Out East

by John Glynn

  “The bees are gonna get some honey taaannighhttt,” he joked, the veins of his muscles bulging beneath his tank top.

  The Surf Lodge was Montauk’s buzziest hot spot, a dreamlike bohemia infused with meticulously curated art and sound. A former dive bar on the edge of Fort Pond, the twenty-room motel and restaurant hosted free concerts at sunset. A few years later an iconic artist would paint the lodge’s white façade with a Day-Glo swirl, but that summer its lines were sharp and clean. The “Slodge,” as we called it, was undoubtedly hip, but it channeled a polished, upscale vibe at odds with the community’s shabby charm. When we went, we went begrudgingly, knowing we were part of a contentious scene.

  Despite his new romantic interest, Matt and I struck the same natural rapport. He didn’t mention his dating life and I didn’t ask. The Surf Lodge was thronging with waiflike scenesters, travelers, and artists. We roamed the deck freely, taking in the lakeside views, the strings of lights, the glowing fire pits and pulsing tropical house music.

  The night was sequined with fashion and glamour—exotic necklaces, man buns, pops of leather. At the outdoor bar we ordered Endless Summers—a vodka drink mixed with crushed grapes. We danced to eighties music in the vaulted barn, beneath the old surfboards that lined the rafters. Back outside, bathed in moonlight, Ashley stopped midstride.

  “Oh my God.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Guys. There he is.”

  Across the deck stood Ashley’s Sloppy Tuna man. He was dressed simply, in a T-shirt, black jeans, and white sneakers. His teeth glowed white against his summer tan. I watched Ashley’s shoulders straighten, her gaze intensify. She nervously flipped her hair.

  “He’s coming this way. I need to go up to him. I need to say something.”

  She knifed through the crowd, lashing her bag behind her. Matt and I followed within earshot. We watched as she clasped his arm.

  “Hi, do you remember me?”

  “Uhhh…no.”

  “I saw you at the Sloppy Tuna over Memorial Day.”

  “What?”

  “And we crossed paths one day outside the Madison Avenue Equinox.”

  “Oh…umm…” He was rubbing the back of his head, his hockey hair rustling. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I’m Ashley. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too?”

  She turned to walk away. Even to an outside observer the exchange had been painful. I envied her courage but felt pangs of secondhand awkwardness.

  “Hey, wait,” he called, flummoxed. “Can I at least get your number?”

  She turned back, tamping down a smile.

  All roads led to Montauk, both figuratively and literally. That night at Surf Lodge the stars seemed closer, a promise of fates we might reach up and arrange. Stripped of the blaring obstructions of the city, Ashley sharpened her prayers. Montauk was a town built for kismet. A place where desire and destiny could overlap.

  She got home that night and her phone buzzed. A lengthy text message scrolled down her screen, filling her with an unfamiliar joy. Sloppy Tuna Man was leaving for Yacht Week in Croatia. Would she like to get dinner when he returned? Yes, she thought. She would like that very much.

  After Surf Lodge, Matt and I sat stargazing on the roof. We passed the aux cord back and forth, playing random songs from our devices. The others were inside.

  I hit shuffle and “Mack the Knife” came on. The song reminded me of Kicki. I told Matt how I said little prayers to her on my morning walk to the subway.

  “You must’ve been close with her,” he said.

  “She was my favorite person.”

  I tried to explain what Kicki had meant to me. I started with the small things. The way she always hung her laundry on the line. The way her beautiful penmanship resembled a crane opening its wings. She could have been an artist, an athlete. In one home video, she’s in her Easter sweater, all five-foot-one of her, shooting free throws in my cousins’ driveway. She swishes five in a row.

  On half days in the winter, she’d don a toggled coat and pick me up from school. Her car was a Crown Victoria the size of a small boat. The seat belts were encased with sheepskin pads. Over lunch she’d teach me how to draw. She’d play Crazy Eights with me. She took care of me when I was sick. She could peel an entire apple in one long waxy ribbon without it breaking.

