Page 16 of Bad Summer People
“Hi! Who are you playing?” She was still in her tennis clothes from earlier that morning, her racket in her basket.
“No one,” said Sam. “Jason just ditched our noon game.”
Rachel brightened. “I can hit with you! I had a 10:00 a.m. with the girls, so I’m already warm.”
Truthfully, Sam didn’t want to play with Rachel, but now he felt like he was stuck. He nodded okay.
Sam and Rachel had both spent every summer in Salcombe since they were children, running in and out of each other’s houses, attending movie nights at the yacht club, taking sailing and tennis lessons together. He’d always liked her as a friend—she was fun and easy and up for adventures, the kind of girl you could pal around with but not one you wanted to date. He knew she’d always been in love with him—nearly every girl in town was—but he didn’t encourage her; he talked about other conquests in front of her, purposefully, to let her know where she stood.
Then one summer, the summer he was nineteen, he relented. It was a mistake, but he’d been in a bad place. His parents had finally gotten a divorce, after an epic, decade-long legal battle that included having Sam testify in court. He’d thought he’d only feel relief that it was over, but instead, it sent Sam into a tailspin of depression and anxiety. His whole life, his entire childhood, had revolved around the fact that his parents hated each other but stayed together regardless. Without that, he felt destabilized. He and Jason had moved out to his Fire Island house that June, after their first year of college, and he’d started having panic attacks. He’d be on the tennis courts, hitting nicely, and then suddenly he couldn’t breathe. Or he’d be swimming in the ocean on a calm day and, out of nowhere, he wouldn’t be able to move his legs for minutes at a time. He told Jason, who was sympathetic, but didn’t really have any plan other than to call his mother, which Sam didn’t want to do. He didn’t want to burden Ruth, yet again, with the fact that he was mentally falling apart. And so he’d turned to Rachel, who was a little older than they were, already a rising senior at Middlebury.
They were sitting on the beach together one day, and she asked how hewas. He told her the truth. She’d listened and provided what Sam felt was mature advice (“Go to a therapist,” “Talk to your parents about it,” “Try to practice deep breathing”). In exchange, Sam had slept with her. He allowed her to nearly move in with him and Jason, to share his bedroom. As a bonus, she did his laundry and cooked dinner for him and Jason. It was a sweet deal, particularly because Sam continued to hook up with other girls on the nights that Rachel was with her own friends.
Sometimes he’d feel bad about it all, like when, at the end of the season, she’d told him she loved him and wanted to stay together. Hedidlike her. He was drawn to her in a complicated, comforting way. She didn’t judge him. And she’d taught him things about sex that, as a nineteen-year-old, he was grateful to try. But he’d thought she’d known all along that this was a one-summer wonder. He couldn’t date Rachel, not really. He couldn’t introduce her to his friends from Dartmouth, his frat brothers in puffy down vests. He’d let Rachel down gently, explaining that it would be too hard to go back to college tied down to one girl. They’d remained friends, though periodically she’d try to throw herself at him, which he always shot down (nicely! Sam was always nice).
He was sad for her that she’d never found a husband or had kids. It was sort of pathetic, but not unexpected. She was always just…there…waiting for someone—Sam, whoever—to take advantage of her. Sam wondered if she had guy problems because her father had died so suddenly when she was young. That must mess a girl up. He certainly liked Rachel more than Jen did. Jen thought she was a total gossip (Jen was right). And that she didn’t have people’s best interests at heart (Jen was always right). And that she stirred up trouble. Sam didn’t mind. Though that still didn’t mean he wanted to play tennis with her on a hot July 4 afternoon.
They hit for about thirty minutes. Rachel was good for a woman, with a loopy serve and a nice forehand. Sam played down to her and ended up enjoying himself more than he thought he would. They finished a set (Sam won, 6–2) and met back at the bench. Rachel was cherry-faced. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, and she was panting. For a quick moment, Sam remembered what it was like to fuck her.
“I’m beat,” she said. “Want to come to my house for a Bloody Mary?”
Sam had nothing better to do, and he really didn’t feel like joining his family at the sweltering, chaotic field games. They sat on Rachel’s porch, cooled by the overhead fan. Rachel disappeared into the kitchen to make the drinks, and Sam texted Jen. She’d been acting funny since they’d arrived on the island. Somewhat distant. Maybe she was just adjusting to summer life, he thought. Rachel brought the Bloodies, which were spicy and strong. Sam hadn’t had any breakfast.
“So, how are you?” said Rachel. She settled back into her white Pottery Barn couch.
She seemed happy, and Sam figured it was because she’d finally gotten him to herself. They’d known each other so long. Even the mole on her neck was familiar to him.
“You know, fine.” He shrugged and took a big sip. “Jen and the kids are good, everyone’s happy to be out here. Work’s the same. How was your year? Weren’t you dating someone?”
Rachel’s face momentarily darkened. “Yeah, for like six months. I met him in September, and we were together through the spring. He’s divorced, has two kids, eight and eleven. A lawyer like you, but corporate—at Skadden.”
“What happened?”
“The same thing that always happens to me. It started to get serious, and then he bailed. He didn’t like that I wanted to get married and definitely didn’t like that I expressed interest in having a baby.”
“Having a baby? Is that even possible?”
“Don’t be a dick. I’m only forty-two, and I froze my eggs years ago. Science is a beautiful thing.”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Anyway, it sounds like he was the dick, not me.”
Rachel sighed. Sam was starting to feel the vodka now.
“Yes, he was terrible. But I would have married him. I need to marrysomeone,for the love of God. I’m so ready to end my streak as the sad old maid of the group.”
“You’ll always be my favorite old maid,” said Sam.
He’d finished his drink. In a flash, she’d brought him another. She sat down next to him, her thigh, peeking out from her white tennis skirt, nearly touching his.
“As long as we’re being honest, how’s your anxiety? You seem stressed. Is everything okay with you and Jen?”
Sam took a big, delicious gulp. Rachel made the best drinks. He decided to tell her about work, even though he knew it was a risky move, given her inability to keep a secret. But he had to speak to someone about it, and Jason kept avoiding him.
“I’m not great, actually,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone. Even Jen doesn’t know.” He saw Rachel’s eyes light up.
“Of course! Cross my heart.” She x’d her chest as she said it.
Sam went into a detailed retelling of Lydiagate, emphasizing his innocence and elicitingoh my Gods andyouhaveto be kidding mes of sympathy from Rachel. This is what he needed. Someone to listen and take his side.
