Page 3 of Bright Lights and Summer Nights

Any other time, you’d find Beck, Camden, and Archer seated at the breakfast nook, talking about boring business stuff that I didn’t care to pay attention to. Margo and Winnie would be hunched over interior design magazines, planning the next thing they’d decorate together. And Pippa would either be drinking straight from the wine bottle with me, or she’d be in the kitchen baking something new while she forced all of us to taste test.

Taking a deep breath, I place my phone face down on the counter and try to push away the feeling of loneliness. I think part of this summer in the Hamptons is me needing to be okay with being alone and learning who I am. There’s nothing like hitting rock bottom only to realize you have no idea who you are—and what you’ll do with the rest of your life.

My phone vibrates against the counter, but I leave it face down. Maybe the start of this summer of self-discovery will be less of me depending on my friends. Winnie and Margo are the best friends I could ever ask for. I met them in college when I desperately needed to find people who accepted me and showed me what it was like to be loved and cared for. I’ve allowed myself to let their choices dictate the path of my life. I followed both of them to LA after college and then moved back to New York when they decided it was time for them to come home.

This summer, I want to figure out where I want to be—who I want to be. I want to learn to love myself. And I want the start of that to be tonight.

Looking at the half-empty bottle of wine, I grab it by the neck and press the top to my lips. In a few easy gulps, I’ve emptied the entire bottle. “Ah,” I say, wiping my lips with the back of my hand.

I slide my phone off the counter, opening up the camera app and turning it to face me. It’s not the cutest I’ve ever looked in my life, but I feel inspired—and maybe Winnie was right about documenting it.

Letting out a nervous breath, I smile at the camera. “This might be the silliest thing I’ve ever done,” I mutter, tucking a strand of my blonde hair behind my ear. “But doing new things is all about making yourself uncomfortable, right?”

I pause, waiting for an answer before I realize that I’m talking to a screen—no one is going to answer me. Laughing, I shake my head. “My name is Emma, and I’m kind of a mess.” I take a break, tilting my head to the side as I look away from the camera for a minute. “Well, it’s more than kind of. I’m a huge mess. But I’m trying to get my life together, and I figured I’d document it. I’m going to use these videos as a diary of some sort. That way, when I look back—when, hopefully, I have my life together—I can see how far I’ve come.”

For the next ten minutes, I ramble on about my life story and everything I want to do this summer. I’m more open about things than I feel like I may be while sober, but it’s refreshing to voice all my fears out loud and address them by saying everything I want to accomplish before I leave the Hamptons.

By the end of it, I feel lighter than ever. I still have no idea what my future holds, but at least I’m doing something about it. I feel so good that I decide I actually am going to go out tonight. Do I have any idea if I’ll even be able to get into this fancy, exclusive party at the club? No. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

I film one last video telling my audience of no one but myself that I’ve decided to go out tonight and that I’ll keep them posted. I leave my phone on the counter and run to the room I’ll be staying in to get ready.

I have no idea where the night will take me, but I want an outfit that makes me feel hot as hell—and one that gives the illusion that I belong somewhere as fancy as Pembroke Hills Country Club.

And I think I know just the outfit I want.

Tonight is the first night of an amazing—hopefully life-changing—summer. And I’m ready to get it started.

CHAPTER 3

PRESTON

“You could at least pretend to be enjoying the welcome party for my wedding,” my sister, Peyton, jabs before taking a sip of her dirty martini.

I grunt, my fingers tightening around the beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour. “I’m sorry, P. I’m enjoying it. You know me and parties—they aren’t my thing.”

“I remember hearing all about your legendary parties in college,” she quips.

Cheers erupt in the corner of the busy bar as her future husband is coerced into taking another shot. She looks at Jackson lovingly, as if he can do no wrong, even though it takes him about five tries to finish off taking a shot instead of swallowing it down in one gulp.

Personally, I think my baby sister could do better than a man who wears a collared shirt even to the beach, but she’s madly in love. So, my opinion doesn’t matter. He loves her dearly, and she loves him.

I don’t hate the guy; I just don’t love the fact that the next week will be filled with one party after another before their wedding day on Saturday. It isn’t Peyton’s fault—although, she does love a party—it’s more our parents. Their only daughter is getting married, and since I have zero plans to walk down the aisle anytime soon, they’ve spared no expense for the festivities.

Not like they ever would anyway. P and I grew up surrounded by money—the richest of the rich. Weddings are a big deal, no matter how much I loathe them.

“Dreaming of your party days?” Peyton asks, interrupting me from my thoughts.

I take a drink of my lukewarm beer, rolling my eyes. “Those days are over. Almost lost the chance to be drafted because of those party days, remember?”

It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “You were the best quarterback anyone had seen in years. A few drunk videos of you running through the press weren’t going to ruin that.”

I smile. “It was almost enough for Mom and Dad to disown me, though.”

We both look to our parents on the other side of the room. They’re deep in conversation with a couple that Mom talks shit about constantly.

“I think it was the sleeve of tattoos that almost got you disinherited,” Peyton offers, pointing to my arm.

In the freshly pressed suit, you’d have no idea that tattoos run along both my arms.

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