  “She seems like the best grandmother,” Matt said. “I say little prayers to people, too.”

  We talked about how we prayed more to people than to God. We both sought religion through our relationships. Matt’s best friend, Kelley, was coming to the Hive the last weekend, and he was excited to introduce her to all of us. They’d met their freshman year at college. She was one of the first people he came out to. They both loved Céline Dion. During their senior year, Kelley was taking a shower and felt a lump. She was twenty-two. She went for a mammogram and brought Matt with her. She was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer and underwent chemotherapy and radiation. The cancer was still there but under control.

  “She spent a year working in DC and commuting home to Boston on the weekends for chemo. No one knew she was sick. She never once complained. She refuses to let it affect the way she lives her life. But it’s the worst thing in my life.”

  I could see the pain in Matt’s eyes. He was grappling with a fate he would never understand. I put myself in Kelley’s position, imagining what my life would look like if I knew my time was short. The threat of looming regrets, of unsaid words. My heart hurt for Matt’s friend, and for Matt.

  “She sounds amazing,” I said. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “She’ll love you, John.” We were lying on our backs, our legs touching. “I can’t wait for her to get to know you.”

  We stayed on the roof for hours, talking about everything from our families to the books we wanted to read to Hanson’s attempted comeback. He told me about his crippling fear of death, and I described my pervasive loneliness. He wrapped his hand around my wrist. We were strong and broken in the same way.

  Sunday arrived with its attendant torment. Some people wanted to stay out all day and go to dinner on Shelter Island. Others were scrambling back to the city. All of us suffered from a condition called the Sunday Scaries. The Scaries were a pathology of doom—born of alcohol consumption, impending work pressures, and existential dread. They struck without warning, descending like a dark curtain and lingering into Monday or Tuesday. Methods of treatment varied. Those lucky enough to have a partner clung tight. The less fortunate holed up with Netflix and Seamless. Others drank through them, or self-medicated in other ways.

  “Mike, I need the Trail Mix!” Kirsten called from her cocoon. It was noon and she had yet to leave bed. Mike came in with his plastic bag of pills, placing a Xanax on her tongue.

  We splurged on brunch at Navy Beach, a posh new spot on the Sound. Matt was on his phone most of the time, texting. He left for twenty minutes to take a call. This time I knew who was on the other end.

  “Mike, I can’t take it anymore.” I broke down back at the house. “He’s been texting and talking with his other guy all day. It’s real.”

  We were alone in the kitchen, the others down by the pool. It was four thirty and Matt had just left for Manhattan.

  “Look at it from his position. On paper you’re still straight. You’re not out. No one wants to be an experiment.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “No, I know. But he’d be right to have his guard up.”

  I felt myself starting to cry.

  “I’ve waited so long to connect with someone, and now that I finally have, it’s making me feel even more alone.”

  “John, you’re not alone. Every single person in this house loves you. I love you. You have so many amazing people in your life.”

  “I need to tell him.”

  “I agree. But you have to do it the right way. You don’t want to scare him off. You need to…be more like Ashley.”

  I knew exactly what he m
eant. Ashley had mastered the strategic long game. Sloppy Tuna Man was proof of her mystic skill.

  “Maybe I should talk to her,” I said.

  “You definitely should. She’s great at this kind of stuff. Plus she knows Matt better than I do.”

  The Hive had thinned out; the basement lay empty. I moved my belongings upstairs, laying out a dress shirt and work khakis for morning. We were driving back at dawn and I planned to head straight to the office.

  I reinflated an air mattress in the master bedroom where Mike and Kirsten were staying and unzipped a sleeping bag. I didn’t want to sleep alone.

  Ashley texted me that Monday at 11:38 a.m.

  Hi love! I’m taking colby out for bday drinks tmrw night (prob at diablo) around 8—if you want to come surprise/join in, lmk! Xoxoxo

  I’d reached a breaking point. I texted Ashley back.

