'Here.' Hillary sets bowls, spoons, and a box of Rice Krispies on the table. 'Enjoy.'
Marcus opens the box and pours some into his bowl. He looks across the table at me. 'Want some?'
I nod, and he prepares my bowl. He doesn't ask anyone else if they want cereal, just pushes the box down the table.
'Banana?' he asks me.
'Yes, please.'
He peels the banana and slices it into his bowl and mine, alternating every few slices. He takes the bruised section for himself. We are sharing a banana. This means something. Dex's eyes dart my way as Marcus flicks the last neat cylinder into my bowl, leaving the nasty end piece in its peel where it belongs.
Several hours later, we are finally ready to go to the beach. Claire and Darcy emerge from their rooms with their stylish canvas bags filled to the brim with plush new beach towels, magazines, lotions, thermoses, cell phones, and makeup. Hillary carries only a small bath towel from the house and a Frisbee. I am somewhere in between with a beach towel, my Discman, and a bottle of water. The six of us walk in a row, our flip-flops smacking the pavement with that satisfying sound of summer. Claire and Hillary walk on either end, flanking the house couple and the possible couple-to-be. We cross the beach parking lot and climb over the dune, hesitating for a second to take in our first collective glimpse of the ocean. I am glad that I no longer live in landlocked Indiana, where people call Lake Michigan 'the beach.' The view is thrilling. It almost makes me forget that I slept with Dex.
Dex leads the way down the crowded beach, finding us a spot halfway between the dunes and the ocean where the sand is still soft but even enough to spread our towels. Marcus puts his towel next to mine; Darcy is on my other side, Dex next to her. Hillary and Claire set up in front of us. The sun is bright but not too hot. Claire warns us all about the UV rays, that these are the days when you really have to be careful. 'You can get severe sun damage and not even realize it until it's too late,' she says.
Marcus offers to put suntan lotion on my back.
'No, thanks,' I say. But as I struggle to reach the middle of my back, he takes the bottle from me and applies the lotion, meticulously maneuvering around the edges of my suit.
'Do mine, Dex,' Darcy says cheerfully, shedding her white shorts and squatting in front of Dex in her black bikini. 'Here. Use the coconut oil, please.'
Claire bemoans the lack of SPF in the oil, says we are too old to keep tanning and that Darcy will be sorry when the wrinkles set in. Darcy rolls her eyes and says she doesn't care about wrinkles, she lives in the moment. I know I will get an earful later, that Darcy will tell me that Claire is just jealous because her fair skin goes straight from white to bright pink. 'You'll regret it when you're forty,' Claire says, her face shaded by a huge straw hat.
'No I won't. I'll just get laser resurfacing.' Darcy adjusts her bikini top and then coats more oil on her calves, using quick, efficient strokes.
I have watched her grease up for more than fifteen years now. Every summer her goal was to have a savage tan. Often we would lie out in her backyard with a big tub of Crisco, a bottle of Sun-In, and a garden hose for periodic relief. It was absolute torture. But I suffered through it believing that dark pigmentation was a virtue of sorts. My skin is pale like Claire's, so every day Darcy would surge further ahead.
Claire remarks that cosmetic surgery won't cure skin cancer.
'Oh, for Pete's sake!' Darcy says. 'Stay under your damn hat then!'
Claire opens her mouth and then closes it quickly, looking injured. 'Sorry. I was just trying to help.'
Darcy shoots her a conciliatory smile. 'I know, hon. Didn't mean to snap at you.'
Dex looks at me and makes a face, as if to say that he wishes both of them would shut up. It is the first direct communication we have had all day. I allow myself to smile back at him. His face breaks into a glorious grin. He is so handsome that it hurts. Like looking at the sun. He stands for a moment to adjust his towel, which has folded over in the wind. I look at his back and then down at his calves, feeling a surge of remembrance. He was in my bed. Not that I want a repeat performance. But oh, he has a nice body-lean but broad. I am not a body person, but I still appreciate a perfect one. He sits back down just as I look away.
