Page 31 of Hotter in the Hamptons

Reluctantly, Lola broke eye contact and looked down. Her legs were covered in sticky wine, her feet wet. The remains of the bottle were scattered in sharp shards on the ground.

“Oh shit, your foot.”

Her foot indeed. The side of her big toe was sliced red like a rare steak. Blood had soaked her Hermès Oran sandal, spilling out onto the wooden step.

“Ouch,” Lola said, though the pain hadn’t fully registered.

She looked back up at Aly and then down at her foot, then back up again.

If this was some sort of sick cosmic joke, she sure wasn’t laughing.

“Jesus,” Aly said. “Can you just come in? I think we need to apply pressure to that.”

Aly reached out and pulled Lola by the elbow through the doorway. Her hand felt cool on Lola’s hot skin as Lola tried to relieve pressure on her injury, using her good foot to step inside.

The entryway was freezing, air-conditioning blowing her hair off her sweaty neck. A round, antique table held a bouquet of red roses from the garden, and next to it sat a bottle of sunscreen, a paperback, and Aly’s phone. It smelled like salt air and flowers and Molecule 01. Lola glanced furtively into the living room, which looked straight out of aDwellmagazine cover story, bright pops of color and big sofas and overflowing bookcases. The corner had cubbies filled with sneakers and sandals and canvas tote bags and dog leashes. Everything was chic yet comfortable, artsy—like people who loved each other lived there. The walls were a perfect juxtaposition, lined with abstract contemporary paintings and framed children’s art. It all made Giancarlo’s cream-colored haven feel almost sterile in comparison.

There was music playing, some sort of hip, female-fronted indie rock that Lola couldn’t place. She felt a begrudging curiosity, being swept into Aly’s space like this. She wanted to freeze time so she could examine everything closely…and then smash it all on the floor.

She put her busted foot down, and that was when she felt it. Pain shot through her toe and up her ankle.

“Fuck!” she yelped, hopping back onto her other foot, but not before blood spattered onto a light pink doormat. “Fuck,” she said again. “Your rug. Oh my god. Ow. Shit.”

She was sweating profusely. How in the world was this—Alyhere, her bloody foot, the red drops on Aly’s rug—really happening?

Maybe, she thought, she was still asleep, having one of her insane hangover dreams. Maybe in a few minutes, she’d hear Ryan singing in their kitchen, back from his grocery run. She could peel the sheets off and wander downstairs and tell him all about this crazy nightmare she’d had while he threw his head back and howled with laughter, accusing her again of being obsessed. Then they could shower and go get lobster rolls and later take a midnight skinny-dip in the pool, and everything would be back on track—she’d be back to having the perfect summer. She just needed to force herself to wake up.

She closed her eyes tightly and then opened them again. But she was still in Aly’s foyer. And Aly was still staring at her, still wearing a black one-piece that showed off her slender legs and her clavicle and her perfect little boobs.

Lola’s cheeks grew hot. “Fuck,” she said again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” Aly said, so steadily that Lola wondered if they were living in the same universe. “You’re fine. It’s just a rug. Can I help you into the kitchen?”

Lola nodded meekly and allowed Aly to help her hobble through the foyer and into a kitchen with emerald-green tiles and a sparkling pink marble island. Long, leafy plants hung in the windows, making the whole space feel both curated and wildly untamed.

“Colorful,” Lola observed, appreciating the eclectic taste of whoever designed the space.

She bent down to examine the cut. Her sliced skin was flapping gruesomely. She stood up quickly. Lola didn’t have a strong constitution for this sort of thing, and she should have known better than to look at it. A wave of nausea hit her, and the room started to tilt. Suddenly, her sweat turned cold, the edges of her vision blurring. Maybe it was her hangover-related dehydration or the sight of bloodor the shock of seeing Aly—or all three—but she was pretty sure she was about to tip over.

If you faint, I’ll never forgive you, she said to herself.

What came out of her mouth was “Um? I think I might need to…” She couldn’t finish before she rocked forward.

Aly grabbed her arms, steadying her. Lola hung her head as she focused on her breathing. She wasn’t sure what would be worse: passing out on Aly or puking on her. Both were feeling likely. Maybe if she fainted, she could just stay unconscious until this was all over. A coma-on-demand. She focused on the pressure of Aly’s hands.

“You’re okay,” Aly said, voice cool as fresh cucumber water. “Let’s sit you down.”

Aly deposited Lola on a barstool and then grabbed a crumpled white T-shirt off the counter, pulling it on. It was long on her, the hem stopping just at the top of her thighs.

Lola’s own near nakedness felt very loud in comparison.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because her brain was already cooking up ways to get the hell out of ARC’s kitchen. She could simply bolt, though with the dizziness and the bleeding, that might be a challenge. She could fake an emergency phone call. But then suddenly Aly was crouching before her with a wad of paper towels, taking Lola’s sticky ankle gently into her pale hands, and Lola realized she was, at least for the moment, stuck.

“I’m going to try to stop the bleeding, okay?” Aly peered up at Lola with wide, imploring eyes. Lola could only nod and then winced as Aly pressed the paper towels to the wound. The only thing distracting her from the pain was the way Aly’s eyebrows were knitted together in concern. Lola had the sudden impulse to reach out and smooth her brow, but she resisted. Even she knew that would be a very inappropriatething to do, worse than leaving shards of broken glass in her entryway or spilling water across a café table. Instead, she took in the difference between their skin tones. Aly’s hands were like moonlight next to Lola’s golden legs.

“So what are you doing here?” Aly asked. “It’s kind of biblical to come all the way to the Hamptons just to bleed on my doorstep.”

Lola groaned. “I’m staying next door for the summer.”

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