Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
W e arrive in Amagansett in record time thanks to it being October and past the peak summer season. We pull up to Scott’s gorgeous beachfront manse, a beautiful two-story home with weathered cedar siding outlined in bright white trim, set back on a spacious front yard with a perfectly manicured lawn—classic Hamptons. As we grab our stuff from the car, Scott comes bounding down the front porch. He’s short and stocky with a full head of white hair, a linen shirt, jeans, and a warm smile.
"Matty! My man!" Scott gives Matt a giant bear hug. "And this must be Julia. We've heard a lot about you. Only good things, of course." He wraps me up in the same giant hug.
"Likewise. Thanks so much for having us this weekend."
"Are you kidding? It's going to be a blast! Forty-eight hours with Matt? This hasn't happened in what, like three years?" he says as we walk up onto the porch.
"Has it been that long?" Matt asks.
"Hi!" Another voice comes from inside the house. Natasha is Scott's longtime girlfriend and another very close friend of Matt's, with brilliant red hair that cascades halfway down her back, porcelain skin, and giant green eyes.
"Welcome to our home!" She hugs us both. "I'm so glad you're here, Julia. Normally it's just these two and me, and they are insufferable."
The house is stunning—open and bright, the design clean and modern with tasteful coastal elements. They have the back doors open, and I can smell the briny air from the Atlantic Ocean a few hundred yards away over the dunes. Scott gives me a quick tour and then lets us have a minute to get settled in our room—a spacious guest suite facing the back lawn, pool, pool house, and beach. The walls are grayish green, and the king-sized rattan bed is covered in fluffy white bedding. A matching rattan chair sits in the corner. The en suite bathroom is done in the same coastal greens.
"This is incredible." I flop down on the bed.
"I know, I love it here. It's so peaceful." Matt lies next to me.
He rolls over to face me, and I take his glasses off and place them on the bedside table. In this early evening light, I can see tiny flecks of caramel in his brown eyes.
"Have you been here a lot in your life?"
"Back when I was lived in the city more full-time, I would come out here as much as possible. It slowly dwindled as I got busy and moved to LA.” He looks pensive.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, pushing a wayward lock of hair off his forehead.
"It just occurred to me that in all the years I've been coming to visit Scott and Natasha, I've never brought a woman with me. What's even more interesting is that I didn't even think twice about it. It's very nice. To not overthink everything."
"Glad to hear it." I look at him and wonder how I got so lucky. I climb on top of him, and he grabs my hips, settling me perfectly. He unbuttons and tugs my jeans down, running his finger along the seam of my lace panties. He maneuvers his fingers expertly inside so he can touch me, pushing the fabric to the side, exploring me. When he feels the wetness, his eyes go dark and he bites his lip. I stare at him, breathing hard, as he pulls his hand out and starts licking his fingers. His eyes roll back in his head.
"How are you so fucking sexy?"
I lean down to kiss him. "I don't know. But I'm flattered to be here with you, with your friends this weekend. This is exactly what I needed after the week I had." I rock my hips against him.
"Don't do this to me, we have to go downstairs and have drinks and dinner!" He flings his head back, exasperated—hand again in my pants. I kiss his neck and run my hands under his soft pink shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest, his stomach.
"I can't help it. I missed you," I murmur into his neck.
"I missed you, too, more than you know. What I want is to lock that door and stay holed up in this room for the next two days. Even that wouldn't be sufficient. I cannot get enough of you," he whispers.
I sit and pull my pants up, not wanting to tease him, or me, anymore.
"Okay, okay. Let's go enjoy dinner with your friends, and we will pick up where we left off as soon as we get back."
"Fine. I just need to sit here for a second and think about baseball stats, or guitar chords, or the square root of six hundred till this goes down." He winces as he tries to adjust himself.
* * *
We get downstairs and find Scott mixing margaritas in a pitcher at the kitchen island.
"You know, I thought we might not see you two for a while." He winks at us and hands each of us a glass.
We walk out to the back patio, which surrounds a large saltwater pool. White twinkle lights are strung across the top of a massive pergola. A ten-person teak table sits underneath with place settings for the four of us. Natasha is at the built-in grill, firing up skirt steak and veggie kebobs; it smells divine.
