IT WAS THE perfect day for a party. The summer afternoon was a temperate seventy-nine degrees, the sky was cloudless, and the Atlantic crashed hypnotically down the bluffs. He got ready, dressing in linen pants, a fitted white polo, and broken-in leather flip-flops. As he splashed water onto his cheeks, he saw a refined, debonair face in the bathroom mirror. He looked like the strong-but-silent type. Teddy Roosevelt, maybe. He smiled, delighted at the reference. Wasn’t Roosevelt the one who said Speak softly and carry a big stick? Maybe he’d think of himself as Teddy tonight. As a little inside joke.
By 7:30 p.m., streaks of pink and orange made an ombré effect across the horizon. The beach was empty; a flock of seagulls perched on the wooden lifeguard stand. Partygoers glided toward the luxury beach club and condo complex, bottles tucked under their arms, phones in their hands. Past the gates, twinkling votive candles spanned the long seating areas by the pool, and brightly colored rafts bobbed atop the placid clear water. As the guests swarmed the space, beer bottles were popped open. Everyone began to talk and laugh. Swells of Bob Marley, the Beach Boys, and Dave Matthews drifted through the air.
Teddy sat on a chaise, beer in hand, and watched as Jeff Cohen, a staple on the beach scene, carefully made his way across a slack rope that had been set up between two trees. When Jeff reached the end without falling, he grinned at Cole, whose indie film about surfing nuns had won first prize at a couple of festivals last year. “Wanna give it a try?”
Cole chuckled. “That’s not exactly my thing.” He raised his Nikon camera and took a snap of Jeff as he jumped to the ground.
Chelsea Dawson, Jeff’s ex-girlfriend, gave Cole a flirty grin. “Cole, you’re so going to be a famous paparazzo someday.”
Cole snorted. “Uh, I have bigger career goals than loitering in a parking lot, waiting for celebs. Unless it’s you.”
“Nah, I’m my own photographer.” Chelsea pulled something from her purse. An iPhone in a sparkly pink case was attached to a motorized selfie stick; when she hit a button, the device extended, lights illuminated, and a miniature fan began to whir. Her blond hair whipped prettily in the artificial wind. Her skin glowed under the golden bulb. The cobalt shade of her dress brought out the steel-blue flecks in her eyes. As she grinned into the lens, a hush fell over the crowd. Everyone turned and looked at the perfection that was Chelsea Dawson.
She examined the results and then tapped the screen. Moments later, Teddy’s phone buzzed, but he didn’t bother to check the alert. He knew what it said: New post from ChelseaDFabXOXOX.
Another Bob Marley classic blared from the speakers. Someone did a perfect jackknife off the diving board. Teddy decided to check out the bonfire. Down at the beach, the stoners were arguing about whose fudge was better—Cindy’s, a local store, or Lulu’s, from one town away. “Dude, all the fudge is made by the same company, probably in a big vat,” a glazed-eyed guy said. “It’s a conspiracy.”
Teddy chuckled along with them, but then he was distracted by a sharp, familiar voice. “When did you turn into such a hater?”
He whirled toward the sound. Chelsea stomped across the sand, high heels in her hand, her face a knot of pain. Jeff trailed behind her, his long hair in a messy man bun, the tails of his button-down flapping. A couple of the stoners glanced at Chelsea and Jeff, too, then went back to their fudge argument.
Jeff waved a cell phone in her face. On the screen was Chelsea’s latest Instagram post. “Look, I just don’t understand why you feel you have to post photos that show your boobs to ten thousand strangers,” he was saying, loud enough for Teddy to hear. “There are a million prettier pictures of you than this one.”
“Fifty-one thousand, eight hundred seventy-three strangers,” Chelsea shot back.
“Okay, so almost fifty-two thousand skeevy dudes know what your boobs look like. As a woman, I’d think you—”
Chelsea groaned. “Don’t do the feminist thing with me. Your opinion doesn’t matter so much anymore. Besides, it’s important for me to build my brand.”
Jeff laughed incredulously. “It’s not like you’re a Kardashian.”
Chelsea’s expression hardened. Spinning around, she headed for the beaten-down path that led through the dunes, behind the apartment complex, and all the way to the public parking lot. “Hey!” Jeff cried. “What did I say?”
“Forget it.”
“You’re more than a pretty face, Chel. You should have more self-respect.”
“I do have self-respect.” Chelsea’s eyes blazed. “It’s you who doesn’t respect me.”
“What are you talking about? I’m—”
Chelsea’s expression snapped closed. “Just leave me alone.”
Jeff looked like he’d been slapped. Chelsea disappeared into the reeds. After a few moments, Jeff swiveled and settled down on a lawn chair at the bonfire next to one of the stoners. He stared into the flames, looking like he might burst into tears. The stoners suddenly seemed to notice him. “You okay, man?” one asked, but Jeff didn’t answer.
Taking a deep breath, Teddy grabbed his phone from his pocket and composed a message.
You all right?
He could picture Chelsea stopping on the overgrown beach path. Rooting through her bag, pulling out the phone he’d given her. On cue, his phone quietly pinged.
I’m fine. Thanks.
His fingers flew. Wanna talk about it? I can meet.
Up popped an emoji of a face blowing a kiss. Nah. I’m really tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.
He squeezed his phone hard. That had been her one last chance, and she’d blown it. Well, then. Now to put the plan he’d crafted into motion.
Teddy stood as unceremoniously as he could. No one saw him as he walked away from the bonfire, though he chose to follow Chelsea by a different route than she’d taken. A quarter mile later, a streetlamp made a gauzy golden circle across the pavement, the beach tag hut, and the concrete structure that held the men’s and women’s bathrooms and showers. A lithe shape streaked through the light near the beach path. Teddy breathed out, sweaty and anxious.
A car passed, its xenon headlights blinding. Teddy crouched behind the changing rooms, his thighs trembling, his heart contracting in his chest. He’d been so desperate to get close to Chelsea. For her to know him. If she’d bothered to give a shit, if she’d reciprocated the kindness he’d shown her, he would have let her in, told her who he really was, where he really came from, how he’d become this way, who was responsible for turning him into this. Instead, she had blown him off time and time again, so she only knew the basics, the lies. She knew him by the name everyone called him, a name he’d ditch when he moved to his next location—Washington, maybe, or Texas. It wasn’t even as good a name as Brett Grady, which he’d used in Connecticut. He’d been quite fond of Brett Grady, actually. He sometimes still called himself that when he was alone, or bored, or right when he woke up, when he didn’t yet remember who he was pretending to be.
The man formerly known as Brett Grady pulled the mask out of his pocket. The slippery piece of fabric felt energized and electrified, like a living thing. He fit it over his face and walked quietly across the pavement. Next to the path, Chelsea stood by the bike rack, her hand curled over a random bike’s handlebars. It was such a pretty hand. Milky white. Long-fingered. Elegant.
It was a shame he’d probably have to break every bone.