Page 19 of Summer Skate

JESSICA

I AM DETERMINED TO GET BACK to my life. I feel like I’ve been under water, trapped in a whirlpool of text messages and fantasy. I need to come up for air. To get out of the both literal and figurative bed I’ve made for myself.

So I write. I research. I FaceTime my children, compliment the bracelet my daughter made, laugh as my son bangs on a toy car with a rocket launcher.

I arrange playdates and sign them up for after school programs for the fall.

When I come home on the weekends, I take them to the ice cream museum and the safari playground in Central Park, and when I leave on Sunday night, I tell them that one day they’ll be proud to have a mother who isn’t a one-hit wonder.

My book is almost done. My agent is thrilled.

I don’t feel quite like myself, of course, because I’m doing nothing but working and thinking about sex with my neighbor.

That is my whole life, and my whole life is this.

But I keep sending pages to my agent and he keeps telling me how good they are, so I keep going, addicted to the praise, like a junkie.

I don’t leave the house but I’m on the phone with people all day, conducting interviews, gathering information. Swimming laps whenever I have frustration to burn. I have written the majority of this book in a bathing suit.

Tonight, I am finally attending something official. I am going to an event in East Hampton, Authors Night. My agent calls beforehand with some last-minute details.

“I’m bringing two hundred copies of your book,” he says. “Get ready to sell.”

“Two hundred? How am I going to sell two hundred books in two hours?”

“You sold that many last year. You sold them, and then I believe your exact words were: ‘I’m a hustler, baby, don’t try to change me.’”

I sigh. “Bring the copies.”

I scan my closet for something author-ish and land on a light blue one-shouldered dress. It is knee-length, appropriate. I put my hair in a ponytail rather than leave it down because it’s a thousand percent humidity, and if shit is going to hit the fan, I like to get ahead of the game, hair-wise.

I look in the mirror. I feel a little dressy, considering I have been spending most of my time in either a bikini or sweatpants. I slip on sandals. I’m out the door.

I already feel better on the drive over.

I’m about to go somewhere. I’m about to do something.

This is nice. This is normal . I pull into a field full of cars and roll down my window to find out where I should park.

The attendant motions for me to go next to a vintage white Lamborghini with Florida plates.

The car has a bumper sticker that says GRANDPARENT PARKING ONLY all others will be towed .

Authors Night really brings out the heavy hitters.

I approach the big white tent. I pose for some photos. They give me a wristband and tote bag and bring me to my table, which is in a long row of tables, each with stacks and stacks of books on them. My agent is there unloading a cardboard box.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, and give him a hug. “I was about to knock over a thousand copies of The Light Between Us .”

He stops unloading and stares at me. “Just because you blurbed her book and she didn’t blurb yours does not mean you should be out for blood.”

“I firmly disagree.”

Before the signing begins, we take a stroll around the tent. There is no food but many ice buckets filled with drinks. Montauk Brewing Company is the sponsor of this event. So I sip from a can and go from table to table, checking out the books and letting my agent introduce me to people.

“This is Min Jin Yong,” he says, when we approach one table, but he doesn’t need to say that. I know who she is. She’s won multiple Pulitzers.

“Jessica Riley,” my agent says to her, motioning to me. “Jessica is one of my authors.” She shakes my hand, looks amused.

“She’s not an author,” she says. “She’s a model!”

I laugh. “Yeah, except for my face,” I say, and then puff out my cheeks. My agent puts his hand on his forehead. “ Thank you .” He looks at me, annoyed. “What she means to say is thank you .”

He corrals me away. “What are you doing?” he whispers to me. “That’s Min Jin Yong.”

“I was just making a joke! You know . . . Because models have visible cheekbones,” I say, sucking in my cheeks now. “They look like this.” I look at him with my cheeks drawn in. “And I’m just a regular person. With cheeks.” I grab one of them.

He looks at me and is about to laugh but stops himself.

“Pull it together,” he says. “Be normal, just for the next hour.”

“Okay . . . ” I say. “But that’s really not why you hired me.”

