Page 2 of Hotter in the Hamptons

“For Lola?” she asked, sliding in. She felt herself briefly relax in the dark, quiet, cold safety of the car, with its tinted windows and classical music. No Gen Z could hurt her here.

Lola’s phone started vibrating. It was Ryan, her best friend. A picture of him she’d taken at Coachella popped up, grinning at the camera, his brown curls loose in the breeze, the pink mountains and palm trees behind him, a dirty martini in his hand.

“Howdy, babe,” Ryan said.

“Hi, gorgeous,” she answered, slightly perked by his small-town Texas drawl. “Do you thinkslaycan be used pejoratively?”

He laughed. “Definitely. Especially if it’s being used by a teenager.”

She groaned. “Why are you literally psychic?”

“It’s my gift.” She could hear him smiling on the other end. She envisioned him as he often was, puttering around his Lower East Side studio in his Free City sweats and Gucci fur loafers (“house shoes,” he called them).

“What are you doing today?”

“Equinox before work, and then I’m going to the wrinkle doctor on my lunch break,” he said. “I need to freeze my face before East Hampton.”

Lola had recently asked her own dermatologist for injections. The doctor had refused, rolling his eyes as Lola pitched the idea of “baby Botox” for her nearly invisible crow’s feet, telling her she didn’t need it—and this gave Lola a renewed appreciation for the effortless, smooth glow of youth still on her face, even while she knew the sun was rapidly setting on her twenties.

Her thirtieth birthday in September already loomed large. She had always assumed that by thirty, she’d be happier than she felt now—more confident, more excited about her life. As it was, she mostly just felt kind of bored, like she was going through the motions of what was expected of her. And at the same time, she felt a confusing sort of desperation to hold on to what she had, despite how little joy it recently brought her. She’d worked so hard to get to this place. And she’d comea long way—when she’d first started out, all she’d had was an obsessive vintage habit and a blog she’d poured her heart into that got barely two hundred clicks a month, mostly from her parents. Now she was someone who had her whole closet curated for her based on which brand cut the biggest check, with the clout to get into any fashion week event, restaurant opening, or club VIP. With millions of followers who wanted to be just like her…except, did they still?

That scathing Gen Z sure didn’t.

Regardless, she wasn’t sure who she’d be without her lifestyle and the many, many people who followed it. When you stripped Lola Likes away from Lola Fine, you were left with just…fine. And Lola hadn’t worked this hard to be justfine.

“Don’t get too much Botox,” she said. “You’re perfect as is.”

“Exactly. I’m trying to maintain it. Listen, will youpleasereconsider coming to the Hamptons with me this summer? You are the only bitch in NYC who would say no. Giancarlo didn’t leave me his house keys and car so that I could drink rosé alone.”

She laughed. Ryan was a publicist at the Lede Company, and Giancarlo was one of his wealthiest clients. His Hamptons home would be, without a doubt, stunning beyond reason.

“So there’s part of me that does want to, but I really feel like it’s important for me to beherefor the next few months. Plus, I can’t leave Justin for that long, and you know how he feels about going east instead of west.” Her boyfriend, Justin, was from LA too and took every opportunity he could to go home and see his family. Whenever she asked him about going to the Hamptons, he always countered with, “Why not Santa Barbara?”

It was a fair question, but it made her bristle. She loved her family—and his too, for that matter—but something about going back homealways made her feel like she was going backward in time. Her life was here. New York was here.

Lola examined her nails. They were almond shaped and freshly painted with her go-to shade, Ballet Slippers. Simple but still a statement, just like the delicate heart tattooed along the side of her right pointer finger.

“You say that every year,” Ryan sighed. “You need to get your FOMO checked by a doctor.”

It was true. Lola hated leaving New York. But she feigned innocence. “Do I?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t come with me even if youweren’tcanceled.”

Lola bristled, though Ryan was the only one allowed to joke with her about the fate she’d recently brought upon herself.

The Uber was on the bridge now, and the crisp Manhattan skyline cut across the clear blue sky, looking like a still from a rom-com.

“Yeah, but now I really mean it,” she said. “I can’t come. Plus, Justin and I have that Capri trip in July.”

“Y’all’s life,” he sighed. “I wishIhad a Justin to go to Capri with.”

“Maybe you’ll find one in the Hamptons.”

Ryan had a never-ending stream of gorgeous lovers, but like many people who hadn’t become confident until later in adulthood—he’d grown up chubby and been incessantly bullied for it—he had trouble committing to any of them. His fitness addiction and the attention it brought him didn’t help the fact.

“Girl, I doubt it!” he yelled, loud enough that Lola had to pull the phone away from her ear. “There are no gorgeous Black doctors out East. The Hamptons are full of WASPS and wannabes. That’s why I need you with me. You, me, and this perfect Nancy Meyers cottage. What could be better?”

“Maybe I can come out for a weekend,” she conceded, and she could sense his eye roll. “I just feel like if I’m not here, who is going to fix things?”

---