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My favorite part of growing up in Montauk was taking those stairs down to the ocean, feeling the cold air hit my face, starting to feel a little bit free.
At this moment, though, even that turned into something else. Sammy had a game in which she tried to beat her previous time to the ocean. She was down to twenty-five seconds.
Chasing Sammy down those stairs, hoping she didn’t trip and fall, took most of the pleasure out of it.
By the time I arrived at the ocean’s edge, I was winded. And Sammy was bending down, putting water in a mason jar.
“We are making rain today,” she said. “I just need to close these lids tight. And we can head back upstairs.”
Down the beach, a group of kids about Sammy’s age were playing catch with a large volleyball. No mason jars in sight.
“Sammy, we can stay on the beach for a little while. Hang out.”
“Why would we do that?” she said.
“There are a bunch of other kids down there,” I said. “Why don’t we see what they’re up to?”
She shook her head, not even looking in their direction. “No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t really want to.”
“Do you ever hang out with anyone except your mom?”
“Thomas,” she said. “And sometimes Ethan.”
“I mean anyone your own age?”
She sighed. “Not recently, no.”
She didn’t even look upset about it, which was sadder than if she did. It was like she had resigned herself to friendlessness.
She was done chatting about it, though, and ran back up the stairs toward the house, me lagging as I tried to keep up with her.
As I climbed the stairs, I looked up toward the main house. The entire back of it was lined with bay windows—making the most of those views. I tried to see if anyone was inside. I could barely see inside at all, the house dark.
But there was a red sports car in the driveway, a Porsche, shiny and bright. It looked out of place on the gravel, too showy, which reminded me of when my father threw parties while we were growing up. Fancy cars would fill the driveway, squeeze in on every side of my father’s beat-up Volkswagen Bug. My father kept that car during his rise to fame, and my entire childhood. He never traded up—even though he could have, financially. It wasn’t about rules, he said. It was about loyalty.
When I got back to the guesthouse, I found Ethan sitting on the porch steps, smoking a cigarette. He was in his fisherman gear.
He motioned in my direction. “And she’s still here,” he said.
“Do you live here or something?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I live near the docks.”
“So what do you want?”
“I’m friendly with the people who live next door.” He paused. “The wife, really.”
“The celebrity no one will dare name?” I said.
He nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “The wife.”
He smiled, and then I understood what he meant. He was friends with the celebrity wife.
“Seriously?” I said. “And who smokes anymore?”
