My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [118]
And . . . I’ve now reached my breaking point. The stress of getting ready for this trip and trying to culture up enough so I don’t feel foreign in my own skin and taking care of all the furry, ANGRY little patients in my house finally overwhelms me. Silently, I slip on my flip-flops and climb back into the car, pulling the door closed harder than necessary.
Fletch pokes his head in. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“NOTHING,” I snap, eyes straight ahead.
“Your ‘nothing’ is always something. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? What’s going on is that I’m all freaked out that I’m going to make an ass of myself in front of all the authors I admire most in the world or accidentally commit some kind of politically motivated hate crime at the dinner. And you’ve been no help whatsoever. You’ve been obstinate every step of the way. You argued with me about when we should leave and what we should rent and where we should stay and what you should wear, and it turns out I’ve totally made the right call on everything—”
Gently, Fletch interrupts, “Jen, I’m not wearing a seersucker suit and straw boater to your event.”
“Why not?” I protest.
“Because I’m not the Great Gatsby.”
“YOU WOULD HAVE LOOKED FANTASTIC! AND LITERARY!”
“Yes, if we were going to Authors Night, 1924. ‘Gretchen, you need to stop trying to make “fetch” happen.’ ” Well, great, how am I supposed to stay mad at anyone who delivers a perfectly timed Mean Girls quote? “Would it make you happy if I look at the water with you?”
“YES.”
“Then I’ll go.”
“Thank you.”
“I need to take my shoes off first.”
Argh.
We stroll back down to the beach and Fletch spends the whole time humoring me, which I appreciate. I stick my feet back in the water—bracing!—and Fletch hangs along the shoreline, admiring the architecture behind us.
“I read that both Martha Stewart and Steven Spielberg have places out here. I wonder if one of those monster houses is theirs?” I muse. “How surreal would it be to just run into one of them out here?”
“Actually, that’s not surreal, that’s more of an odd coincidence. Surreal would be if they were driving a birthday cake in the sky, and the whole thing started to melt.”
I glower at him. “You realize I hate you a little bit today, right?”
“What? You’re a writer and you’re trying to improve yourself; I’m doing you a favor by helping you use vocabulary words correctly. You should thank me.”
“No, I should drown you. FYI, you’re being an enormous pill. Why can’t you act like you’re happy and thankful we’re here?” Frustrated, I kick a wad of sand toward the water.
“I’m ecstatic to be here, actually. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I already never want to leave.” He leans in and gives me a big hug, pasting an enormous smile on his face. “See? I’m hap-hap-happy. I’m only teasing you because I’m in a great mood.”
Mollified, I hug him back. “Hey, honey, do you want to sit and watch the surf roll in for a while? The storm clouds are magnificent and our dinner reservations aren’t for a couple of hours.”
“I can’t. I’m wearing my Hugo Boss jeans. I don’t want to get sand all over them.”
I run my hand down my face and under my chin. “Honey? This? Right here? Is exactly why people think you’re gay.”
At dinner, Fletch can’t decide on a wine, so I commandeer the list and ask a number of questions about particular grapes and geography. I finally choose a lovely Brunello di Montalcino, and when I taste it, it’s like cashmere on my tongue.
The best part isn’t just the drinking. It’s when the sommelier compliments me, saying, “You have an extensive understanding of Italian wines.”
Huh. When did that happen?
This morning at breakfast, Fletch is thumbing through a magazine called Dan’s Hamptons. It’s more of newspaper, really, full of typical local ads for stuff like Rolexes and private jets and multimillion-dollar real estate listings. I feel like Brenda Walsh on her first day at West Beverly High—cowed and intimidated by how different everything is from Minnesota, yet just a tiny bit exhilarated.
“Uh-oh, there’s a crime wave