Page 89 of Hotter in the Hamptons

“Your girlfriend,” Lola repeated, tasting the word on her tongue and all it implied. Did she want to be Aly’s girlfriend? She knew she wanted to be with her in the here and now, but despite her mother’s advice in July, she hadn’t pictured much more of their future.

She tried to imagine what it would involve. Cohabitation, maybe.Monogamy, definitely. Meeting each other’s families. Sharing bills. Dividing chores. Reminding each other of doctor appointments. The seriousness and stability seemed at odds with the experience of actually being together, which still, for all intents and purposes, made Lola feel more than a little insane, like at any moment Aly could change her mind and leave them in the Hamptons. She couldn’t put a finger on why she felt like that. She just couldn’t quite settle, so instead she chose the dizzying effects of their mutual obsession and left it there.

In a way, that was what made Aly so intoxicating, that layer of danger. But it also made it hard to imagine sustaining this. Surely it wouldn’t be good for her blood pressure, long term.

Above them, fluffy, white clouds dotted a sapphire sky. The sun was growing hotter. Next to her, Aly was wearing her favorite black high-cut one-piece, her porcelain skin protected with SPF 50. Despite the surgeon general’s warnings, Lola was slathered in baby oil, her skin turning a golden brown.

“I like you so much,” Lola said, eager to provide reassurance while being careful not to say something she couldn’t take back. “What if we just continue to see what happens?”

“I can work with that,” Aly said. Lola tried hard to detect the hurt in Aly’s voice, but she couldn’t. Instead, Aly leaned over and kissed her. “And I don’t want to pressure you. But you should know that if you turn me down, you’d be missing out. Fall isreallymy season.”

Lola loved when Aly was cocky. She felt something light up in her, an ember of flirtation quick to stoke. “Oh yeah?”

“I mean, it’s canonically lesbian—beanies, flannels, boots, leather jackets.”

Lola laughed. “Apple picking, pumpkin carving.”

“Hot apple cider with whiskey,” Aly added. “Fireplaces. Hudson Valley Airbnbs. Hiking. Just think about it.”

“I will,” Lola promised. “You’re very convincing.”

Aly was right: summerwouldend. Sooner than Lola would like to think about. Then she’d have to go back to the city and face her life or what was left of it. Despite the promise of autumn’s sapphic wonders, the truth was that how Aly would actually fit into Lola’s world was unclear.

She wasn’t even sure where she’d be living next month, if Justin was permanently moving out or if she was. She’d need to figure out a new income stream if her influencing career was truly and permanently over too. And she needed a whole new team. There were so many big things to sort through. She didn’t know how she could do that while being Aly’s girlfriend. When Aly was around, all she could think about was hibernating together, getting back in bed and never escaping.

If Lola could freeze time, she would have, forever suspended in their bliss bubble.

But even in her delirious haze of hormones and lust, Lola knew that all bubbles eventually pop.

***

Toward the end of August, on a day so hot it made the air feel like soup, Ryan and Emmett invited Lola and Aly to go to Wölffer Estate Vineyard for a wine tasting.

Getting out of the house sounded good. Lola donned a cozy white nap dress. Aly wore an oversized blue-and-white-striped poplin button-down, just slightly elevated from her usual plain T-shirt.

Emmett drove the four of them in his convertible with the top down. In the backseat, Lola and Aly held hands, the wind whippingtheir hair around, turning them into blurs of brunette and blond. All four of them wore different variations of very expensive sunglasses: Aly in her Tom Ford aviators; Lola in a round, white Marc Jacobs pair; Emmett and Ryan both wearing thick black Balenciaga frames. The sun beat down on them. The car stereo was blasting Chappell Roan. Lola couldn’t stop grinning.

It was a quick drive down the verdant Route 27, past mansions hiding behind green hedges and the occasional deer along the road, past the tennis club Lola would never go to and Levain Bakery with its long line of people waiting for a three-inch-thick chocolate chip cookie. Then they turned off 27, and suddenly it was like being in Tuscany. The vineyard stretched in all directions, surrounded by grassy fields and tall, skinny cypress trees. The estate itself was a charming, white farmhouse.

“Chic,” Lola said as they pulled up.

“Only the chicest for you,” Emmett replied, extending a hand to help her out of the car.

***

At a small, wood table in the outdoor tasting room, which overlooked endless neat rows of lush grapevines, Lola sipped a rosé and tried hard to taste the alleged notes of brioche.

Their wine was being poured by a young server who looked like he’d walked straight out of a nineties J. Crew catalog, complete with a thick mop of hair, ruddy cheeks, and an athlete’s body.

“I’m getting rose petals,” Ryan said, swirling the pink liquid in his wineglass and smelling it. “And maybe some brine?”

“It pairs well with oysters.” The server nodded before moving them on to a chilled red.

Under the table, Aly’s knee pressed into Lola’s. Around them, middle-aged, white women in straw hats talked loudly with Long Island accents.

The server splashed a thimble’s worth of red into their empty glasses. “This is our classic blend, with an earthiness and minerality that gives it that intense mouthfeel.”

To Lola, wine was wine. But she enjoyed the ceremony of the tasting, the swirling and sipping and guessing at the notes.

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