Marcus asks if anybody wants to play Frisbee. I say no, that I am too tired, but what I am thinking is that the last thing I want to do is run around with my soft, white stomach poking out of my tankini. But Hillary is a taker and off they go, the portrait of two well-adjusted beach-goers leaving the rest of us to our trifling.
'Hand me my shirt,' Darcy says to Dex.
'Please?'
'The 'please' is a given,' Darcy says.
'Say it,' he says, popping a cinnamon Altoid into his mouth.
Darcy hits him hard in the stomach.
'Ouch,' he says in a monotone, to indicate that it didn't hurt in the slightest.
She winds up to hit him again, but he grabs her wrist.
'Try to behave. You're such a child,' he says fondly. His edginess of this morning is gone.
'I am not,' she says, sidling over to his towel. She presses her fingers into his chest, poised for a kiss.
I put on my sunglasses and look away. To say that what I am feeling is not jealousy is a stretch.
That night we all go to a party in Bridgehampton. The house is huge with a beautiful L-shaped pool surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and at least twenty tiki torches. I scan the guests in the backyard, noticing all of the purple, hot pink, and orange dresses and skirts. It seems that every woman read the same 'bright colors are in, black is out' article that I read. I followed the advice and bought a lime green sundress that is too vivid and memorable to wear again before August, which means it will cost me about one hundred and fifty dollars per wear. But I am pleased with my choice until I see the same dress, about two sizes smaller, on a slender blonde. She is much taller than I am, so the dress is shorter on her, exposing an endless stretch of bronzed thigh. I make a conscious effort to stay on the opposite side of the pool from her.
I go to the bathroom, and on my way back to find Hillary, I get stuck talking to Hollis and Dewey Malone. Hollis used to work at my firm but quit the day after she got engaged to Dewey. Dewey is unattractive and humorless, but he has a huge trust fund. Hence Hollis's interest. It was amusing to hear Hollis explain to us that Dewey has such a 'big heart,' blah blah blah, trying in vain to disguise her true intentions. I am envious of Hollis's escape from firm hell, but I would rather be stuck billing than married to Dewey.
'My life is so much better now,' she chirps tonight. 'That firm was poison! It was so stifling! I thought I might miss the intellectual stimulation… but I don't. Now I have time to read the classics and think. It's great. So liberating.'
'Uh-huh… That's nice,' I say, taking mental notes to share with Hillary later.
Hollis goes on to tell me about their penthouse on the park and how she's been working so hard on decorating it and has had to fire three designers for not adhering to her vision. Dewey contributes nothing to the conversation, just crunches his ice and looks bored. Once I catch him staring at Darcy's butt, packed neatly into a pair of tight magenta Capri pants.
Marcus is suddenly beside me. I introduce him to Dewey and Hollis. Dewey shakes his hand and then continues to mouth-breathe and look distracted. Hollis promptly asks Marcus where he lives and what he does for a living. Apparently his Murray Hill address and his marketing job don't quite measure up because they find an excuse to move on to more worthy guests.
Marcus raises his eyebrows. 'Dewey, huh?'
'Yeah.'
'Dooo heee have a stick up his ass or what?'
I laugh.
He looks proud of his joke, pleased to make me laugh.
'So, are you having fun?'
'I guess so. You?'
He shrugs. 'The people here kind of take themselves seriously, don't they?'
'That's the Hamptons.'
I survey the party. It is a far cry from neighborhood barbecues back in Indiana. Part of me feels satisfied that I have expanded my horizons. But a larger part of me feels uncomfortable every time I come to a party like this one. I am a poser, attempting to mingle with people who consider Indiana to be mere flyover country-necessary terrain to cross on their trips to Aspen or Los Angeles. I watch Darcy making her rounds with Dex at her side. There is no trace of Indy left in her; to watch her you would guess that she grew up on Park Avenue. Her kids will grow up in
