“Who makes that skirt?” he asked Jamie, and Allison again cringed at his question. But Jamie showed no reserve in answering, “It’s Alice and Olivia.” Frustrated, Allison was awaiting the moment Jamie would just shoot him down already. Only that’s when it hit her. Jamie may have been clearly involving herself with Jeff, but there was no easy way she could label it (“I don’t have a boyfriend...but I do have a recurrent Hamptons-hookup situation you should know about”?). And so Allison advised Brian he should probably clue Zach in.
“Dude, she’s already hooking up with someone in this house,” Brian said as they escorted him upstairs to put down his things. “That guy Jeff you met.”
Letting out a hearty chuckle, Zach seemed to find his friend’s warning particularly amusing. “And by hooking up, you mean ‘kissed once’?”
“No, by hooking up I mean done. Off-limits. In-house territory.”
Naturally, Zach wasn’t thrilled to hear it. But aware that the early bird makes out with the worm, and assuming the weekend would bring plenty of other opportunities, Zach hardly minded this one restriction.
He was only first learning the laws of the jungle.
Later, when they were basking on lounge chairs during the guys’ brief volleyball interlude (Allison to Brian’s right, and Zach, Dave, and Rob sprawled out in a line to his left), Allison followed Zach’s gaze all the way to Tara/Jocelyn (whichever one was currently hooking up with Josh). This time, however, Zach knew to preface his interest with inquiry.
“What’s her story?”
Brian, Dave, and Rob all exchanged glances, as if drawing straws over who had to tell Zach the news.
“In house,” Brian said. And, rather unnecessarily, he jerked his head upward and gestured to Josh with his chin. “She’s hooking up with that loser.”
Not wasting any time, Zach transferred his gaze to a blonde in a black cutout bikini. “Blonde, ten o’clock?” As he said this, the girl they called Tush got up and exposed her hefty rear end. “Screw that. Her?” He pointed to one of the Turtle Clan.
Alarmed, Rob rose up in his chair. “That’s the girl I’ve been talking to on Friendster.”
“Damn,” Zach exclaimed, with a hostility Allison thought warranted only by car damage. But then he jokingly raised an eyebrow at the three Pale Riders, playing (unseductively) at the pool’s edge with the canoodles. “Don’t tell me they’re off-limits, too?”
“Nope,” Dave decreed, flipping open his palm in presentation. “All yours.”
Unfortunately, Dave’s generosity didn’t exactly extend to Star Room that evening. Walking in, at first Zach seemed relieved by the plethora of (unmarked) possibilities. And, drunk as a skunk off the abundance of Ketel One vodka he’d consumed during the pre-game, he soon worked up the nerve to approach a girl in a—Dolce & Gabbana?—floral wrap top. But after he rejoined the group following a lengthy conversation, Dave was quick to set him straight.
“You can’t go there,” he said. “That’s the girl I hooked up with at Marquee two months ago. I’ve been meaning to hit that up again.”
“Bullshit,” Zach said, his patience growing thin.
Dave scrolled furiously through his phone, working himself up into a noticeable frenzy. “See? I have her right here. Jenn Marquee, two stars.”
Though she’d attempted to stay out of the conversation, this was enough to make Allison break her silence. “Two stars?” she gasped, and even though it rang out like a question, the only item in question was his nerve.
“Relax, two stars is good,” Dave assured her, defending the rating more so than the necessity to assign one. “I only give three stars to, like, models or celebrities.” Remembering the conflict, he turned abrasively to Zach. “Anyway, I’ve got dibs.”
“Fuck that,” Zach said. “You can’t call dibs on every girl in the Hamptons.” As if a happiness spell had just washed over him, he smiled that scandalous, big-toothed smile. “I’m going to hook up with her.”
Before Dave could react, Zach ran off. Outraged, Dave bolted behind him.
Now left alone with Brian, Allison couldn’t shake her disgust. She felt almost as if she’d intruded on something inherently male that no girl should have to observe.