We eventually make our way to the table, our drinks seeming to magically replenish themselves thanks to Scott. He and Matt go back and forth bantering, talking about old times, the years when they would wander the West Village going bar to bar, the absurd situations they found themselves in and how they got out of them.
"And then you met me," Natasha says from the head of the table.
"And then he met you, and you were the stabilizing force. For both of us," Matt says warmly.
"Yeah, Nat, you brought us back from the brink. And made it even more fun."
"Jules, there was a time when watching Matt try to pick up a girl at a bar was like watching a newborn giraffe trying to walk," Natasha says.
"She's not wrong," Matt admits.
"It's not that you didn't have game—you did, but only because of your face. And you're tall. And incredibly talented. But the shit that came out of your mouth. Man. So bad." Scott laughs.
I laugh, loving seeing this side of Matt. Getting to know his friends. Watching them bust his balls. After dinner we move to a firepit on the patio with more drinks, and Natasha brings out s'mores supplies. I lose track of time as we sit laughing, telling stories and drinking.
"All right, you two lovebirds, we're turning in for the night. Help yourself to anything you need," Natasha says, reaching for Scott's hand.
We hug them good night and the two of us sit out at the firepit a bit longer, finishing our drinks. I find myself watching Matt in the crackling light, once again wondering how I landed here, with him. He catches my eye and smiles. "What's going on in that beautiful mind?"
"Just thinking about you."
"Want to go for a walk with me?"
I nod.
He wraps a blanket around my shoulders, and we trudge toward the dunes. The moon is full, illuminating the beach like a spotlight. We walk in silence, the wet sand cold on my feet, the waves crashing, Matt's hand warm in mine. He's looking ahead of us with that furrowed brow of his.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
He pulls on his lip.
"I'm worried that I've spent too much of my time and energy creating this imaginary world in my head about what my life should look like and what my future partner should be like and all these arbitrary rules and ideas about what is good, what is bad, what would work, what wouldn't work. I always felt like the second I met my person, it'd just be an instant knowing in my bones that I couldn't deny. It'd be forever, and everything else would be cake.
There wouldn't be any problems or disagreements or things to figure out, it'd all just fit into place. I've had the feeling once or twice, a this is it feeling, and then something happens, it ends, and I'm rocked. I know how that sounds. Idealistic. Unrealistic. Because of course, all relationships have conflict. It's normal. But it doesn't feel normal to me. It makes me want to cut and run. To hide. To do something. I don't know. Does that make sense?" he rambles.
"I don't know what I'm saying, exactly. I think I'm realizing how much time I've wasted thinking like that, because it clearly wasn't working. Maybe if I'd been a little less rigid, a little more open, a little less tied to these ideas I created in my head, maybe that could've cleared a path. Maybe I could've met you sooner."
I look at him, focusing hard to follow his train of thought. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
"I've just been feeling the weight of time a lot more lately. I'm almost forty-three. And I know that is young. But some days it feels like I'm on the downslope. I'm on the back nine. And there's so much good stuff on this side, I love it here for a lot of reasons. But time, man. There isn't enough of it. The older I get, the more aware I am of it, and there's so much more I want to do. I try not to live with regret, but it still creeps in."
I’m not sure what territory we’ve just entered, if he’s talking about me and him and us, or if his thoughts are just general, existential, philosophical.
"I think everyone has regrets to some extent,” I offer. “I also think it's normal to have a picture in your head about what life should look like. We all do it. When—fill in the blank—when I lose twenty pounds, when I get that new job, when I get married, when I get a bigger apartment, when I finally get out of this town. Whatever it is, we think that once we get there, we will instantly be transformed into the person we’re supposed to be. The person we want to be. It's hard to balance the life right in front of you, the one you are living in this very second, and the one you imagine in your head.”
He stops and turns toward me, nodding emphatically. "Yes. Exactly. And right now…right now I don't want to ever think about anything besides what is right in front of me this very second. And that is you."
He puts his hands in my hair and kisses me, long and slow. We stay locked together in the moonlight until the ice-cold surf rushes up and soaks our feet, shocking us back to reality. I scream, and Matt turns and pulls me back toward the house.
