“I won’t give them a reason to pity me,” my mother used to snarl. This was a bitter catechism she’d recite every few months, when money was tight. Food stamps were normal in our town. So were visits to the church basement, where canned and dried goods were free for the taking. I knew better than to suggest we make use of these resources, so that we could spend our money to repair the car or buy new shoes or pay off the credit card. My mother made it clear how she felt about that. Over time, I understood the point she was making. Pride could be a sin, but it could also keep you afloat. Pity was something you invited by acting pitiable.
On Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I traced the same route from the motel to the town to the beach. The shops were livelier, windows advertising steep Black Friday discounts. When I stopped into the coffee shop, a barista was standing on a ladder, pinning up pine garlands while Christmas carols played in the background, the month-long milking of the holiday already in full swing.
Most of the restaurants in East Hampton were way beyond my price range. But that night I found a bar at the edge of town, with a Mets pennant and a neon Bud Light sign in the window, which looked more my speed.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked when I pulled up a seat at the end of the bar.
“A glass of the house red,” I said. “And a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“That,” he said, setting a wineglass on the wooden bar, “is an interesting combination.”
“My version of a wine-and-cheese pairing,” I said.
“Ah.” He had a nice smile. “You’re a classy woman.”
The bar was about half full, pleasantly buzzing but not too loud. After he had circled around to pour refills, the bartender stopped in front of me, drying his hands on a towel. “How is it?” he said, nodding at my half-drunk glass of wine.
“Entirely serviceable,” I said.
He laughed, and extended his hand. “I’m Kyle.”
His handshake was warm and firm, ridged with light calluses. I said, “I’m Stella.”
“Stella,” he said. “I love that name. What brings you to town?”
I cocked my head. “You don’t think I live around here?”
“No way you’re a local. I’ve got a radar for these things.”
“I needed a break,” I said. “From my family. You know how the holidays are.”
“Where are your folks?”
“Westchester,” I said. “But I live in the city now.”
It was an old shtick when Stella and I were at parties: if a guy hit on us, we’d give the other person’s name and phone number. Nine times out of ten, this meant my phone would buzz with the persistent advances of a man hoping to get in touch with that gorgeous blonde named Violet. Every once in a while, someone—the less attractive sidekick—would hit on me, and I’d have occasion to call myself Stella Bradley.
But we only did this to keep them away. Tonight, even while shaking his hand, I thought, I want to sleep with him. Using Stella’s name was part of the seduction. In college, I’d hooked up with guys every few months, enough to make me feel normal. It was easy enough, because Stella created a halo effect. If this ordinary-looking girl was always with the most beautiful girl on campus, then there had to be something special about her, right? They were consistently forgettable encounters, but already this felt different. A kind of desire that was almost like a test. Could I do this? Could I convince him that I was someone funnier, cooler, sexier than I actually was?
“So what do you do, Stella?” Kyle splashed more wine into my glass without asking.
“Nothing,” I said. The word was pleasant to say; a smooth, easy release.
“Nothing?” he said. “Doesn’t that get boring?”
“I’ve been traveling,” I said. “Taking time to figure out what I really want to do.”
And why shouldn’t I? I thought. Go ahead, let this guy say something snarky, I don’t care. Why shouldn’t I do what I feel like doing? Stella had physical gestures—tilting her head and swinging her long hair over one shoulder, leaning her body across the table—that I found myself now imitating. She had taught me how to flirt, how to carefully mete out your personality, because the person across the bar isn’t yet ready to know the real you. Borrowing Stella’s name gave me a boost of confidence. I imagined a live wire stretching between me and her, wherever she was.
“An international woman of mystery,” he said. “I like it.”
“What about you?” I said. “Are you from around here?”
He stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “Grew up about ten miles down the road. I’ve been working for the owners since I was eighteen. They have another bar over in Sag Harbor. I switch between the two. Keeps things interesting.”
“So you’re a bona fide local.”
He smiled. “You could say that.”
“Well,” I said, cocking my head. “Maybe you can show me around sometime.”
In that moment, Kyle’s expression changed. I’d seen this before. That sudden snapping of attention when a girl signals her interest, or there’s a fourth down during a tight game.
At the end of the night, when his shift was over, Kyle said, “Can I walk you out?”
He’d been drinking water, and I’d switched to club soda. So many college hookups had been drunk and fumbling. Not this. There was an intensity from our being sober, from the hours of anticipation. In the parking lot, standing next to his car, the night clear and full of stars above us, neither of us had our jacket on. It had been hot in the bar, and the cool air felt good. Kyle was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. One of the tattoos on his forearm was a silhouette of Long Island. He reminded me, in ways, of the boys from back home. Anchored forever in familiar soil.
Kyle kissed me. His hand slipped under my shirt, and I felt the ridges of his calluses against my rib cage. After a while, he said quietly, “Is your hotel nearby?”
I shook my head. “Let’s do it here,” I said.
“In my car?” he said. He turned, surveying the parking lot, which at 3 a.m. in November was empty except for us. When he turned back to me—my body against the side of his car, the prospect of gratification right there—he pushed into me and kissed me harder, his erection even more pronounced. It felt good. I thought, I made this happen.
After, as the car windows fogged from our breath and we twisted our limbs to pull our clothing back on, he said, “I’m so glad I met you, Stella.”
“Me, too.” I smiled at him, but a sadness seeped into the edges. The carriage was turning back into a pumpkin.
Kyle wanted to drive me home, but I couldn’t let him see my dingy, run-down motel. There was a fancy hotel in town, where I told Kyle to drop me off. He waited in his car, headlights piercing the darkness. I stood at the entrance to the hotel, waving at him, but he didn’t move. Only when I opened the door and went inside did I hear Kyle’s car pulling away.
The man behind the front desk seemed surprised to see me.
“Hello,” I said. “Uh, I’m staying at another hotel down the road, but it’s just not up to snuff. I may want to switch. Do you have any availability tomorrow night?”