Sasha is asking me to go to her house in the Hamptons, for Labor Day weekend, and my answer is a resounding no, absolutely not, no chance.
“Come on, Jamie,” Sasha whines. We’re talking on the phone, though we’re both in New York City this summer, working brutal junior-year-of-college internships, the kinds that supposedly jump-start your career but actually leave you contemplating starting over on a remote island somewhere. Now I’m lying on my floor, because it’s marginally cooler down there than the rest of my room, sweating in my sports bra.
“Seriously,” Sasha is saying, “it’ll be great. I have friends out there, and Will’s coming!”
I laugh. “Exactly my point. I adore you, and Will’s great. But I don’t need to be spending my weekend third wheeling. I know how you two get.”