Once in Scott and Natasha's backyard, I bend down to brush the sand off my feet.
"You can rinse them off in the outdoor shower." Matt points toward the side of the pool house. I look at it, then look at Matt and give him my best come-and-get-me smile before I take off running the few hundred yards toward the shower, peeling off my clothes as I go, dropping them behind me like breadcrumbs.
I hear his deep laugh and turn to see him bare-chested, chasing me. By the time we reach the door, he's caught up to me, and we're both down to our underwear. I shiver in the cold night air, but my entire body feels warm—heart pumping, lungs burning as Matt reaches beyond me to turn on the shower. We strip our remaining clothes off and stand facing each other with matching smiles. He pushes my hair back behind my shoulders and runs his finger ever so gently across my collarbone.
"You are so beautiful, Jules. It almost hurts."
I pull him toward me and kiss him as I back into the shower. We stand under the spray of hot water, skin to skin, and the contrast with the cold night air is heavenly. He kisses me deeper, and I feel his dick, hard against my hipbone. Warmth floods my stomach—the instant turn-on for me, knowing the power I have to get him so hard, so fast.
He turns me around, my back pressed to his front, and slides his hands up my waist, all the way to my chest. He grabs a bar of soap and takes his time lathering his hands with suds, then gently massages me all over my body.
He moves in between my legs and begins circling my clit slowly. Heat floods my core and I feel my arms go limp at my sides, my head lolling back against his shoulder. He works me into a mind-numbing frenzy, my hips jerking toward his hand, desperate for release. He nips at my ear, his free hand now kneading and massaging my tits, doubling the sensation.
He kneels, his hands working their way down my spine to my ass. He is kissing and rubbing and soaping and licking it, like it's his favorite thing in the entire world.
“This. Ass. Is. Unbelievable,” he says in between kisses. “I want you to smother me with it.” I back into his face, and he groans. I look down to see him stroking his dick, which looks like it's throbbing. The sight of it, of him , makes my mouth water.
I want it.
I pull him up to stand and surge forward to kiss him before lowering to my knees. With the shower beating down on my back, I take him into my mouth. He lets out a series of expletives and braces his hands on either side of the shower wall while I work him with my tongue, my lips, my hands. He comes so hard it hits the back of my throat. I swallow and stand, wrapping my arms around his neck, my nose pressed against the crook there—my favorite spot.
“That was … otherworldly,” he sighs, his limbs loose, his eyes closed.
I try to kiss him, making sure to give him a lot of tongue.
He laughs into my mouth. "Hey, hey, hey, I only want to taste you, not me.” With that, he turns me against the wall, gets down on his knees, and goes to work returning the favor.
We stay in the shower until the water runs cold and then wrap ourselves in towels, grabbing our clothes strewn about the lawn, and race upstairs to our warm, cozy bed.
* * *
The next morning, we sleep in. Matt and Scott run out to grab coffee and croissants from a place in town while Natasha and I roll out yoga mats on the back patio. In addition to being a private chef and a welcoming and gracious host, Natasha is also a certified yoga instructor. The guys walk out as we flow, Scott letting out a low whistle. I glance back to see Matt sitting on the step of the patio, watching me with an unmistakable look of lust on his face.
Saturday afternoon, I have plans to steal away for a few hours to meet one of my best friends from college, Jenny. She's here with her family for the weekend, and I haven’t seen her in months. When I remind Matt of my plans, hurt flashes across his face.
“What? Is that not okay?”
“No, it’s fine. Of course it's fine. I just want you all to myself this weekend.”
My immediate instinct is to cancel with Jenny. Matt and I already spend so much time apart, surely it’s reasonable to blow off my old friend to be with him. I know she’d understand. Plus, I want to spend every second together, too. But another part of me is blinking yellow—caution; reminding me that my friendships are important and shouldn’t be taken for granted—they’ve been lifelines to me many times. I walk over and sit on his lap in the rattan chair in our room.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, running my hands through his hair, kissing his temple.
“Yes, kind of. But I know you want to go. And you should go,” he replies, his face glum.
“I won’t be gone long. Two hours max. I figured you could hang out with Scott and Natasha and catch up without the old ball and chain.” I try for levity.