“Calling dibs? Do you guys really do that?” Allison confronted her boyfriend, whose gaze seemed to be stuck in the direction his friends had disappeared. “How can guys stake claims without considering what the girls want? Don’t they realize girls will like who they’re going to like, no matter who called dibs?”
Brian simply shrugged as if to say What are you gonna do? Then, excusing himself, he promptly sprinted off so as not to miss another minute of the pissing contest.
Allison wandered back over to find her friends, who were stationed around the communal house table. Though it wasn’t long before she found herself in conversation with Steve.
This wasn’t all that surprising, as talking to Steve was practically effortless. True, she didn’t feel the same excitement she felt when speaking to other guys, but none of the nervousness, either. As if he’d been a psychotherapist in another lifetime, Steve lacked any inclination to be judgmental, prompting her to freely let her guard down. Prompting her to feel—undilutedly—like herself. And as she spoke, he received her words with an attentiveness she found refreshing—highly contrary to Brian, who was often more preoccupied with what he planned to say next.
Though at one point Allison was startled to look up and discover Brian glaring at her from across the room. Angrily, he about-faced and retreated off in a juvenile huff. However, this time, Allison felt not guilt but indignation, deciding they would have to later discuss exactly what a relationship entailed.
And even though Brian was the one overreacting, so as not to be held culpable, Allison wanted to make sure Steve knew where he stood. Awkward as it was, she laid it all out there.
“I’m not sure if you knew this. But Brian”—she pointed to the spot where he’d been standing—“is my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said even-temperedly. “He made that pretty clear at the meet and greet.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, assuming that Steve had observed their chemistry even then.
Steve hesitated, then proceeded anyway. “He called dibs on you at DIP that night. Said you two had something, and told all the other guys who might have been interested to back off.” Color rushed to his face, and he flashed her a shy smile.
“What?” Allison spat, not sure if she was flattered or stunned. Perhaps she was a bit of both. “I had no idea.” Then she added, “And people just listen? What if I wasn’t into him?”
Steve shrugged. “Apparently he was right.”
But was he? Allison wondered. Now recalling what she’d said about “dibs” moments ago, she felt like a fool. Instantly, she flashed back to that initial meet-and-greet night—to every subsequent night. Come to think of it, had Brian really chosen her, and not vice versa? Had it really been about him, or had he just so happened to be in the right place at the right time? And as everyone kept suggesting to her, had they really needed to rush into a relationship so fast?
Still, when Brian found her again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders in an offering of truce, every last reservation melted away. And as he relayed how Zach had triumphed and escorted the girl home, she was reminded how grateful she was to no longer be on a wild goose chase.
This was enough to dismiss Steve’s shocking comment, and the immature way Brian had acted. The former she’d relegated to a compliment, and the latter was merely in the nature of the beast: jealousy in a relationship was just something she should expect.
So Allison put it all behind her—until back at the house that night, when she discovered something she absolutely didn’t expect. Lounging on Brian’s bed while he was changing, she leaned her arm back and onto a piece of clothing. Uncrumpling it, she saw it was a navy blue polo shirt. “Is this yours?” she called out to him.
Brian stuck his head out of the clo
set. “No, I think that’s Zach’s.”
Laying it out to fold, on closer inspection, Allison noticed that a corner of the John Varvatos label was becoming detached. Taking it upon herself to peel it (in the way a label shouldn’t peel), she revealed—lo and behold—an Old Navy one beneath it. Speechless, she held the shirt far from her body like some kind of explosive.
What was this? To think that someone so morbidly fascinated with designers was himself an impostor!
Snapping alert as Brian joined her on the bed, she stood up momentarily so he could pull back the sheets. “Coming? Or are you planning to bunk with some dork down the hall? And by dork, I mean Steve.”
Ignoring his comment, Allison debated showing her discovery to Brian. She decided not to, as it wasn’t her style to mock someone’s designer deficiency, and instead left it to nature to take its course.
