*

EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK. MAIN STREET. MORNING.

DANCING WITH MYSELF by Maren Morris plays. Summer begins as surfers paddle out and seagulls squawk. Shop owners start the day by sweeping the sidewalk and flipping over old-fashioned open signs. Chalkboard specials beckon customers inside, and fresh-cut flowers perfume the ocean air. A sea breeze sweeps in from the salt marshes to the south, warm and herbal as PETER TALBOTT, age twenty-six, tilts his head back, somewhat relaxed.

Sweat beads form on his forehead, and rubber tires turn, catching pavement. Peter rolls through town in a 1959 black Mercedes Benz SL with the top down. He wears Ray-Bans, humming and drumming his thumbs to the beat of the song on the radio.

East Hampton breathes to life around him. Boats beat against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past as their sails shine bright against a pale blue sky. Blackbirds dance on sandy beaches, and strangers stroll arm in arm until the melody fades, becoming instrumental.

Turning the corner, Peter pulls through an ornate gate clothed with opposing red brick pillars on either side. Tires spin and gravel flies as he parks. The music stops as the car shuts off, and Peter pauses, his phone buzzing beside him in the passenger seat. He doesn't want to look at it — look at her.

Fashioning his lips into a thin line, Peter lifts his sunglasses. He swings the door open, stepping out and looking upon his family's estate with a sigh.

There's no avoiding it now.

Then, producing his luggage from the trunk, he approaches the main house wearing a white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. As his Adidas sneakers find cement, Peter follows a narrow path to the front door. Entering, he calls to his father, GEORGE TALBOTT, age fifty-two, and uses his elbow to close the door behind him.

"Dad?"

George responds from the other room, "In here!"

Dropping his bags, Peter follows the sound of his father's voice. As he enters the kitchen, George looks up, folding his newspaper, "You're early."

Peter shrugs, "What can I say? There wasn't any traffic."

George studies his son, nodding, then asks, "Where's Kendall? I thought she was coming with you."

Peter cringes, feigning an uncomfortable smile. "She was."

George pushes his breakfast plate away. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope." George nods again as Peter opens the fridge and seizes a bottle of Perrier water. He cracks the seal and takes a sip, "There's nothing to talk about."

"Right, well." George takes a deep breath as Peter changes the subject. "Is mom here?"

"No. She had something in the city tonight. She and Lilli will be here tomorrow." Peter nods, and George gestures with his chin, "But your brother is out back."

Peter swallows, surprised. "He's here already?"

"Got in this morning, around eight. Maybe? I don't know. I was asleep. He and his friends are out by the pool now. I think they're talking about going out on the yacht later if you wanna go."

Peter shakes his head. "No, I was up half the night with Kendall. All I want to do now is sleep."

He pushes off the counter and starts towards the backyard. George's gaze follows his son through the living room. "How's everything with work?" He asks.

Peter answers over his shoulder, lifting his water bottle in hollow acknowledgment, "Fine."

DANCING WITH MYSELF by Maren Morris continues, reprised, volume swelling as Peter exits the house.