A line begins to form at my table. We go toward it.

“Oh my god! The Light Between Us chick has already sold half her table.”

“Sit,” he says, handing me a pen. “Sign. We don’t have time to delve into all your archrivals.”

I take the pen and raise my eyebrows. “We should make time.”

He rolls his eyes. I plop myself down and start signing books, chatting briefly with people.

Some are excited to read, some have read and are taking a copy for their friend or daughter or nephew.

Some lift the book right in front of me, scan the cover, rifle through the pages, and just keep on walking.

“It’s fine !” I yell after them. “No hard feelings!”

My agent laughs. “You need to relax .”

I scoff at this. “ You put your soul on a page and then relax!”

He introduces me to editors, other agents, magazine people.

The woman sitting next to me signing books is the former editor-in-chief of Glamour .

She is hawking a book called The Love Diet .

She is pretty drunk and has no idea who I am.

She keeps taking photos of my book and promising me she has a big following on Instagram, that my book is going to be huge someday.

Huge . I look down at the top of my book, where it says: #1 New York Times Bestseller .

Apparently, she can photograph the book, but she can’t read it.

Suddenly, I feel a little lightheaded, and I don’t know why. I have a prickly sensation in my chest. I look up and across the room, I see Carter.

He’s at the opposite side of the tent and my heart immediately races. Is he serious? Why can’t I get away from this guy?

He does a lap around the tent and then sees me, gets to the back of the line.

My hand is shaking as I make small talk with an elderly woman named Gloria who has been trying to be my agent for years.

She’s a bit of an oddball, talking to you until the cows come home, right up in your face, but she always has the best publishing gossip, so I like her.

“Serves her right,” she is saying. “Trying to leave Knopf for all those years. They finally called her bluff.”

Once Carter is at the front of the line, Gloria is still bending my ear about the state of contemporary fiction.

“You came,” I say to him, mocking the voice of a girl who might be desperate for him to show up. I roll my eyes.

“I’m not going to miss this,” he says.

“What’s the matter? Couldn’t stand the fact that some people might want my autograph?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here.” He slaps the book down in front of me. “Sign it, Riley. Make it a good one. Include a short poem, would you?”

I roll my eyes again. “Haven’t you gotten enough of my messages?”

As I’m signing, I look up at the crowd gathered around my table. “This is Carter Hughes!” I tell people. “He’s going to play for the Rangers!”

It is silent.

Carter stands there waiting. They look mystified.

“The Rangers . . . ” Gloria says, putting her hand under her chin. “Is that what they call the Parks Department in New York?”

I widen my eyes. “It’s a hockey team!” I say. “They play at Madison Square Garden! Come on, Gloria!”

“Sorry.” She laughs. “I’m not much of a sports fanatic.”

As she leaves, I hand Carter the book. “Don’t sweat it,” I say. “She’s not your target audience.”

“And who is this handsome man?” The Glamour editor is suddenly leaning over me with her hand out.

“Oh! Laura, this is Carter. Carter Hughes, Laura Banks. She’s got her first book coming out.”

“Oh yeah?” he says. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about the mistakes people make in relationships.”

Carter looks at me and then back at her. “What kind of mistakes?”

“Well, it’s never been easier to go on a date than right now, right?

And yet, in these turbulent times, it’s never been harder to find real love .

Just like there’s junk food, there’s junk love.

Tantalizing packages that are widely available, but it’s ultimately superficial.

My book is about how you have to wade through the cookies and potato chips to find the produce aisle, and that’s where you’ll find a real relationship grounded in trust and intimacy. ”

“In the produce aisle?” he says.

“Exactly. Away from the empty calories.”

“So it’s a diet book,” I explain to Carter. “About relationships.”

I am somewhat smiling, but I can’t tell if he knows how full of shit I really think she is.

Either way, Laura is delighted. “Exactly! It’s about clearing out your cupboards and sweeping your fridge and doing a dating detox not dissimilar to what you’d do to reset your metabolism.” She leans into him. “Tell me, Carter. Are you dating anyone?”