Still mystified, Allison tossed the shirt onto Zach’s luggage. And as she climbed into bed with Brian—the guy she wasn’t sure she was in love with, yet who held the title of her boyfriend—Allison couldn’t imagine why anyone would be so desperate for a label.
Chapter Sixteen
When the lights go out, when the sun goes down, there is a dark side to the Hamptons share house. A mysterious side, an illegitimate side, a scary side. A side no one dared acknowledge, but that Rachel knew existed all the same: at night, in private, behind closed doors.
For such reasons, she’d learned at the summer’s onset to close—and lock—her own prior to falling sleep. On occasions it escaped her—occasions like tonight. And that meant she was guaranteed a visit from a certain uninvited guest.
“Dave, get out!” she shrieked, pushing his face away from her neck and rolling his body forcefully over the bed’s edge. It hit the floor solidly, with one loud thump: the signature thump of the notorious late-night bed-hopper.
Renowned for preying on girls in their sleep, Dave—fueled by both his intoxication level and his unruly hormones—would slip silently into shareholders’ beds and rouse them for some last-minute late-night action. More shocking than the significant number who thrust him violently to the floor was the 50 percent whom Dave alleged did not reject his efforts.
Rachel never had been, and never would be, one of them.
“Get out!” she screamed again when he rose from the ground only to creep back in her direction. “Go try some other girl’s bed!”
She was only kidding, but as he slammed the door shut and stumbled noisily down the hall, Rachel imagined that was his exact intention. Wiping her neck clean of his saliva, it never failed to repulse her how, after normal people had surrendered all hopes of a romantic connection and retired for the evening, the bed-hopper’s hunt for chemistry was only beginning.
And as a result, Rachel’s night’s sleep had been brought to a premature end. She grabbed her cell phone, nestled in its charger beside her, and was outraged to see that it was 4:58 AM. But quickly her anger gave way to an entirely different emotion: fear.
More accurately, 5 AM fear. Fear, incited by the very hour in a share house that unnerved Rachel the most. The hour she’d seldom actually experienced, but—on account of others’ horrific tales—preferred to pass in her bed, fast asleep. The hour when nothing good ever happened, and everything unkosher (sexual, illegal, or belligerent) always seemed to. The wheeling-and-dealing Hamptons witching hour, now upon her.
Peering around the dark, silent room did nothing to calm her fears when she found herself alone. This wasn’t exactly a shocking development; she presumed Jamie was sleeping in another room with Jeff, and Allison in yet another one with Brian. But, as uncomfortable as bunking with a couple had always made her, it was even worse not to have at least one of her friends beside her. In fact, even at a loss for bed-deprived drunken strangers, Rachel found sleeping alone in a room in the Hamptons to be much like getting a great table in an empty restaurant: in theory you should like it, but something about the vacancy weirds you out.
Not to mention the fact that it was freezing. And not just throw-on-a-sweatshirt-for-the-summer-breeze freezing—more like middle-of-the-winter-in-Alaska freezing. But it was just the luck of the draw that they’d gotten a room with exceptional air-conditioning (the central air was pumped extra high, to make up for rooms like Craig’s, in which it supposedly “barely pumped at all”). And so, rolling her body into a ball and huddling under her nonexistent sheet (which she’d brought instead of a comforter, because it was easier to pack), Rachel longed for the big poufy bedding back at her room in the city. That, in addition to a winter coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. Maybe she shouldn’t have spurned the bed-hopper’s efforts, if only for sake of body heat!
But she and Dave weren’t the only two awake. As Rachel lay there shivering, she felt like a spy eavesdropping on the sounds the door didn’t stifle, the voices of gung-ho partiers attempting to fend off morning. Oddly, she’d never wanted to be among them, but somehow, being without her friends in this scenario made her suddenly fearful of being discovered—as if she were hiding. As if they were the cool kids who stayed up at night doing cool things, and she was an uptight loser whose true prudish nature would be revealed when they opened the door. Finding her there, alone.
