Page 25 of Bad Summer People
“We’re doing great,” said Jessica. “Beth was just recounting her fight with Lauren. How are you?”
“As good as I can be, alone with two monster children and no husband to help.” Jen thought it best not to bring up that Jeanette did have a live-in nanny with her for the summer. Let her have her moment.
“That must be so hard,” said Jessica.
“He’s such a loser,” said Beth. “Kevin would never, ever do that to me.” Jeanette scowled as Beth blew on. “Jen, you’re a psychologist—why do men cheat so much?”
It’s not just men,thought Jen. “Oh, it’s a host of reasons,” she said gamely. “Self-esteem issues, anger issues, the need for variety. And then there’s the simple answer—one partner isn’t in love with the other.”
That shut them all up.
Jen took the moment of silence to say goodbye and wander away. She looked out the big bay windows toward the deck to see if Sam was still there. He was, standing with Paul and Emily. Jason was also with them now. Lauren was nowhere in sight. She waved hi to Theo Burch and Erica Todd as they passed, headed inside for another drink. Jen didn’t want to go outside to Sam, but she didn’t want to chat with anyone else, either. She was tired and irritated by both men in her life. Jason for being too clingy, and Sam for possibly knowing too much. She headed out back toward the tennis courts for some air, sitting on a bench that faced out toward the “stadium court,” the only court that had room for spectators, the one on which all the tournament finals were played. The sprinklers were on, wetting the green clay, and Jen felt a second of calm before two strange things happened. First, she saw Lauren coming out from the little tennis hut that the pros used for storage. Lauren was smoothing down her navy dress, and she spotted Jen immediately. Instead of saying hi, Lauren smiled in a distant manner, as if Jen were an acquaintance rather than a good friend. Then she turned around and walked toward the outdoor deck of the club.
A minute or so later, Jen heard a loud crack inside the hut, as if something had been thrown against the wall. What—or who—was that? But filled with enough of her own skeletons, Jen decided not to investigate. She quietly got up and walked back into the club, steeling herself for more inane chat and a husband who possibly hated her.
13Micah Holt
Micah Holt was drunk. He’d overdone it at the club after his shift ended, taking shots with his friends until the lights came up at 1:00 a.m. He was now lying in his bed, at his parents’ house on Navy Walk, and his head was spinning. He tried to focus on a spot on a ceiling, but it just kept going around and around, so he shut his eyes tightly. He knew he should probably make himself throw up—tomorrow would be miserable otherwise. But he didn’t feel like dragging himself to the bathroom and risking his parents’ hearing him retching. He was too old for his mom to chide him for drinking too much.
Micah pulled up his cozy green comforter, inhaling its familiar, fresh Fire Island scent. He’d spent every summer here since he was born. It was where he felt happiest, a fact he was more than a little ambivalent about. At college, he protested against income inequality. He and his friends spent ages circling the question of their own complicity in society’s ills. Being gay didn’t get him off the hook, especially since he’d grown up in a bastion of gay acceptance. He was wealthy and white, and he did feel guilt accordingly.
And yet, here he was, thrilled to be back in this enclave of privilege. There were barely even any other gay people here! Just one lesbian couple, Karen and Shannon Travis, who’d inherited a house on East Walk from Shannon’s parents. Ah, well. Wasn’t that just life? Enjoying things you weren’t supposed to enjoy?
Micah thought about what he’d seen at the July 4 party. He was nowtotally convinced that Jen Weinstein and Jason Parker were having an affair. Early in the evening, Jen had been sitting at the bar with the beautiful tennis pro, Robert, whose gaze Micah had been trying to catch for days. Could he possibly be into guys? He was so good-looking and so hard to read. Even Micah wasn’t sure what his deal was. Jason had approached them, Robert took off, and Micah saw Jason try to touch Jen’s hand. She’d immediately left Jason on his own, angrily sipping his martini, an off-putting scowl on his chiseled face.
Micah had been busy; parties at the yacht club were pure chaos for the staff, people packing in at the bar and shouting for his attention. “Micah, get me three chardonnays, two Stellas, and a vodka on the rocks!” “Micah, Micah, we need a round of Casamigos!” “Micah, my boy, where’s that whiskey I’ve been asking for?” And on and on. Rather than feeling overwhelmed, Micah thrived on the attention. He’d done musical theater in high school, and this was the closest he now got to the thrill of being onstage.
Jason sat on his stool for the better part of an hour, eyeing Micah, which Micah noticed but tried to ignore. Finally, during a rare lull, Jason flagged him over.
“Another martini, Jason?” Micah asked, easy breezy.
“Sure, Micah. And also…” Jason softened his voice. “I wanted to thank you for keeping my little walk the other night to yourself. I appreciate your discretion. You’ve always been a good kid.”
Micah, a bit creeped out, felt his face get hot. He nodded and went back to his drinks station, determined to avoid Jason as best as possible. (Which, given the nature of this town, he knew was a losing battle.)
A little while later, Micah watched as Sam Weinstein stomped out the front door, followed shortly thereafter by Jen, a neutral smile in place, as always.
