Page 27 of Summer Skate
Paul laughs. “Fame. Fame. What is fame? That’s Ella Shay. She’s a pop star. She’s Canadian, actually, so she probably knows how to skate. You should go say hi.”
I get another drink and then go over.
“Heard you used to skate to school,” I say.
She smiles. “And where did you get this information?”
I learn that she lives in the West Village and is hosting SNL in a couple of weeks. I nod along, finishing off my vodka rocks.
“Don’t worry. My brother used to play junior hockey. I know how hockey players drink . . . ” she says, eyeing my glass.
She gives me instructions about navigating nightlife in New York as people spill drinks on themselves while dancing on top of the couches.
“Silo is a must, but not on Mondays. Somewhere Nowhere if you’re looking for a view.
Nebula can be a little touristy, but I don’t mind it, especially if Sabrina is DJ-ing.
But not before one A.M. Electric Room is small, but fun.
Don’t go after midnight, though, because it turns into a total zoo . . . ”
We watch the staff hang up a disco ball at three A.M . to the instrumental interlude of a Blondie song. The room is spinning.
She cups the back of my neck and says, “Do you want to get out of here?”
I say: “Sure.”
“Let’s take the subway!” she insists.
“The subway?”
“Yeah! It’ll be a trip.”
“I’ve never taken the subway before,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
On the platform, she explains that there’ll be four stops. I stare at her downturned eyes, the black strap of her purse strewn across her bare chest and collarbone, as she shows me a map on her phone. “And then we’ll be in the West Village!” she says.
“Well, what do ya know,” I say, and the vodka has done me in just enough to add: “Can I kiss you now or do I have to wait four stops?”
I wake up at Ella’s apartment. It smells like flowers, and the inside of a store that sells beautiful, expensive things.
I’ve never seen an apartment like this. From the bed, I see vintage skis and an orange blanket in a bucket by the fireplace.
There is a red-painted canvas on the opposite wall that is graffitied with the words: WELCOME ALL BELIEFS SAFE HERE.
The night table is a stack of old books with a lamp and a candle on top.
It’s homey and colorful, quirky and filled with art.
A place that would be fun to explore. But I can’t do that.
Because I feel awful. Like a tidal wave is coming.
Ella is still asleep, enwrapped in her white bedsheets, her bare foot and anklet, a gold chain with a tiny gold key attached to it, the only visible part of her.
I check my phone. I have thirty-seven texts.
JT writes: Where are you? Have you seen this on Deuxmoi?
It is a screenshot of an Instagram post. A photo of Ella and me on the train. There is a link to a New York Post article: Ella Shay Spotted with Rangers Rookie Carter Hughes. Why She Needs to Look Out NOW .
I feel my stomach drop.
I click on the link. The pop singer and soon-to-be Rangers star appear giddy, but can she tame this hotheaded bachelor?
Nobody could deny that they make a beautiful couple .
. . but what you don’t know . . . He played hockey at the University of New Hampshire, but was almost thrown off the team .
. . starting fights . . . propensity for violence .
. . arrested for an altercation with three guys . . . Cops were called . . .
I let my eyes go out of focus. I can’t read any further.
I text JT: You guys drive back. I’ll meet you out there .
I have to get back to the Hamptons immediately. I can’t let this bake for two hours while I sit in traffic on the LIE. That would be torture.
I click on the Blade app and book a 7:25 helicopter, then take a cab to the 30th Street heliport. I text Jessica on the way: Hey, are you awake?
She doesn’t respond. I keep telling myself: Jessica doesn’t check Deuxmoi. Jessica doesn’t read Page Six .
The truth is—I don’t know what I’m doing with Jessica.
I don’t understand why I feel this way now.
I’m not even sure whether to feel guilty.
All I know is that I have these urges for her that feel overwhelming.
I think about her all the time. I can’t hurt her without feeling very uncomfortable with myself.
Once I land in East Hampton, I try to get an Uber, but there aren’t any available. In the parking lot, there is a lone Crown Vic with the words East Hampton Town Taxi written on it. I get in.
The driver is an elderly woman who is confused the whole ride, doesn’t have GPS, seems to have never been to the Hamptons, or in a car, before.
“I used to be a flight attendant,” she tells me, before making several wrong turns. She is driving at twenty-five miles per hour. Apparently, I am her first passenger, and I am writhing with anxiety as she embarks on this new career.
Forget my checkered past, I am going to get arrested for the murder of this woman. Inform Page Six .
Once she pulls off 27, she starts going even slower. Twenty-five miles per hour was her highway speed. We are a few turns away from our street, and I can’t take it anymore. I get out of the car and run.
Jessica answers the door in shorts and a sweatshirt.
I am gasping for air.
“What did you do? Run here from the city?” she asks.
I walk into her house. “She didn’t mean anything to me!” I say, halfway keeled over.
She laughs. “What are you talking about?”
“I assume you saw the thing . . . ”
“What thing?”
I am pointing at the air. “The thing . . . online.”
“Sit down,” she says, and then gets a glass of water. I sit at her kitchen table. She hands it to me. “Drink this.”
It is silent. I stop talking. I collect myself. She looks at me. “I saw it.”
“And?”
“ And . . . I’m married! I don’t want to be involved in some kind of Deuxmoi love triangle with a Canadian pop star! You’re going to fuck all these girls! You don’t even know what you’re doing!”
“So you don’t care?”
“Of course I care! I cried for an hour! What did you think?”
“You did?”
“Carter.” She pauses, looking down. “I cried for the same reason you ran here.”
“Oh.”
“I feel exactly like you’d think I would! I feel exactly like you’d feel if you heard I’d fucked the gardener!”
“What gardener?”
“I could have a gardener.”
“That I’ve never seen?”
“Some of the best gardeners remain out of sight.”
“I don’t even like the mention of a gardener that you might be fucking.”
“See?”
I say, “I didn’t fuck her.”
She holds up her hand. “Stop. I don’t want to know.”
“I woke up this morning and all I could think about was you.”
She furrows her brows. “I doubt that, but it’s okay.”
“Is it? I don’t know what the rules are here.” I put my head in my hands. “I’m so confused.”
“Look. This is life. Not everything is so black and white.” She sits down across from me and pulls her knees up to her chest. She sighs.
“I probably shouldn’t have married Alejandro.
I probably shouldn’t have married . . . anyone.
I don’t really believe in marriage, and not just because my parents got divorced when I was ten .
. . which is apparently the most traumatic age for your parents to get divorced, in terms of awareness and vulnerability .
. . but also because I’m not an idiot.” She rolls her eyes.
“By all means, print up the invitations and have the beautiful ceremony and invite everyone to watch but don’t tell me having sex with the same person for a hundred years makes any fucking sense because I won’t believe you. ”
“So why did you do it?”
“Because I fell for it too! Because when a man you love kneels in the street, in the snow, in a suit, in front of the Plaza, and asks you to marry him, you say yes.” She smiles.
“Believe me. For an investment banker to ruin a perfectly good suit, he must be madly in love. And he was. We both were. So you say yes , let’s do it. You say yes , let’s hope for the best.”
“And now?”
Her eyes well up with tears. “I think you should go.”
“That’s it? That’s your solution? Are you serious?”
“ Go .”
I remain sitting. She waits. I stand. She pushes my body toward the door.
“You gotta go. This has already gotten way out of control. Out before I call the police and tell them you’re trespassing. And with your track record, they’ll believe me.”
Maybe because she is physically pushing me out. Maybe because she’s crying, or because I’m about to, I leave.