Chapter Four
Four
Hunter Dillworth felt herself shaking from adrenaline. It would take a few drinks to calm her down, so she walked straight from Shelby’s book reading to her favorite bar.
The Bollard was a locals’ place, overlooking the bay and originally a fisherman’s hangout. On some nights, it still was. The decor included fishing nets nailed to one wall, framed photos of locals with their boats, and a shelf filled with antique Coca-Cola bottles. The few wobbly tables were mismatched. The juke box stopped adding songs circa 1998, but Hunter didn’t like much of the music that came after the mid-90s, so that was fine by her. The only food on the menu was fish and chips—also fine by her.
It was a place where there was no shame in drinking alone, and that was exactly what Hunter did: two quick tequila shots at the curved end of the bar.
She thought about the look on Shelby’s face when she asked the question. Hunter hadn’t spoken her mind so freely since she was let go from her publishing job two months ago. She’d looked the HR person straight in the eye and quoted Kurt Cobain: “You can’t fire me because I quit.”
Saying exactly what was on her mind always felt pretty damn good. Unfortunately, that in itself never fixed any problems. So although she confronted Shelby—publicly at the reading and privately when Shelby followed her outside afterward—it didn’t change the fact that her best friend had written a main character based on some of the most private details of Hunter’s life. Not just written, but published.
She ordered a beer, trying to avoid the unpleasant truth that Shelby’s book was only part of the problem. Maybe she wouldn’t be as upset with the fictionalized version of herself if she wasn’t disappointed in the real-life version.
Losing her job had been a blow. Her parents didn’t understand why she was so upset: she didn’t need the job for money. No one in the Dillworth family needed to work. Her mother volunteered at a museum, and her father had just gone back to school for his Masters in Renaissance painting. Her parents’ mutual interest in fine art was what drew them to Provincetown, a place that Jackson Pollock, Norman Mailer, Mary Oliver, Eugene O’Neill, Lee Krasner and a lot of other legendary artists had once called home. But ultimately, the Cape house was just another thing her parents collected and then moved on from. They’d spent the past two summers in Italy.
Hunter had always felt a little embarrassed by their wealth, and frustrated with their assumption that she wanted to follow in their footsteps as a socialite. She’d felt, for as long as she could remember, an urgency to earn her own money. It was the only way she’d stop feeling ashamed about her generational wealth. And the truth was, she loved publishing. It wasn’t just about proving something to herself, or to her parents. She wanted a career in books, and she’d been on her way when she was laid off.
A guy walked in, catching her eye. She’d seen him earlier at Shelby’s book event. He was tall and lanky with straight dark hair and eyes that seemed nearly black. She guessed he was maybe part Japanese; he reminded her of the guitarist James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins circa Siamese Dream . During the Q Shelby wasn’t from any one place. Hunter had believed, at first, that it sounded exciting to have moved every few years growing up. Then Shelby told her how lonely it had been. Hunter had taken her under her wing, introducing her to all the right people for the rest of the year. Every summer, she brought Shelby to live at her parents’ Provincetown beach house. And how did Shelby repay her?
“So, do you know Shelby?” he said. “That question...”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did you read the book?”
“Sure,” he said. “I read all the books by Claudia’s authors. It’s my job.”
“As a feminist, I find her characters offensive.”
“I think the characters are all interesting women,” Ezra said. “They have their issues, but that’s what makes the book compelling. It’s the way they work through the issues.”
Hunter found his cavalier take infuriating. “Don’t you think the first few chapters of the book are essentially slut-shaming Ashley?”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t read it that way, no.”
“Okay, let me put it this way: If the character of Ashley was based on your sister, and you knew it was based on your sister, and you read the book...”
“I don’t have a sister,” he said, tilting his head back to finish his beer. He had an elegant neck, and artistic hands. Like a pianist.
Hunter put down her beer bottle. “Do you want to come back to my place?”
He looked at her, assessing if she was serious or playing around. After a minute, he said, “Only if you let me take you for dinner first. I’m starving.”
She shrugged. “Fine. Just as long as we’re clear—this isn’t a date.”
He laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she said, leaving a bunch of twenties on the bar. “I don’t do relationships.”
He stood up and held out his hand. “I’m only in town for tonight.”
“ That is one of my favorite sentences.” Hunter slid off the bar stool and pressed against him, Shelby’s stupid book forgotten. She wouldn’t think about it for the rest of the summer.
She was finished with Shelby Archer.