Page 19 of Bad Summer People
Rachel had told him, in between serve repetitions, that Claire and her husband, Seth, had once been swingers. Apparently, everyone in this town had a secret or two.
“All good, Claire, thanks for asking. I saw you playing the other day—looks like you were doing well.”
“I just like to hold my own with the young crowd,” she said. “I can’t run for shit, but it’s nice of them to include me.”
Robert heard a commotion near the beer table and turned to see Lauren standing in the middle of a circle of people. “Oh, fuck you, Beth!” he heard Lauren shout. Claire elbowed him, enjoying the show. Claire continued to ramble on about her game (“I just can’t get my feet to move anymore”), and they were joined by a few other women of Claire’s age. He listened patiently as they introduced themselves, one by one going over her tennis level and history. But he was only paying attention to Lauren, whom he saw walking off on Neptune toward the beach.
“I want to be alone with you,” she’d said to him at Rachel’s the other night. At first, Robert thought he’d misheard. He’d been focused on her all evening, even when he’d been chatting with the others. And he couldtell she was into him. But her husband was right there. Then a couple of days later, she’d booked a lesson with him. She’d worn a fitted Lacoste tennis outfit, her lean, long legs on display. He’d wanted to touch her the entire time, and he finally found the excuse when she asked about her forehand grip. He went to her side of the court and took her delicate wrist in his hand, sliding it up the racket so it sat properly.
As he spoke—some nonsense about power and grip—she’d leaned back into him, nuzzling her warm body against his groin. She’d known what she was doing. He’d allowed her to settle in, enjoying the sensation of her butt pressing against him; he hadn’t slept with anyone since he’d left Taylor back in Florida a few weeks ago. A few seconds passed before he’d noticed old Susan Steinhagen, sitting on the bench on the opposite court, watching them. Lauren had quickly stepped away, and they’d both acted casual for the rest of the lesson. Robert had vowed to figure out how to see Lauren alone. Now was his chance.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but I have to run. I look forward to seeing you on the courts!” he said.
They all smiled their most flirtatious old-women smiles.
Robert crossed the field, zigzagging among groups of sweaty kids wearing red, white, and blue, shooting each other with water guns. He passed the bleachers and turned up Neptune. He could see Lauren walking away, a lone figure surrounded by an arc of trees. He hurried to catch up to her. He didn’t know what would happen when he arrived, but he felt the need to keep going.
And then she’d invited him to her house. He’d followed her in, impressed by the airiness of the place. It was so immaculate, both beachy and luxurious, hardly a trace of the two children who lived there with her. Robert thought of his own little shack, ants in the kitchen, the lumpy bed. He’d always imagined he’d have a place like this one day. Decorated, pristine, like the houses and apartments he’d stayed in with Julie.
He thought of Lauren’s body, her flat stomach, her small, pert breasts, later that day as he walked from his house to the outdoor deck at the yacht club, set up for the annual July 4 cocktail party. After they’d had sex, he’d left her there, naked and satisfied, sneaking out her side doorand making sure no one could see which house he was emerging from. He’d spent the rest of his afternoon teaching, distracted and drained. He’d slept with clients before, but this felt different. This town was so small, and everyone talked so much—if it got out, he’d lose his job. Then where would he go? Back home to Tampa? Begging his mom for money? The thought made him feel unwell. Images of Lauren kept popping into his head. Her tongue on his stomach. The top of her head, her beautiful blond hair, as she sucked his dick. He knew he would see her tonight at the party. Jason would be there, too.
The temperature had dropped nicely, and there was a breeze coming off the water. Robert turned onto Bay Prom and walked past Broadway to the yacht club, which was on Marine. Others were headed in the same direction, riding their rusty bikes in dresses or khakis and button-downs. Robert had on a white polo and seersucker shorts. He knew how to fit in with this crowd.
The deck was already packed with people by the time he arrived. It was 6:30 p.m., and the sun was still high in the sky. Waiters were passing hors d’oeuvres—mini quiches, shrimp cocktail, smoked salmon on toast that the women were declining. Robert was handed a glass of champagne. They’d spruced up the club for the occasion, putting tablecloths on the wooden tables and adding floral arrangements for some class. Robert always felt a little awkward at these things. Was he a guest or the help? He looked like these people, but he wasn’t of them. In college, he’d gotten good at faking it, especially with Julie on his arm. But he was feeling rusty now, likely due to his recent prolonged stint in Shitsville, Florida.
“Robert! Fabulous to see you!” It was Emily. He’d just seen her that morning, though she greeted him as if it had been a year. She was wearing a white ruffled shirt that looked like an expensive doily, and large green earrings. Her blond hair was slicked back into a sleek bun. She wasn’t pretty, but she was pulled together in an attractive way. That’s what money could buy, thought Robert.
“Here, come chat with us,” she said, taking his arm and leading him to a group that included her husband, Paul, and Jen and Sam Weinstein. Jen was her normal, friendly self. She was in a bright blue, kimono-like dress.Robert felt Sam rivaled him in handsomeness, though, with Sam’s salt-and-pepper curls and tan skin, more George Clooney to Robert’s Brad Pitt. Sam looked uncharacteristically grumpy. He barely even acknowledged Robert and was standing far away from his wife. Paul had been in the middle of a monologue, and he’d continued on.
“The reason we live downtown is to get the diversity of the city. Our kids are really experiencing the world, you know? If you live uptown, like Lauren and Jason, you’re really only exposing them to that white, rich crowd. Also, I work in the music industry, and so my kids know that you can pursue something other than finance to be happy. I think that’s so valuable.”
For a tiny guy, Paul had a strikingly large ego. Robert could see that Paul was irritating Jen.
“It’s somewhat hard to see how living in a beautiful apartment near Union Square and attending a private school is exposing your kids to the diversity of the city,” said Jen. She was smiling as she said it.
“Our school is really low-key,” said Emily.
Robert got the sense that Emily wasn’t the brightest of the bunch.
“There aren’t any grades—the teachers evaluate students based on their emotions. It’s called afeelings-led philosophy.”
Jen raised an eyebrow.
“There are a lot of celebrity parents,” Emily continued. “But they’re like famous artists and authors and directors—not like TV actors or anything.”
“I thought you said the Gyllenhaal kids were there?” said Jen.
“Oh, you’re right, but that’s different,” said Emily. “The school is so good that they send their kids all the way from Brooklyn for it.”
“I used to give Jake Gyllenhaal tennis lessons,” Robert offered.
Everyone turned to look at him. Even Sam seemed impressed.
“He was a regular client when I was at Brentwood. We used to go out for drinks afterward. Nice guy,” said Robert casually.
Paul, in particular, eyed Robert with admiration. Robert knew a star fucker when he met one.
A waiter came over and offered everyone a gourmet slider. Robert took one. He was starving.
