Page 93 of Hotter in the Hamptons

Justin, who didn’t seem to pick up on the complexity of what had just happened.

He didn’t seem to recognize Aly at all. Which was a relief. Lola wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t googled her. He was never petty like that.

Instead, he simply said, “She seems nice.”

“Sure,” Lola said.

She climbed up the ladder out of the pool, her hands over her nipples as she went to retrieve her nap dress from where she’d thrown it on the hydrangeas.

Before she got to it, Justin said, “Lola.”

Something about the way he said her name made whatever was wound so tight inside her come undone. There was a painful sensation in her throat as a sob fought its way out. It was too much. Justin, here, after all this time. Aly, gone back to her own house. Lola didn’t know what to do with herself. She felt totally unmoored.

He could tell. “Come here. Please.”

It was like someone else was controlling her body, making her walk toward him. The muscle memory taking over in a moment, rewiring her circuits.

She stepped into his arms, which he wrapped around her so tightly she could barely breathe.

Her wet breasts pressed into his T-shirt as he held her, burrowing his head into her sopping wet hair. She clung to him.

Justin.

Here in his arms was the safest place in the world. She’d spent five years luxuriating in the feel of him, the smell and the taste of him, the absolute comfort and stability he provided. Half a decade. Those feelings didn’t go away overnight. Or over one summer, even.

“I missed you so much,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

It all came rushing back—all the feelings she’d been hiding from; the way she couldn’t face the ruins of her career or figure out how to move forward; the way she instead did what she always did, hiding herself in romance when what she really needed to do was focus on herself.

She was furious with herself for all of it.

And it was easy to blame Justin.

“You left me,” she said. “How could you abandon me like that?”

“Can we go inside and talk?” They were still holding each other.

Lola nodded into him. “Can I put clothes on?”

He laughed, the warmest, best sound. “Sadly, I think you probably should.”

***

In Giancarlo’s kitchen, her hair dripping onto her dress, Lola poured two glasses of water from the Brita pitcher.

“This house is amazing,” he said, looking around. He ran a finger along the marble island.

“I had a feeling you’d like it,” she replied. She eyed his luggage. “Where did you come from?”

“LAX to JFK,” he said. “And then I Uber’d out here. You can imagine how the driver felt about that.”

“Wow,” she said, surprised that stable, logical Justin would spend money on something so frivolous as an Uber from Queens to the Hamptons.

“How was LA?” she asked, assessing him. His gray T-shirt had pit stains; his hair was a little longer than he usually liked it. Soft stubble shadowed his jaw. For Justin, who typically never had one single wrinkle on his clothes, this was the aesthetic equivalent of a total breakdown. She’d never seen him so unkempt.

“Lonely,” he said, taking the water from her. “Everyone was so worried about me, but no one could say anything to help.”

Lola was annoyed by this. He’d done it to himself. Still, the thought of Justin alone and brooding at his parents’ house also made her chest hurt.

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