In the Hamptons, love is less of an actual feeling and more of a *logistical flex.* Why? Because traditional love languages weren’t built to withstand the share house in East Hampton with 20 people, two bathrooms, a 45-minute uber ETA and hour-long waits in parking lots. Convenience is the currency south of the highway.
- When he tells you he booked the reservation at Le Bilboquet with the manager, not Resy.
- “The Uber’s on me”… and it’s an Uber Black from Montauk to East Hampton on July Fourth weekend.
- “My family has a place in Amagansett.”
- Books Ambassador seats on the Jitney.
- Better yet, casually books a heli because he doesn’t feel like dealing with LIE traffic. God forbid it’s running five minutes behind schedule.
- Comes home with gigantic tubs of Round Swamp chicken salad faster than she can say “I’m hungry and hungover.”
- Matching hangovers at Carissa and mutually agreeing not to speak until your cold brew hits.
- “I don’t need to go to Surf to have a good time. Let’s listen to live music at Wolffer and sip rosé with a ridiculously overpriced cheese board, just you and me.
- Bonding over shared misery in the mob that gathered at Surf because “the fire marshalls.”
- Buys you a $100 lobster Cobb salad at Duryea’s and doesn’t bat an eyelash when you only eat the avocado.
- Lets you take the share house room with functioning AC and the king-sized bed, even if it means sharing a room with Brandon and his twin bed.
- Your name on the guest list before you even arrive. You didn’t even have to ask.
- Pulling you through the Surf Lodge crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea of influencers and linen.
- Applies Supergoop! SPF 50 to the back of your shoulders when you’re burning to a crisp on the cabana at Gurney’s.
- Spots you as you hop out of the black G-Wagon in stilettos you shouldn’t have worn on pebbled driveway.