“Sorry,” I say again. “I think I got caught up in the moment, or the sea air or something.” I reach up and touch my lips that now feel sort of empty. Maybe lonely is a better word.
Briggs reaches up and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Me too,” he says. “It’s definitely the sea air . . . or the moment. Or something.”
“Or the movie,” I add.
“Right. What was it called again?”
“Notting Hill.”
He nods. “I’ll make sure to watch it.”
“You definitely should.”
I want to apologize again, but I don’t. Instead, I take a big, kiss-recovering breath.
“I’d better go,” I say. I search his face, not sure what I’m looking for. If he invited me back inside his apartment, I’d probably take him up on it.
He doesn’t, though. Which is good. That’s what I’m telling myself. It’s good. Great. Excellent.
I turn and walk down the stairs. Before I exit, I look back up and see him standing there. He gives me a little wave, and I return it before I leave for real this time.
Briggs
The bell over the door rings, and someone else enters the fray. The bookshop is busier than it’s ever been, with people looking through the shelves and all the cozy chairs around the space filled. A quiet moves across the room as they all look at the entrance to see who’s come in, and then go back to talking when it’s not who they were hoping for.
It’s the older woman with the big visor who was in earlier this week with her unsolicited advice. She’s wearing super high-waisted, dark-gray pants and a T-shirt haphazardly tucked into them.
Her face scrunches when the door shuts behind her, blocking the humidity from the air-conditioned room. “I see you didn’t get an air freshener like I suggested.”
It didn’t seem like a suggestion.
From behind the counter, I school my features and don’t allow my face to give this woman the disdainful look it’s wanting—more like dying—to send her way. Instead, I plaster on a closed-mouth grin. I’ve been giving a lot of fake expressions today.
Her eyes scan the room. “Why’s it so busy in here?”
Why indeed.
It’s a long story, but the short version goes: I didn’t make it back to the bookshop fast enough, after Presley left the apartment, to stop Marianne McMannus, who never gossips, from spreading the word that she saw the actress.
I’m sure it was a chain of texts and probably phone calls (she wouldn’t fess up), but in my head I picture her with a bullhorn in her hands, standing in front of the fountain in the middle of the town square.
I did my best, telling her I ran into the woman she thought was Presley James while I was getting us coffee, and I verified it wasn’t her.
So, basically, I gaslighted my own mother.
It doesn’t matter because whether she believed me or not, she wasn’t about to retract that juicy piece of gossip, so the damage is done.
Because the Belacourt Resort doesn’t like it when people loiter there, hoping for a celebrity sighting, everyone has come to the only other place Presley James has allegedly been spotted: The Book Isle.
Well, not everyone on the island, but plenty of people from around here have stopped by, or are just sitting here, waiting.
It’s dumb logic, really. If she’s already been to the bookshop, then she’d probably try another place the next time, like the bakery, or the Sunrise Café, and not loiter around here.
True to my word to Presley, I’ve tried to tell everyone in here that it’s not really her, but no one believes me. I have no clout since I haven’t lived here permanently in nine years, whereas my mom has been here for sixteen years and owns a business in the town center. So her word trumps mine. And also, hers is the better story. Everyone wants to believe one of the most popular actresses in the world is visiting their island.
“Can I help you?” I say to the scowling older woman, ignoring her question about why it’s so busy. I push my glasses up my nose.
“No,” she says, her voice flat, then turns and heads back outside. The bell jingles, drawing everyone’s attention in that direction, only for them to realize it was just someone leaving. The disappointment is palpable.
A few seconds later, someone else enters the shop, and everyone goes quiet again until they realize it’s not Presley James and then go back to whatever they were doing. And the cycle continues. Why won’t anyone believe me?
I’ve told so many people that it’s not really her, I’m starting to wonder myself. It all feels sort of like a fever dream . . . spilling coffee on her, going back to my apartment, the kiss I can’t stop thinking about. I still can’t believe she did that. I also can’t believe I kissed her back. I kissed Presley James.
Because I told her I would, I watched Notting Hill last night. It’s funny how similar the beginning is to Thursday’s encounter. I think that’s where it ends for my story with Presley, though—at the kiss that I can’t get out of my head. I doubt I’ll have another run-in with her. At least I won’t have to pretend I’m from Horse & Hound magazine if our story were to keep going. I don’t have the acting chops.
Our story? Good hell. I sound like an infatuated fool. And I’m not. It was just one day. One very strange day. I’ll tuck it away, a memory to think about later. Maybe it’ll be a story I tell someday—that time I kissed Presley James, or really, she kissed me. Maybe I’ll forget about it . . . yeah, that’s not going to happen probably ever.
I did get curious about why she’s here, hiding on the island. I’m not really one to stay up on pop culture. Not when my Google searches tend to be more about tech trends and market analysis. Or at least they used to be. Now my searches are more along the lines of what I should do next. I still don’t know. I’ve gotten two more texts from Jack that I’ve ignored. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. I should apologize at the very least. But I’m also nervous I’ll find out we owe more money and just this morning I got a balance alert from my bank because I’d gone below the minimal threshold I set, which is concerning.
Anyway, I searched Presley’s name, and it brought up a bunch of recent articles . . . It was easy to put two and two together about what happened. I was even able to find the leaked video on YouTube.
I can see why people are upset, but also, it’s hard for me to reconcile the Presley I saw and heard on that leaked recording, yelling and red faced, with the Presley I met here on the island. They seem like two different people.
All I know is there are two sides to every story and I’m sure Presley has a good reason for why she went off like she did.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I doubt I’ll see her again, especially if everyone around here keeps acting like they are. How long before word spreads from here? I’ve never been around the paparazzi, but if they are anything like in the movies, the people on this island wouldn’t like it if they showed up.
