By the time we hung up, the house was booked.
The Hamptons felt like a victory lap.
Westhampton was buzzing—traffic inching along dune-lined roads, music spilling from open car windows, people already sunburned by noon. The house Tony scored was ridiculous in the way only Hamptons houses are: weathered shingles, wraparound deck, enough bedrooms to lose people in.
Everyone was giddy.
Beth kept laughing like she couldn’t believe this was real life. Chris cracked open beers before the bags were even unpacked. Mark disappeared to scout the beach. Dan was already arguing about playlists.
It felt good to be back inside the noise of my friends.
To remember who I was before everything became couple-centric.
Sage fit in instantly.
She always did.
On the beach, she was magnetic—turquoise bikini, skin glowing, sunglasses low on her nose. She laughed loud, played hard, kissed me like she wanted everyone watching to know I was hers.
And I liked that.
I liked how she wound herself around me during volleyball breaks, how she whispered in my ear when someone made a bad call, how she drank straight from the cooler like it was hers.
It felt like the best version of us.
For a while.
The beer count crept up without anyone really tracking it. Someone switched to canned cocktails. The sun climbed higher. Time loosened.
I noticed the shift before the blowup.
The way Sage’s eyes stayed a little too sharp.
The way she tracked movement instead of moments.
The faint sweetness on her breath when she leaned in—alcohol layered under coconut sunscreen.
Her laugh went brittle.
Her touches got possessive.
I should’ve pulled her aside earlier.
Instead, I let it simmer.
“I saw that.”
I turned. “Saw what?”
Her mouth was already tight.
“You looking.”
“At who?”
She didn’t answer right away—just watched me, eyes glassy now, pupils blown wide.
“That girl,” she said finally, jerking her chin down the beach. “You stared at her ass.”
