Page 21 of Summer Skate

JESSICA

I’ M IN A KIND OF PAIN I don’t recognize.

I’m not eating or sleeping much, just sitting with a massive stomachache that I’m trying to decode like a riddle.

I mentally sift through my Rolodex of emotions.

Shock? Guilt? Regret? Sadness? Nothing seems right.

Eventually, I decide that it’s all those things, the low after a high.

What goes up must come down. I’m forcing myself to cry every now and then because that’s more recognizable to me.

It’s something I’ve experienced before. Crying feels like the pain might be leaking out, a little bit.

I call Alejandro ten times a day. I am nice, doting. If he doesn’t pick up, I am fearing for my life.

There is no getting away from it now, no sugarcoating the truth.

I am selfish. I am impulsive. I am bad. There were options, and I chose the worst one, the one that gives in the most to my rotten instincts.

The devil on my shoulder didn’t even have to fight this time. And now I’m in pain. Big surprise.

I wish, more than anything else, that I were better. And all I can do, in my darkest moments, is write it down, to use later, to offer it up to anyone else who wishes they were better too.

For the next few days, I focus on writing, on turning pain into pages.

I stay away from my phone. I don’t text Carter, and thankfully he doesn’t text me either.

I channel all my emotions into something that my characters experience in an entirely different situation.

I start to feel better, like the cobwebs are clearing. And then he texts me.

Going for dinner in Sag Harbor tonight with JT and Harps. Want to come?

I slide my phone across the room. I tell myself: Just say no. That’s it. Time’s up. Your body has to listen to your brain now . What I realize over the next few hours is that I can hold off on responding. I can pretend I don’t care. But I can’t wipe the stupid smile off my face.

And then it dawns on me. What the fuck is wrong with you?

You’re falling for this? Here’s the thing about guys like Carter: You don’t mean anything to them.

Oh, it certainly seems like it. Many skilled performances have been cobbled together to get to this point.

But you can be easily replaced. It seems like you can’t, because that’s how they’ve gotten you in the first place.

But it’s an act. A very charming little act.

And at age thirty-five, I am in the fortunate position of having seen this play before.

My plan going forward is to shut it down, emotionally.

The barriers are up. And the good news is, now I won’t get hurt, and now I can go to dinner.

I gave in once. I won’t do it again. Not in public.

Not in front of his friends. It’s not really my strong suit, this shutting down of the system, giving placid answers, not really saying how I feel.

But I can’t be myself anymore. That is the only way to get out of this alive.

From now on, I’m going to be Good Jessica.

Good Jessica prioritizes her family. Good Jessica eats vegetables.

Good Jessica gives short answers. Good Jessica says things like, What’s your favorite season? Mine’s spring!

Unfortunately, I’m not an idiot. And I realize that what I’m doing is sort of like eating an entire pizza at 3 a.m. and then having a lot of lettuce the next day.

But I’m going to do it anyway. What choice do I have?

I can’t turn back time. I can only learn from my mistakes and try to be better.

Next time, when presented with a hot neighbor who wants to fuck you in your backyard: Don’t .

I text him back: Maybe. What time?

We can pick you up around 7?

I’ll meet you there. I’ll stop by after a party I have in East .

Like hell I’m going to let him think I’m sitting around waiting for this dinner like it’s the event of the season. His dinner is merely a stop along the way amongst a myriad of imaginary plans I have that evening. As of now, I don’t have plans in East Hampton, but in about twenty minutes, I will.

On the car ride into Sag, I call Alejandro and tell him all about the dinner and feel like I am talking to another adult about children.

I get off the phone and focus on parking. I am a little late, as my imaginary-turned-real event ran long, as those tend to do. Also, it’s taken me ten minutes to park.

They are seated outside on the patio at an Italian restaurant called Tutto Il Giorno.

The patio is filled with potted green plants on a pebble floor, white tables with white umbrellas overhead.

Each chair has a white blanket covering the back of the chair.

It is meant to have a rustic Italian vibe, but it is way overdone, with so many blankets and white pillows and potted plants that there is nothing rustic about it.

The blankets seem excessive. It is probably the warmest night of the summer.

Carter seems a little off from the moment I get there, like something is bothering him. He answers questions brusquely, flings insults about the other diners for no reason.

