The Perfect Couple(68)

Celeste blinks and pulls back. “What?” she says. “I thought he was in Saratoga.”

“He was,” Benji says. “But he has a couple of days free so I asked him to come.”

Celeste has no idea what kind of expression crosses her face. Is it one of alarm? Fear? Panic?

“I thought you liked Shooter,” Benji says.

“Oh, I do,” Celeste says. “I do.”


At seven o’clock on Friday morning, Benji pulls away in Tag’s Land Rover with his golf clubs in the back. Celeste stands on the front porch and waves until he’s gone. Then she steps inside to the entrance hall and studies herself in one of Greer’s antique mirrors. She is blond and blue-eyed, pretty but not beautiful, or maybe beautiful but not extraordinary. Is there something she’s not seeing? Something inside of her? She likes animals, the environment, the natural world. This has always set her apart, made her less desirable rather than more so. When she was growing up, she was always reading the encyclopedia or National Geographic, and when she wasn’t doing that, she was collecting snakes and salamanders in shoe boxes and trying to re-create their natural habitat. She wasn’t interested in boy bands or wearing friendship bracelets or roller-blading or shopping for CDs and hair clips at the mall, just as now she doesn’t care about gender politics or social media or bingeing on Netflix or going to barre class or who wore what to the Met Ball. She is atypical. She is weird.

Shooter is coming. She’s not sure what to do. Proceed as normal? She changes into her bathing suit, grabs her new book, and goes out to the pool.

When she wakes up with the book splayed open on her chest, she finds Shooter sitting on the next chaise with his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, staring at her.

No, she’s dreaming. She closes her eyes.

“Sunshine.”

Opens her eyes.

“Hi,” he says. He grins. “Benji called to say you needed looking after.”

“I don’t,” she snaps. She refuses to flirt with him. She refuses to be complicit in this. It’s as though Benji is trying to lose her, handing her off to Shooter once again. “You should have stayed in Saratoga.”

“You’re sexy when you’re stern,” Shooter says. “And I was happy to come, I wanted to come. All I’ve wanted since I left the last time was to see you again.”

“Shooter,” she says.

“You must think I’m a real bastard,” he says. “Going after my best friend’s girl. People write songs about this very scenario, Celeste—Rick Springfield, the Cars. And do you know why? Because it happens. It happens all the time.”

“But why me?” Celeste says. It’s amazing enough that she won the devotion of Benjamin Winbury, but to have Shooter’s attention too seems so inconceivable that she wonders if it’s a trick or a joke. Men like Benji and Shooter should be chasing after women like Merritt. Merritt is an influencer; she has power, clout, and she knows everyone. She is connected, savvy, witty, a social genius. Celeste, meanwhile, writes e-mails to other zoo administrators about improving the orangutan habitat.

“Because you’re real,” Shooter says. “You’re so normal and down-to-earth that you’re exotic. There is no pretense with you, Celeste. Any idea how rare that is these days? And I had such a good time with you here. I haven’t enjoyed a woman’s company that much ever before in my life. It’s like you cast a spell on me. When Benji asked me to come, I didn’t think twice.”

“Benji is my boyfriend,” Celeste says. “Nothing is going to happen between you and me.”

Shooter gives her a laser stare with his sapphire-blue eyes. “Hearing you say that makes me like you even more. Benji is the better choice.”

Benji is the better choice! Celeste thinks. She wonders if Shooter is motivated by envy. He wants what Benji has—his parents, his pedigree, and now his girlfriend. Probably that’s it. Celeste turns her eyes back to her book, hoping Mrs. Fletcher can save her.

“Put your shorts and flip-flops on,” Shooter says. “I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Where?” Celeste says.

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says.


Shooter has rented a silver Jeep. He tells Celeste he asked for the exact same one they had before, and when Celeste sits in the passenger seat, she does indeed feel a strong sense of familiarity, like this is their car, like they belong in it.

Shooter drives out to the Surfside Beach Shack. “I was wrong about the tomato sandwich,” he says. He climbs out of the Jeep and returns a few moments later with a cardboard box that holds two sandwiches wrapped in foil and two drinks. “These are the best sandwiches on the island, possibly the world.” They proceed all the way to the end of Madaket Road, cross a small wooden bridge, and enter what looks like a seaside village from another era. The houses are teensy-tiny beach shacks with funky architectural details: a suspended deck that joins two roof-lines, a slant-roofed tower, a row of round porthole windows. These are nothing like the elegant castles out in Monomoy. These are like beach cottages for elves, and they all have funny names: Duck Inn, It’ll Do, Breaking Away.

“They’re so small,” Celeste says. “How do people actually live in them?”

“The best living is done outside,” Shooter says. “And look at the location—they’re right on the water.”