He's suddenly serious. “You aren’t a ball and chain. The exact opposite, in fact. I want to be with you all the time. It's a new phenomenon for me. I’m fine, really. You go see your friend. I'll work through it.”
“Okay.” I decide to drop it and start getting ready to meet Jenny for drinks in Sag Harbor.
He stays sitting in the chair in our room while I walk into the bathroom. I see him looking at me in the mirror as I put on my makeup, tousle my hair, and slip on a Staud pink floral mini dress and nude sandals. I grab an oversized jean jacket to carry along. I can’t interpret the look on his face, but he seems preoccupied, and the energy rippling off of him is one I can't quite place. Before I finish getting ready, he walks behind me, holding me tightly around the waist, his head resting on my shoulder.
“You look too sexy to go out tonight without me.” He kisses my shoulder.
“Lucky for you, I’m only going for a few hours and then I come right back. To you.” I kiss his hand.
“You promise?”
“Yes. Of course,” I reassure him.
Then wonder why I have to.
* * *
The moment I see Jenny, I know I made the right choice. She's one of my closest friends, and she was my roommate for three years in college. Despite our separate paths and not living near one another, when I see her, it always feels like no time has passed. Jenny, her husband, and their two kids live in Boston. She was born and raised in the Hamptons, and her parents are still here, so she comes back as often as possible to see them.
“What brings you to the Hamptons? A little post-summer getaway?” she asks over wine.
“Something like that,” I answer diplomatically before changing the subject.
I'm keeping my relationship with Matt close to the vest. I've spent too much time overthinking all the ways in which my dating someone new might be interpreted by people in my life. I figure the majority will be happy for me, but I can't ignore the subset of our friends who encouraged me to stick it out with Nick, and who would have loads of things to say—most of them hypercritical. That’s all minus the small part about Matt being a very famous artist. I don’t want to open that can of worms.
I feel protective of our relationship, like I need to guard it—its newness, its intensity, its potential. I know this isn't possible in the long run, but it feels right for now. I manage to keep Jenny off my scent, and we have a blast catching up and reminiscing about old times over two bottles of rosé and a charcuterie board.
When I get back to the beach house a little after seven p.m., I follow the music and find everyone out on the back patio. The October air indecisive—desperately holding on to the warmth of summer and reluctantly letting in the first wafts of the brisk fall ahead. I see Matt lounging lazily on a chaise, Scott in a matching one next to him. Natasha is going between the patio and the house, a giant glass of rosé in hand, working on dinner—steamed Maine lobster with a gallon of melted butter, roasted garlic rosemary potatoes, and the last of the season’s sweet corn. She shoos me away when I offer to help, so I head over to where Matt and Scott are laughing—more like howling, telling old stories. The bottle of scotch between the two of them has a solid dent in it.
“Hello, gentlemen.”
“Julia. Juli-uhhhhhh. Juul. Jewel-baby. Jules. Can I call you Jules?” Scott asks, slurring a bit.
“You? You can call me whatever you want, Scott.” I kiss his cheek and go to sit between Matt’s long legs.
“I like that. I like her,” he tells Matt. “Matt and I were just talking about the time he and I were in Mallorca. He insisted he could speak Spanish—which he can't. He just kept saying something about having a hairy tongue? Or not a hairy tongue? But you butchered it. Totally fucked it up. Everyone looked at us like we were insane."
"Someone told me an expression—and now I can't remember it—where the literal translation is something about a hairy tongue. But the idiom is basically, you have no filter or are overly honest."
"You are most certainly that." Scott laughs.
I grab Matt’s drink, taking a long pull. I lean against him in the chair, letting my head fall back against his chest. His body keeps me warm from the coolness in the air.
“How was your friend?” he asks, playing with a piece of my hair.
“She was great, I’m so glad I got the chance to see her.”
“Well, so am I," Scott chimes in, "But Matty was pouting like a lovesick puppy the entire time you were gone. What have you done to him?”
I turn to look at Matt, and he gives me a casual shrug.
“I’m back. I told you I’d be,” I say quietly, planting a kiss on his jawline. He wraps his arms tightly around me.