July in The Hamptons: What's Wrong With a Little More Tension?
By Olivia Cristall
The Fourth of July in Montauk is a weekend full of "wait, you're here?" and "is that her ex?"—served with caviar, Aperol spritzes, and just enough humidity to make your hair and judgment a little bit too messy.
It's barefoot boys in khaki shorts with 5-inch inseams, girls in Missoni bought from The RealReal, enough Round Swamp chicken salad to feed a small army of hungover influencers, and someone's cousin in a white linen suit talking about crypto. Everyone pretends they're laid-back. But let's be real—no one is.
I ended up in Montauk by accident—or fate. Same thing. I was crashing at a friend-of-a-friend's shared house, where there were more ring lights than bikinis, and someone had labeled their fridge shelf "Bethenny Frankel Supermodel Snacks Only." (Spoiler: it was tomatoes and turkey rolled in lettuce.)
W, of course, arrived as if she were being filmed for the next season of Love Island. Her hair glimmered with her sun-kissed, ocean-glazed curls, her skin glowed with her Tom Ford Soleil Blanc Shimmering Body Oil, and her passive-aggressiveness was on full display as she frolicked past everyone like it was her job.
W’s always had an agenda. In high school, it was flirting with every guy you so much as looked at. Then she disappeared for two years—only to pop up in my city, pretending she didn’t know me from high school while we waited outside some too-exclusive SoHo afterparty. Typical.
She wore a seafoam green sequin silk slip and matching Louboutins she'd "casually come across in her mom's closet in '08." I wore vintage custom Levi's cutoffs, a blue vintage Dior tee, and—per usual—last night's black eyeliner. The last time I was around W, I called her out for cussing out my best friend—because she spilled her Moscow Mule on her Pradas. She’d found her Instagram and, drunk on Veuve, slid into her DMs to request her Venmo. Let’s just say, when I confronted her, the conversation was painfully awkward before she walked away.
And now? Well, we didn’t plan to cross paths. But somehow, we always do.
By the time we got to Surf Lodge, the crowd was that perfect mix of suspiciously attractive and vaguely employed. Someone handed me a Hugo spritz and a fresh and spicy gossip update. She was already on the deck, laughing with a 6'5" blue-eyed catch in a linen shirt.
And then—enter Emelio.
Tall. Tan. The kind of smirk that makes you rethink every decision you've ever made.
He spotted me first, brushed by me, leaned in, and whispered something about how I would always catch his gaze. The scent of his cologne and his dark chocolate brown eyes unlocked emotions I forgot I had. I rolled my eyes and laughed like I hadn't once cried on Metro North while listening to Lana Del Ray because he ghosted me after saying, "Let's see each other this week."
Then he slid next to her.
Not in a weird way.
But in a way that made it clear: I was watching a story unfold.
The air shifted.
They exchanged whispers, eye contact, and that flirty lean people do when they desire to be seen. I wasn't even upset—I was studying the scene.
Until he said it:
"I ran into W a few weeks ago. Funny night," as a smile crinkled on his face
That was it.
A single sentence.
A timeline I hadn't approved.
I glanced at her. She didn't blink. Just sipped her dirty martini and adjusted the gold chain draped over her chest.
Cue the fireworks—literally. Someone lit sparklers. Cannon G7Xs flashed faster than the champagne popped. Someone screamed for a group photo. We both declined simultaneously because nothing screams drama like two girls smiling with their teeth, not their eyes.
Later, I caught her dancing with Emelio under the string lights. Veuve everywhere. Red Cherry lip gloss and venom in her smile.
I didn't stay long.
I grabbed a plastic container of leftover chicken salad from Round Swamp and slipped out quietly through the back—with my dignity and someone's Brooklinen striped beach towel.
She was gone before sunrise.
She left behind nothing but a Yurman earring on the floor, a trace of perfume in the shower, and the satisfaction of successfully sweeping up Emelio right in front of me.
And me?
Well…I sat on the porch, inhaling my regrets, rereading old texts, and wondering if Montauk was ever meant to be an escape—
Or just another stage.