As we eat, I focus on JT and Harps, ask them questions, prying for information for my book. They are talking about past hookups. They are explaining what they do if they wake up with a girl but want her to leave.

Harps says: “In college I used to pretend I had an early morning job at the library, and then I would leave to go to the job, and she’d leave with me, and then I’d hide behind a wall until she was out of sight. Then I went back to my room.”

I think it over. “It’s pretty good. It’s pretty good. Because you can’t just kick her out. But don’t you feel bad for lying?”

“No. Girls have plenty of schemes. Do you know how many earrings have been ‘accidentally’ left at my place?”

“But that’s not really the same,” I say. “That’s because she likes you! You’re scheming to get rid of her.”

“I don’t see the difference,” he says.

“Trust me. There’s a difference.”

As we’re talking, Carter is quiet, typing on his phone.

My bag is on the ground next to me and I can see my phone lighting up with texts.

I look across the table. He stares at me.

I look down at my plate. I start to feel a bit unsteady, then good, so good, and then unsteady again.

What is he writing? I’m tempted to check my phone. No. No. No. Why?

With one hand, I look at my phone under the table, but I don’t look directly at it because I’m too afraid of what’s there. I read his text with my eyes out of focus. All I can see are a few words:

I want to climb under the table and eat your . . .

Suddenly, my body is flooded with feeling.

I take a long sip of my wine. And then another.

I grip my wine glass, hard. I want to get up and walk away, to just shake this feeling out of me, but I don’t.

I can’t. I’m frozen in place. I give him a dark look, put my phone on silent, and then shove it back in my bag, making sure to flip it so that I can’t see the front. I order another glass of wine.

“Tell her what you did to Charlotte at Tracy’s,” JT says, then turns to me when Carter is silent. JT laughs. “He told her that he was staring at you the whole time he was hanging out with her, and she cried and left.”

“ What? ” I look at Carter. “Why’d you do that?”

Carter says: “She deserved it.”

“Why? What did she do?”

He pauses. “She put her mat too close to mine.”

I screw up my face. “That’s unnecessarily mean.”

“It’s a workout class,” he says. “I’m a professional athlete.”

“Oh, get over yourself ,” I reply, laughing, and he looks sullen.

JT changes the subject. Harps suggests a game where we look at all the other tables in the restaurant and decide what their deal is. Are they coworkers? A third date? Is it a family? Is it a man with a much younger girlfriend or is that his daughter?

A man comes up to JT. He is red-faced and wearing a navy sweater, a plaid shirt visible at the collar. He leans over JT’s chair and says: “I’m surprised you would show your face here.”

A bad feeling comes over me. JT looks up at him. “Excuse me? Do I know you?”

“You do,” the guy says. “You slept with my wife.”

JT swallows. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

The guy almost smiles but doesn’t. He responds: “I chased you out of my house with a kitchen knife.”

“Ohh,” JT says. “Sorry. I didn’t recognize you without your golf clothes on.”

He looks taken aback. “You’d better hope you don’t run into me again.”

JT scoffs. “Oh yeah? Or what?”

Carter stands up.

The guy nods to himself. “You know, you really shouldn’t fuck around with people in the Hamptons . . . you never know who you’re talking to, or who they might be friends with.”

Carter says, “We don’t give a fuck about your friends.”

The guy laughs. “I am really going to enjoy ruining your lives. I mean it. I am going to savor the moment when I make that call.”

I watch as Carter pushes him into a table of women, who all gasp. Plates and glasses crash to the floor. The rest of the diners are horrified. The man gets up off the floor and examines himself for damage.

It is silent. Everyone is staring. People don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.

A man in a linen shirt, presumably the manager, comes up to our table. He looks at Carter. “Hey, man, I have to ask you to leave.”

I head to my car, walking at a brisk pace, and Carter follows me.

I stop and turn toward him, but I don’t know what to say.

So we stand there, on the street, each waiting for the other to say something.

I can feel drops of sweat gathering in my eyebrows.

The heat is like a weight in the air, a pressure on my skin.

There is a low rumble of thunder in the distance, the occasional flash of lightning.

“What was that?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“You threw that guy across the room!”

“I just pushed him a little.”