming with people and music.

We pull into the parking lot, right next to a row of rooms with private porches, overlooking the ocean.

The rooms are attached to a two-story building, open on all sides.

We get out of the car, pass by people playing bocce on the sand.

Across the road and closer to the water, there are bicycles, paddleboards, and chairs set up next to yellow umbrellas.

It is like an upscale playground for adults.

I can hear people speaking different languages.

We can feel the wind in our faces. It smells like oysters and the ocean.

We walk up the stairs to the rooftop, where people are eating at tables and gathered at the bar. It’s completely open, with yellow chairs and orange tables and strings of lanterns hanging overhead, strewn from one striped pole to another.

I spot Charlotte in the crowd.

“Hey!” She comes up to me and gives me a hug.

She is wearing a white polka-dotted top with a black polka-dotted skirt and carrying a cup of something yellow with a slice of pineapple attached to the rim of the glass.

“You made it! You have to try this drink. It’s the best. It’s called a BVI Painkiller. ”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. Rum . . . pineapple, and orange juice. Makes you feel like you’re in the Caribbean!” She adds: “I just got back from Italy, actually!”

“Wow.” I feign amazement. This is brand-new information. “How was that?”

“It’s the most stunning, magical place! I want to move there!”