WE ARRIVE in Montauk by early afternoon. The sun was shining high in the midday sky, and the town center was quaint like something you would find down Main Street Disney. Even the gas station was old-timey with the numbers painted on little flags like it was made for Instagram. We got coffee at the local brewery — the Hampton Coffee Company. They don't even have a Starbucks here.

Nick and I stroll down along the shops bordering Old Montauk Highway. There are more leggy, tanned cyclists here than people in cars. I wonder if Nick had plans to rent some bicycles to get to his house instead of calling an Uber. I hope I can keep up with him. The last thing I want is for him to leave me behind in a cloud of dust while his nimble football-playing legs cycle away from me at a million miles an hour.

"Time to relax and get some snacks," Nick says and leads me to the nearest quaint little coffee shop. It had a stripped white awning and dried wildflowers in the window display. I'm relieved that the first thing I had to do in Montauk wasn't a test of fitness. As Nick leaves me at an outdoor table to go pick up our coffee orders, I'm left alone with my thoughts of paranoia again.

Is the internet stalker still following me? I glance around at the sparsely populated streets, at the Saturday morning brunch crowd in college sweatshirts and comparatively small shorts with colorways that I had only seen at Brooks Brothers, and decide most likely not.

The internet stalker would stick out here. I imagine whoever the stalker was, they probably had badly dyed hair, dressed in all black, and probably had a messy ache problem.

I try to resist the temptation to recheck my phone. Back on the train, I already deleted and blocked the number that sent the voyeuristic picture. I regret it now. Maybe I should have saved it for the cops.

Heck, who am I kidding? What are the cops going to do?

I think about texting Jake to tell him about the strange non-working number that sent me the picture, but I stopped myself. I stared into our message box. Jake and I are already texting much more than we should, considering we're "just friends."

Our last chat was yesterday afternoon, after class. Jake wanted to know if I could forward him the homework assignment from Creative Writing. Jake had cut class again. I like it better when he's not in class. It's easier to focus on writing without him trying to make me laugh.

I had teased him about being part of an underground MMA ring. He had accused me of trying to write him into one of my crazy teen romance stories. I had responded with an eggplant emoji with a knife pointed at it. He responded with a winking emoji.

I know that it's a guilty pleasure but talking with Jake is just so easy. I've never had anyone in RL who knew about my double life as a writer before. He's even started reading my werewolf stories. It's a shame because I've stopped updating them. My Twitter is full of pages and pages of people threatening me unless I update soon. They need to know if Gerard will go back to Ava after she ran away with his hated rival, Alpha Killington. (Yes, Killington like the ski resort, I heard the name at school, and I thought it would be a cool name for an evil werewolf. I bet he would enjoy skiing with the Wolf of Wallstreet types that go to Killington, Vermont.)

They don't know the truth. Well, maybe Jake knows the truth since he has the same homework assignment as I do. According to Mr. Kleeman, we should try to write about what we know. I guess now I have to write about being a sweaty teenage girl with body image issues. I need to focus on that and not on the chorus of fans yelling at me to update Ava and Gerard's story.

I sigh and turn my phone to silent.

Whoever it is that is stalking me is trying to ruin my weekend.

They haven't done anything openly violent to me yet. I have nothing to go to the cops with. So, all they can take from me is my weekend in the Hamptons.

"Caramel latte with whipped cream and cinnamon powder?" Nick asks as he returns with my drink and his comparatively tame cold brew.

"My hero."

"Hey, take a sip first. It might be different than the one at Starbucks. I don't think anyone orders this here."

"I'm sure it's perfect," I gush and drink it. Yeah, it's not sweet enough. If I am completely honest (and Mr. Kleeman says I should be), I've never liked coffee before coming here to Piotr. In Queens, the schools never gave us coffee. They only gave us lukewarm chocolate milk in soggy cardboard cartons that you had to pry open with your nails.

It's coming to school in Manhattan and walking past the familiar food truck serving 1 dollar coffee cups and cinnamon danishes to business people working at One World Trade that started me on my coffee habit. Now, I drink Starbucks just like all my comparatively richer friends.

"Let me guess, your favorite drink at Starbucks is the caramel macchiato?"

"How did you know?"

Nick laughs. "It's more of a dessert than a drink."

"Oh, yeah, psssh, I don't really like it that much," I say and look down.

"I like it that you drink it," Nick quickly offers as though he's trying to apologize. "I knew another girl who liked it too. I would buy it for her every morning before school. She used to yell at me when I got her the Grande instead of the Venti."