“Not anyone in particular, no,” he says, looking at me. “But I’d like to be.”

“Because you won’t get skinny from eating the same old shit!” she yells at him.

He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Alcohol is not a food group. Many men your age don’t understand that. Stick to natural sugars. Porn is like chewing gum. All artificial flavor. Trust your gut. Set your own ‘best before’ date.”

A woman at Laura’s table is demanding her attention, so she says: “Anyway, Carter, nice to meet you! Life is a feast! Take your place at the table!”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you,” he says to her.

I look at him after Laura sits back down. “You’re welcome!”

“Jesus,” he says. “So when do you get out of here?”

“Hmmm . . . There’s a Q&A after this, then a dinner. Rich people pay to host dinner parties for the authors. Mine is at some mansion in Water Mill.”

My agent comes over. “Jess, I want to introduce you to someone.” He raises his eyebrows. “She writes for The New York Review of Books .”

I shrug at Carter. “Gotta go.” I leave him standing there. I feel a pang of guilt, but I brush it away. He’s an adult. He can manage .

“Okay,” I say, trailing behind my agent as we cross the tent. “But I’m canceling the Q&A.”

“What?”

“I’m not doing it. I hate this shit. I’ll get up there and talk, but I’m not answering idiotic questions about my characters and how they intersect with my personal life.”

He is outraged. “So what are you going to do up there? Wimbledon highlights?”

Two hours later I am sitting at the head of a long table.

It is a table next to the pool house, the catering side of some media mogul’s compound.

The sun has set. Three courses have been served amongst flickering candles.

I have been entertaining people all night.

I have been talking talking talking, asking questions, making jokes.

I’ve been offered a stay at a house in Spain, if ever I’m in the neighborhood.

Some guy wants me to be his doubles partner at his country club in Southampton.

Apparently, my agent has told him all about me, boasting about my glory days as a junior tennis player the same way he does my literary stats.

There’s a mixed doubles tournament this weekend.

He’ll take care of everything for me. I just have to show up.

“Ah, I only play on grass during the summer,” I tell him.

And then, for a brief moment, the residents of my table are occupied, and I can sit back and be quiet.

And thank god, because I am wiped , can barely formulate a sentence.

But then, as I take a moment to myself, the inevitable happens.

I start thinking about Carter. This is followed shortly by a wave of pleasure ricocheting through my body.

Dammit. Why. Why. Why. Why . I’m not sure if he stayed for the Q&A.

I deliberately tried not to look for him in the crowd, not wanting to know, so desperate to focus on the task at hand, to stay in the present.

I take out my phone. But then I put it back down. No. No. No. No. No. Cut it out. Now. Before this gets any worse .

A man sits down next to me. He’s an editor I met once at an awards dinner at the New School in the Village. He wants to chat about the novel he just finished working on.

“The narrative itself doubles as an anthem of resistance, actually, in many ways, a case against the eradication of our environment,” he says.

“It’s inspired by Orwell and McCarthy, of course, a real literary tapestry.

The result is quite extraordinary. Though it raises some dire questions about technology and the direction we are headed in as a species. ”

“Right.”

“The author’s style is omnivorous, jarringly omnivorous. His writing has an almost cartoonish violence and then a great lyrical beauty all at once.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, taking a sip of my ice water to keep myself from falling asleep.

“And it’s not about the Egypt that you know,” he says, shaking his head.

The Egypt that I know? When have we ever spoken about Egypt?

“No. It’s about the Egypt of the senses , the Egypt of the soul, cut open . . . ”

He gets more heated. I start to zone out.

He says: “The editing required so much—the ability to translate verse with a strict meter, a capacity to go from the highest, most literary registers to something that is almost idiomatic. It felt like a watershed moment in my life as an editor.”

“Wow. Sounds like a real . . . journey.”

“I hope people see how solemn this novel is, that beneath the playful exterior, it is actually a call to action for readers to do all they can to avoid the demonic world it portrays from becoming a reality.”

I slyly reach down for my phone. The second the editor gets up, I text Carter:

Do you want to get drunk and go swimming with me?