Lying in his bed, feeling the warmth of vodka rise in his throat, it struck Micah that maybe it wasn’t a question ofifpeople were liars but just of how big a liar you were. After Micah’s shift ended, he’d texted Ronan to see if they could meet up at the beach. They’d been seeing each other every few days, and Micah was starting to miss him when they wereapart. It was a dangerous feeling, bound to end in heartache, he knew. But he couldn’t help it. He loved Ronan’s sweet vulnerability, that he was so different from the self-consciously clever crowd Micah hung with. But Ronan never texted back. It was the first time that had happened, and Micah felt confused and hurt. So, as typical of twenty-year-olds throughout time, he’d drowned his sorrows in alcohol. He and Willa had stumbled home together, Willa peeling off at Anchor walk and Micah continuing to Navy, lucky to not have fallen off the boardwalk as he did. You could kill yourself that way.
PART IIIJuly 24
14Rachel Woolf
The Bay Picnic was Rachel Woolf’s favorite day of the entire summer. It was always on the last Saturday of July, and they’d gotten perfect weather this year, eighty degrees and sunny, without a lick of humidity in the sea air. This evening, the entire town would gather on the bayfront on the west side of town, in the sandy area between Bay Promenade and the bulkhead. At 4:00 p.m. on the dot, the town security started letting people set up—everyone raced to put down beach chairs at their preferred picnic spot, a ritual that had, more than once, ended in minor violence (couched in “accidental” elbowing). Then, at 6:00, people brought their picnic spreads, the more elaborate the better—grilled steak, gourmet sliders with meat from Pat LaFrieda, huge raw seafood towers piled with pounds and pounds and pounds of shrimp. Families formed picnic pods and had been paired up for years; you couldn’t switch who you picnicked with, even if you hadn’t spoken to them in ages (or actively hated each other). There was a Beatles cover band set up in the center of it all—four long-haired white guys crooning “Hey Jude”—while Salcombians ate and mingled as the sun set, sampling other families’ feasts and drinking copious amounts of premade margaritas and wine. The kids ran around wild.
To Rachel, the annual Bay Picnic represented the best a town like this had to offer—old-fashioned fun, a community feel, and plenty of alcohol. Plus, there was always lots to untangle and gossip about the next day.
This year, as for the past decade, she was eating with the Weinsteins, the Parkers, the Grobels, and the Metzners. Their little crew had a tradition ofdoing a Mexican theme, and each couple was given a course to take care of. (Rachel was the only singleton in the group, but that wasn’t mentioned.) She’d been assigned appetizers this season, and she planned to do nachos, a selection of salsas, and homemade guacamole—no red onions, per Lauren’s request.
Jen, Emily, and Lisa were splitting the mains—quesadillas, grilled corn with cotija cheese, and fish tacos. And Lauren was bringing dessert. She’d ordered churros from Boqueria in New York City, which were set to arrive on the boat that afternoon. One of Lauren’s mom friends from Braeburn did PR for that restaurant group, and Lauren had called in a favor.
Rachel had spent that morning prepping—assembling the nachos, which she’d stick in the oven at 5:00 p.m., picking the best bowls to display her variety of salsas, ordered from a specialty store in Los Angeles that she’d read about inCondé Nast Traveler.She’d make the guacamole last, right before she left, as otherwise it’d go brown. And there was nothing worse than brown guacamole, was there?
At 11:00, she had a tennis game. Rachel and Emily were taking on Lauren and Jen. Jen wasn’t part of their tennis crowd, but she’d asked Rachel repeatedly to include her. This was Jen’s shot. Rachel had seen her taking some lessons with Robert and also in games with B-level players like Beth and Jeanette. She wasn’t sure Jen could hang with them, but she was fine to give her a chance. Any practice for Rachel and Emily was good practice. Plus, the idea of Lauren and Jen being partners amused Rachel in a dark way. She was still the only one who knew about Jen and Jason. She’d told Sam that Jen was cheating on him withsomeone(he had a right to know, didn’t he?). But she hadn’t yet delivered the blow that it was his best friend.
He’d been hounding her for more information in the few weeks since, pulling her aside at parties, sitting next to her at the beach, trying to wear her down. But she’d held her ground, informing him that it wasn’t her place to give him more details. She had to admit, she enjoyed the attention, as well as the stormy way he spoke about Jen with her.
Rachel walked over to the courts at five to 11:00, fresh in one of her Adidas dresses and Oakley sunglasses. They weren’t the most flattering, but Rachel couldn’t see in the midday sun without them, and her momhad always taught her that when it came to sports, function trumped fashion. Lauren hadn’t gotten that memo. She arrived next, in a tight white dress that came down low in the front. Had Lauren pulled her breasts up in her sports bra for even more cleavage? Rachel could tell she’d applied makeup, but it was the “no-makeup makeup” look that only someone like Lauren could pull off. Lauren was more naturally pretty than almost any of the women in town, maybe except for Jen, depending on your taste. Rachel wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup other than lip balm with SPF. As usual, she felt cowed by Lauren’s appearance and air. The only time she felt more powerful than Lauren was on the court, occasionally, when her serve didn’t abandon her. Rachel reminded herself that for all of Lauren’s beauty and style, her husband was having sex with another woman. That made her feel somewhat better.