I laugh, but somehow his apology makes me feel even worse. I see that wistful light that appears in his eyes when Nick talks about her. This was more than just a friend. Was this a past girlfriend or a crush that didn't work out? Who in their right mind would dump Nick? He's gorgeous. He's what Zac Efron dreams of looking like when he wakes up in the morning.

Before I'm able to ask him about her, Nick changes the subject. He tells me about his Fantasy Football picks this year, and we're having a great time.

That is until the next train arrives and a pack of teens shows up. Ruth Brooks is among them, along with two of her girlfriends. They all show up and swarm around Nick, snapping selfies with the dunes leading to the beach and shifting their too-small-to-be-functional backpacks from one boney, tanned shoulder to another.

Before I know it, they are pulling up chairs to join us outside the coffee shop. Even though they're interrupting our "date," at least they bring the gossip with them. I try not to pout. It's just for now. Nick and I have all weekend together. Ruth and her friends look loaded, so they probably have their own homes to go to at night.

The party we're heading to will be at Nick's best friend, Chucky's beachfront mansion. His real name is Charles, but everyone calls him Chucky (like the evil doll) because he has naturally red hair. Ruth recounts a story about how the teasing got so bad his dyed Chucky dyed his hair jet black last year. But from what Anne adds, he wasn't fooling anyone since he still has his ginger eyebrows. Now that his hair is starting to grow back out, he looks even weirder.

Being called Chucky, isn't that bad. In my old school, some of the girls used to call me chunky. No one does that here. I guess since our school is in downtown Manhattan, the students here try to be more PC. But hearing the girls yell out Chucky still triggers me. The hair on the back of my neck still stands erect as though someone from my old school had found me and was here to tell everyone that I'm a chubby shoplifter.

Ruth sits across from me and stretches out her long tanned legs. She's wearing Gucci mules now. I notice that they're banged up and muddy. Ruth has a couple of fading zits on her forehead that could be easily covered up with makeup. I wonder why she doesn't even try.

There's a certain grace in her lack of trying. It's like she's so naturally rich, slender, and beautiful that she doesn't even care to cover up her flaws. She cares so little about her figure that she tells her friend to get her fries and a milkshake from the lobster shack/drive-through diner next door.

"Nick says it's your first time in the Hamptons," Ruth says as she points a French fry at me. She dips it in ketchup and eats it whole. She's pretty even when she does that. The fries are golden, just like her tanned skin. "Want to hit the pool before the party? Chucky's house is by the water. They have an infinity pool."

"I didn't bring my swimming suit."

"You can borrow one of mine," Ruth said with a shrug as though this happens all the time.

"Or we can go to the beach," Anne, one of Ruth's friends, offered. She was the one who got everyone their orders, so I assume that she's the try-hard of the group. She wears heavy librarian glasses and has a bowl haircut. Back in school, I had her pegged as a nerd, but here she seems very chic. It's weird how the light of the Hamptons makes everyone seems more laid back and relaxed. I can feel myself starting to relax and forget about my internet stalkers. "We saw Julianne Moore there last time."

"Oh my God," I reply. "Did you get a picture?"

"This is New York City; you don't go up to celebrities. That's an unspoken rule," Margaret replies and gives Ruth a knowing look. "Not even if it's Harry Styles." Margaret is the third girl of the trio. She has a large nose and a funny yet authoritative voice. Sometimes, I can't tell if she's telling a joke or being serious. She seems like the type to get offended if you make a mistake and laugh at something you shouldn't.

"You met Harry Styles?"

"44th street pizza shop, bumped into him once while he was performing on Broadway," Ruth replies with a bored sigh. "You'll see them too, eventually. They're nothing special."

"Come to the beach with us," Anne insists. "We can do it while the boys are shooting pool in Chucky's basement."

"S-sure. 'll come chill with you guys. That is if Nick doesn't have anything planned."

Ruth and Margaret exchange looks.

"You're staying at Nick's place?" Anne finally asks.

"Yes, just for one night. My parents don't have a house in the Hamptons. We can barely afford our place in Queens," I add with a chuckle. Ruth laughs politely, but I could tell that wasn't the right thing to say.

"Are you two dating?" Margaret interjects before Ruth could open her mouth to say something. By the glare she gives Margaret, perhaps she was trying to change the subject.

"I don't know," I blurt out. "Do you think we are?"

Ruth laughs at that. She reaches over with her long, un-manicured fingers and rubs my arm. "If you think you are, then you are. You are joining us by the pool, Cory. No buts."