  Hey sounds good I’m in. And also—do you think there’s any way just the two of us could grab a drink or a coffee or something this week? I’m in a bad headspace and need advice on something and I trust your opinion.

  She wrote back immediately. Of course! What are you up to tonight? I get out of an eyelash appt at 6:20. Free from 6:30 on.

  We met at Empellon Taqueria, a Mexican restaurant in the West Village. Ashley began most of her nights there. It was upscale and quiet, with white brick walls, gypsy lanterns, and floors of distressed wood. From there she could migrate to one of three preppy haunts: Village Tavern, Galway Hooker, or the Windsor.

  We sat at the bar and ordered spicy margaritas, a large Dalí-esque mural reflecting my own mystification. In the glow of tequila bottles, words seemed to fail me. I didn’t know if I was gay, straight, or bi, and I didn’t know if that mattered. But I knew the straight persona I had inhabited all summer couldn’t encapsulate my whole self.

  “So what’s up?” Ashley asked.

  I took a deep breath and launched in, my voice quick and low. I told her everything.

  She nodded, her face impassive. She spoke Matt’s last name, like a question, as if to clarify.

  “Yes. That Matt.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Is he the first guy you’ve had these feelings for?”

  “Yes. But I know this feeling. I’ve felt different versions of it before for girls. This is something even more intense.”

  She looked upset. I could tell she was fighting to maintain her composure. When she spoke again her voice was measured. “He’s the best. I adore him.”

  “I’m sorry to fling this on you. I know it’s probably unexpected.”

  “No, no. It’s not that at all. This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. You and Matt mesh so perfectly. You have the same heart. You’re so ideal for each other it makes me want to cry. It just…”

  She hunted through her Mary Poppins bag for her phone and scrolled through her messages. “Look.”

  It was a text from Matt.

  We met up last night and he asked me to be his boyfriend!! I said yes!! I can’t believe this! I’m so happy!

  I felt ill.

  “When did he send this to you?”

  “An hour ago.”

  I ordered another margarita, a shot of tequila, and a Tecate. I had never felt so devastated. Ashley did her best to lift my spirits. She wanted me to shift my thinking. Matt’s new relationship would last two, three months tops, she said. This wasn’t the end of our story. If I wanted to be with him, I’d have to be patient.

  “You’ll have to be strong. And strategic. But trust me. It’s going to work out. I’m going to help.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Hello Bees!

  If you’re on this email, that means you’re going out to the Hive for this coming weekend (8/23–8/25).

  Some items (READ THEY HAVE CHANGED)

  1) ABSOLUTELY NO MUSIC OUTSIDE. Keep every door closed and AC on. If we piss off the neighbors this weekend we are in trouble. If you see a neighbor, be nothing but kind and respectful.

  2) Hive cups—we are down to 20. We started with almost 200. They are not allowed to leave the house and if you have any please return them.

  3) Beds—Guests do not get beds, end of story. Beds include airbeds as well. As for Hive members, be respectful of each other. I can only police so much.

  4) TV—I need two or three of our stronger hivers to help move the TV from the game room upstairs to the living room. If you could help me do this at some point you’re exempt from cleaning.

  5) It’s Perrie’s birthday on Saturday! We’ll be having a pregame at the house followed by an early departure to Crow’s Nest or Moby Dick’s. (Unless she’s too cold of course.)

  6) Also, Congrats to Bradley on his engagement! Him and Nadia are both coming to the house this weekend so we have even more to celebrate. It’s going to be a great weekend!

  Room assignments below.

  Our penultimate weekend shimmered with light. Matt was home for a wedding, clearing space for me to mentally restore. Bradley, one of my favorites of the finance bros, and his girlfriend, Nadia, were engaged, and the Game Room took on a festive air. People started arriving on Thursday night, splurging on rental cars or borrowing from the ’burbs. Everyone was going to call in sick on Monday. We never wanted to leave.