Dana would never be alone if she were here, Rachel instantly thought, turning over. Dana simply wasn’t the “lonely” type. Rather, she was the type who’d likely be off with some guy, who would rise late the next day after a roguishly sleepless night and relay the details of all that had transpired in the interim to some Rachel type—the type who would pop up first thing with the sun, feeling (shamefully) rested. Why couldn’t she be more like Dana? Rachel wondered. Why did she have to be lonely? But of course, Rachel knew why. It was because, in a share house, the opposite of loneliness was promiscuity.
But even that she was beginning to reconsider. What was the big deal with hooking up anyway? she now wondered. Why hadn’t she just paired off with someone—perhaps even Aaron, who’d recently almost redeemed himself. Conjuring up his schoolboy face, Rachel tried to envision what it would be like sleeping in his bed with him, and (considering the alternative) wasn’t all that opposed to the idea. At that moment, Rachel wished she were anywhere rather than here—with anybody rather than nobody. Why, any body at all.
Unable to fall back asleep for what felt like a lifetime, Rachel waited until her bladder was nearly ready to burst (and the voices outside had practically quieted) before venturing to the bathroom. Raising her head from the tiny square throw pillow she’d grabbed from the couch (only fractionally as comfortable as the one she should have brought from her bed at home), Rachel rose to her feet. Poking her head outside her door, she was surprised to find not a single other person. Assuming she was in the clear, she rounded the bend and glanced down the long narrow hallway, only to spot the figures. Well, the backs of the shirts of the figures. She recognized those shirts from earlier that night at the pre-drink, as well as the door they were standing in front of. Then she watched as Aaron and Steve (who’d broken off from the group that night) led two stylish brunettes inside their room and closed the door.
The sound of the door clicking shut sent a chill throughout Rachel’s already arctic body. She scurried the rest of the way to the bathroom, feeling her pulse race as she locked herself inside it. Letting out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, Rachel stared questioningly back at her reflection (which really wasn’t so repulsive?). Her mind flashed back to the disturbing scene she’d just witnessed. Who were those girls? she asked the face in the mirror gazing back at her. And what were they doing—what was Aaron doing—behind that closed door?
Surely he was hooking up, she told herself. (The way you tell yourself you flunked an exam so your B2 doesn’t feel that bad.) It would have been foolish of her to assume otherwise (though they honestly could have just been friends, in dire need of a place to crash...she really couldn’t know for sure). Or maybe he hooked up all the time, maybe he more than just hooked up, maybe there was more
than just one bed-hopper in this share house. And maybe it was now entirely too late for Rachel to care.
Moving aside no fewer than five used beer cups, Rachel washed her hands and face in the sink. Still, the girl in the glass remained just as mystified. This was ridiculous! She could have hooked up with him weeks ago if that’s what she wanted...was that what she wanted? He had clearly liked her, and she was the one who shut that door, who forced him to pick a different door—a wrong one—and to do behind it...well, that was the question.
Deciding she couldn’t mull this over in the bathroom all night, Rachel slowly retreated to her room. With each step, her bare sole against the wood produced a soft rhythmic creak—one that was instantly drowned out by an obscenely loud knocking. And once more, Rachel found herself stopped in her tracks.
The knocking clearly emanated from downstairs, clearly from the front door. This was disconcerting, because it immediately told Rachel this wasn’t someone who belonged. The fact that the door was always left unlocked was something the impostor had yet to discover, but in a matter of minutes probably would.
Ignore it, Rachel thought, taking another step forward. As if the knocker could sense this, the pounding (of a varied pitch) sounded this time from the window—its instigator having cleverly shifted a significant two feet over. That’s around when Rachel realized this person wasn’t going anywhere.
Fleeing to the stairwell and draping herself over the banister, Rachel could see the door quake as the knocker returned. It grew louder and louder from neglect, to the point it sounded violent. But as if her feet were superglued to the floor and her hands to the railing, Rachel couldn’t move.
How the Other Half Hamptons Page 20