But I am staying put. After tonight. I swear it. No more leaving the resort for me.
“I haven’t read a fiction book in a while,” Briggs answers my question, his eyes on the TV, even though he hasn’t been watching. “But I’d say it’s probably Harry Potter.”
“Good answer,” I say, giving him an appreciative nod. “I love those books too. And the movies.”
“Don’t tell me about the actors in real life,” he interjects quickly, looking toward me. “I don’t want to know if they’re horrible.”
“They’re not,” I say through a laugh. “Am I . . . tainting Hollywood for you?”
He gives me a side-eyed glare through his rectangle-shaped glasses. “Maybe a little.”
“I’m ruining the magic with all my name-dropping, aren’t I?”
“You do drop a lot of names,” he says, tilting his head to the side.
I let my jaw fall open, placing a hand on my chest. “I’m not a name-dropper—you told me you wanted to know.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
I grab a throw pillow out from behind me, a red velvet one that looks like it might be used to present a glass slipper, and toss it at his head.
“Um, my mom would have you kicked off this island for that kind of roughhousing,” he says before setting the pillow gently beside him and giving it a little pat like I’ve hurt its feelings.
“Apologies to your mom,” I say. “I promise to never attempt to damage anything of hers again.”
“Thanks. But if you do, maybe next time you could go for the curtains,” he says, pointing to the ruffled, pink billowy things on the window across the room. “I actually like this pillow.” He pets the velvet material again.
I chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”
Being around Briggs is delightful and also kind of calming. Like a healing balm to my heart. So unlike anything I’ve experienced in a while.
For so long I haven’t known if people are spending time with me because of the fame thing or if they actually want to be my friend. It’s something that’s always in the back of my mind, hanging over me like a dark cloud. And after the video went viral, I found out the truth: It wasn’t my friendship they wanted. So, that was fun.
With Briggs, it feels different. Genuine. Real. I’ve hardly spent time with the guy, but I recognize it because I haven’t had much real in my life in . . . well, I actually don’t know when the last time was. Eighth grade? Wow. That’s sad. And maybe a little pathetic.
He could be faking it. Maybe he’s only interested in the fame part of my life and is just using me for my social status too. Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. Not as I watch him practically snuggle a red velvet tufted pillow.
“So, how did you get into acting?” he asks.
See? Right here. This is what I’m talking about. Most people would have read my Wikipedia page and then regurgitated it back to me thinking it would give them some sort of clout with me. But not Briggs.
“In middle school, actually,” I tell him, reciting the story I’ve told probably hundreds of times. But it feels fresh and new, telling him.
“We did a play—Anne of Green Gables. I played Anne, and my teacher, Mr. Davis, called a talent scout friend of his to come watch it, specifically to see me. I got signed to an agency pretty quickly after that and was filming my first movie that summer.”
“So you were thirteen? Fourteen?”
“I’d just turned fourteen. My mom moved us to LA, and that was the start of it.”
Then my mom made my career her entire personality, but no need to bring that up. Or think about it.
“Is that unusual? To be discovered like that?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Are you being modest right now?” The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk.
“Maybe,” I say. “It’s not uncommon to be discovered like that.”
“But it isn’t all that common, is it?”
I don’t answer him. I just give him a little shrug in response. He obviously knows. Because yes, it’s not how things are usually done. It’s the dream, to not have to struggle or keep going from audition to audition, experiencing rejection after rejection, while dealing with overdraft fees from your bank because your only source of income is waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory.
It’s not that this career has been handed to me on a silver platter. It was at first. It felt so easy, and I was too young to truly comprehend it—to really appreciate it. But I’ve worked hard to get where I am now. I’ve taken classes and studied with world-renowned coaches. I take my job seriously.
Funny how easily all that hard work can be ruined in an instant. Or not funny, actually.
“So, what’s next for you? I mean after this summer of hiding . . . or not hiding,” he says, giving me another smirk.
“After tonight you’ll never see me again.”
He twists his lips to the side, doubt in his expression. “Should we bet money on that?”
“I need that pillow back so I can throw it at you again,” I say, holding out a hand.
“No way,” he says, hugging the pillow close to him, petting the top of it like it’s a beloved pet.
The man is adorable.