  The house made room for twenty-six people, an all-star cast. Mike, Shane, Parker, D.Lo, Perrie, Kirsten, Ashley, Timmy, Tyler, and Arthur were all there, toasting to Bradley and Nadia. We were nearing the end, but refused to think about it. We were sun children chasing an eternal summer. Fall was a four-letter word.

  On Friday we went to Lynn’s Hula Hut, an open-air tiki bar pitched in the marina. Torches illuminated the hammocks, Adirondack chairs, and games of bag toss. Lynn herself was manning the bar. She was a salty spitfire with wild blond hair. Her cucumber-infused vodka drinks lulled me into a state of serenity. Calypso music morphed the air. It was a moment of relative peace. We grasped it, knowing it would not last.

  As a kid, I watched the soap opera All My Children. The women in our family, including Kicki, were devoted fans, and in the summers my cousins and I tuned in with equal fervor. After swim lessons my mom would make lunch and we’d laugh at the outlandish plot twists and arch dialogue, the histrionic flair of Erica Kane. It was a soap opera in the grand tradition. Tornadoes, earthquakes, bombs, car accidents, heart transplants, pregnancies, miscarriages, weddings, and abductions all struck Pine Valley at the exact same time. If you fell off a waterfall and they found your body, you were dead. If you fell off a waterfall and they didn’t find your body, you’d return four years later with amnesia. Everyone had an evil twin. Everyone got stuck in an elevator. Everyone hung out at the hospital. Everyone visited without calling. Everyone had just the right comeback. Everyone knew everyone.

  All My Children had been canceled in 2011, but an online revival had launched that summer. I watched each night before sleep, comforted by the familiar characters and their improbable schemes. Pine Valley reminded me of my family. My mom and I texted about the story lines.

  The Hive, I realized, was a real-life soap opera. Affairs, secrets, sickness and addiction, toxic love and boiling resentments—all found a place between the house’s hot walls.

  After the Hula Hut we rode into town. The Point wasn’t too crowded, so we took to the dance floor. Mike and Parker were inseparable. They kept going shot for shot, their elbows touching.

  On the way home, Shane was drunk and angry. He was convinced the cabdriver was trying to upcharge us. A smuggled drink sloshed in his hand.

  The cab pulled into our driveway.

  “I’m not paying for this,” Shane huffed. We each owed ten dollars.

  “Shane, come on,” I said.

  “Nope.” He got out of the car and slammed the door. I hurriedly handed the driver a wad of cash, enough to cover us both.

  “You owe me,” I said to Shane as he sloped up the stairs.

  “I don’t owe you shit.” He finished his drink and tossed the glass down the deck. “You can clean that up, to
o. God knows I’ve done enough for you and this goddamn house.”

  I’d spent all summer tolerating Shane’s catty entitlement. I lost it.

  “You haven’t done anything for me,” I yelled. “You’ve been a nonstop dick all summer.”

  “Fuck you, John.”

  “Fuck you, Shane. You’re the fucking worst.”

  “No, you’re the worst. You’re worse than the worst. You’re nothing. At least I know who the fuck I am.”

  I grabbed the wet glass, anger tapering through my veins. Had I stopped to reflect, I would’ve realized why Shane was truly upset. He’d watched Mike and Parker dancing together all night. Their connection was obvious to everyone. Mike was pushing Shane out. But I couldn’t access that more rational plane of thinking. And deep down I knew he was right.

  I suspected Shane knew about me, even before that night. A growing hostility had punctured our interactions. Whenever I wingmanned for the finance bros, he eyed me with simmering contempt. I understood this and didn’t blame him. I was clinging to a false identity and its attendant privilege, seamlessly passing between two worlds.

  The others were already home and playing music in the kitchen. Shane went straight to his room and shut the door.

  Ashley cooked burgers in a pan. Kirsten and I opened a tub of vanilla ice cream. Colby filled a Yankees cup with rosé. He started eating chips and getting crumbs all over the floor.