My Summer in the Hamptons Sharehouse, a story Inspired By Elizabeth Wurtzel
It started with a text from Rachel: Come to the Hamptons. I’ve got a share house. We need one more. I was lying on my couch, eating cereal out of the box, and staring at a pile of unopened bills on my coffee table. Her text felt like a joke. Rachel was the kind of person who always had a plan, always had a solution, and it always involved you ignoring your better instincts.
I can’t afford it, I wrote back.
Don’t worry, she replied. It’s already covered. You just have to show up.
And because I had no other plans, no money, no boyfriend, no distractions, I went.
The house was enormous in the way all Hamptons houses are enormous: sprawling decks, French doors, a pool that glistened like it had been Photoshopped in real life. I arrived late in the afternoon, the sky a hazy mix of gold and pink, and Rachel was sitting on the porch, drinking something clear and cold out of a glass tumbler.
“You’re here!” she said, jumping up and hugging me like we were still best friends and not two people who hadn’t spoken in a year.
“I’m here,” I said, trying to sound less annoyed than I felt.
The inside of the house was all white walls and polished wood floors, with furniture that looked expensive but uncomfortable. Rachel showed me to my room, which was small and sparse, like they’d run out of enthusiasm by the time they got to the guest wing. There was a twin bed with a white duvet, a dresser that smelled faintly of mildew, and a single window overlooking the driveway.
“It’s cute, right?” Rachel said, smiling.
“Sure,” I said.
The other housemates were Rachel’s friends from college: Julia, who worked in PR and wore oversized sunglasses even at night; Cam, who was “between jobs” but still somehow had a Rolex; and Morgan, who never stopped talking about her wellness brand and drank kombucha like it was holy water.
I spent the first few days feeling like an extra in a movie I didn’t audition for. They had routines—mornings at the farmers’ market, afternoons by the pool, evenings at Le Bilboquet or 75 Main—and I tagged along, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.
At night, I sat on the deck, staring at the stars and trying to figure out why I’d come.
“You’re so quiet,” Rachel said one evening, sliding into the chair next to mine.
“I don’t have much to say,” I told her.
“Come on,” she said, nudging my arm. “This is fun, right?”
“It’s something,” I said.
One weekend, Rachel dragged us all to Polo Hamptons. The field was vast and green, the horses sleek and impossibly fast. Everyone there looked like a catalogue ad, all linen suits and wide-brimmed hats. I stood at the edge of the crowd, sipping a warm glass of champagne and trying not to think about how much I hated it.
“You’re missing the point,” Rachel said, appearing beside me.
“What’s the point?” I asked.
“To be seen,” she said, flashing me her best fake smile.
I laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.
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The bonfire happened on my last night in the house. Cam built it in the backyard, the flames rising high and bright against the dark. Everyone sat in a circle, passing around a bottle of whiskey and pretending we weren’t miserable.
“Do you think this is it?” Julia asked suddenly. “Like, is this the best it’s going to get?”
“No,” Rachel said, a little too quickly.
I stayed quiet, staring at the fire and wondering if she was right.
By the time I left, the house felt hollow, like a stage set that had been stripped of its props. Rachel hugged me goodbye at the door, her smile too tight, her eyes tired.
“Call me,” she said, though we both knew I wouldn’t.
The drive back to the city was long and quiet, the scenery blurring past like a dream I was already forgetting. I thought about the house, the pool, the parties, and all the ways it hadn’t made me feel better.
The Hamptons hadn’t fixed anything. I was still me, still stuck, still searching. But at least now, I had somewhere to start.
For Social Life Sharehouse details: Cass Almendral Email: [email protected] Text: 917-623-6677
House pictures: https://www.smugmug.com/gallery/n-7Dbh64
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