I sigh. “Fine. After the summer—the one where I’ll be hiding in my room, thank you very much,” I eye him dubiously. “I start filming a new movie . . . That’s the plan right now, at least.”
“Could it change?”
“Things change all the time in Hollywood. But this time there’s a small chance they might release me from my contract.”
This makes me sad to consider. I worked hard to land this role. A lot of the movies I’ve done in the past have been pretty much handed to me, some even written with me in mind. But this one . . . It’s an epic fantasy, an adaptation of a beloved book, with a lead that on the character breakdown looked nothing like me—Callis, a futuristic warrior who’s tall with long blonde hair. But I waltzed into the audition with platform boots on my short legs and a wig over my dark-brown hair and . . . I nailed it. It was a proud moment in my career.
And then, not long after, I had a very not-so-proud moment. Bleh.
Because of that not-so-proud moment, the script for the movie is sitting in my suitcase untouched, even though I should be running lines. But what if I do and it turns out to be a waste of time?
“What happens if they release you from the contract?” he asks, his eyebrows peeking out over the top of his frames.
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully, feelings of unease swimming around in my stomach. I’ve already been released from at least one role in the fallout. “I guess I’ll quit working and live out my days on this island.”
“That serious?”
“Probably not,” I say. “At some point the gossip will move on and I’ll start getting work again. People forget.”
Probably. Hopefully. Please, oh please, oh please.
“Of all the places in the world, why would you pick Sunset Harbor?” he asks.
“That’s a great question. I’m friends with Noah Belacourt—do you know the Belacourts?”
He nods once. “Of course,” he says, and I feel stupid, because who doesn’t know the Belacourts? They’re almost more famous than I am. I expect Briggs to point that out, but instead he says, “If they’ve been on the island a long time, then I know them. And the Belacourts have been around for a while.”
I want to let out a sigh. He’s just so refreshing.
My mind goes back to Thursday and Bratty Betty. If she’s been on the island awhile, maybe he knows her? Is she a permanent fixture on the island, going around telling everyone to sit up straight and stop looking at their phones?
“How do you know Noah?” he asks.
“I met him at a party a while back, and he told me I should visit the island and stay at his family’s resort. So, when everything went to crap recently, I took him up on it,” I say. “I figured it’s a remote island, not easy to access, so it’s kind of perfect. Well, except that people talk on tiny islands. I didn’t know that when I decided to come here.”
“And except for running into men who spill iced coffee on you.”
“Yes, that too,” I say, giving him a teasing smile. The truth is, I’m really glad Briggs spilled iced coffee on me. I’m also happy I came here tonight, even though I should be in my room at the resort.
Ugh. The thought of going back to my place makes me feel sort of sick to my stomach.
“Anyway, I’m hoping if I stay put and word doesn’t spread too much, then maybe I can go back to life as usual,” I say, my hands in prayer pose. “It’ll just be another crappy summer for me.”
“Another one?” he asks, frowning.
“I never had a good one growing up, and adulthood hasn’t been much better, so what’s one more dumb summer for me?” I know I sound like I’m joking right now, but somewhere deep inside, my inner child is stomping her foot.
“You’ve . . . never had a good summer,” Briggs repeats, his tone dry, clearly not believing me.
I let out a dramatic exhale. “Summer is the worst.”
“No, summer’s the best,” he says.
“You live in permanent summer,” I say, throwing my arms up.
“Well, yes, that’s true.” He reaches up and scratches the side of his face, his fingers moving slowly over his clean-shaven jaw. “But this island has always been more fun in the summer, since tourist season is over and things feel more relaxed. And maybe there’s some nostalgia there from when I was younger . . . that feeling of not having to go to school was so freeing.”
“Ah, but see, I never had that. My parents divorced when I was young, so when school was over in Nashville, where I grew up, I was packed up and shipped to my dad’s place in North Carolina. He was always busy working during the summer, and it was so incredibly boring. I was at his house all day, with no friends, and a babysitter who most days would sleep on the couch while I played all by myself. And then when I started acting, it filled every summer after that.”
It’s hard to believe that at twenty-nine, I’ve never had just a regular old summer—time to spend with my friends, playing in the sprinklers, swimming at the community pool, all the things I used to dream about doing when I was younger.
It’s always touchy for me to complain about my life, since from afar it looks ideal to most. The picture painted about acting and fame and the lifestyle that comes with them isn’t the full view. Sure, it’s extravagant parties and red carpets and all the things you see online, but there’s also a lot of loneliness, a ton of comparison—not just from others, but from yourself—and constantly feeling judged.
“And this summer was supposed to be different?” Briggs asks, his head resting on the back of the couch and lolling toward me.
“This summer I purposefully left open for once, and I was going to travel.”
“That sounds like a good summer plan.”
“Not the entire summer, but for some of it. And then I thought I’d do other summery things like, I don’t know, have a barbecue, or play beach volleyball, or make a bonfire on the beach.” With what friends, I have no idea. Of course, I still had friends—or at least I thought I did—before the stupid video.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Things you’ve never done, I gather.”
I shake my head. “I’ve been on short beach vacations, but when you’re in the spotlight and paparazzi are always around . . . you feel like you’re constantly putting on a show, or worried about an accidental wardrobe malfunction that will haunt you for life.” To be honest, I haven’t been on a lot of vacations. I’ve just been working, working, working the past fifteen years of my life. No wonder I don’t know how to take a break.
He gives me an understanding dip of his chin. “That makes sense.”
“And because of how I grew up, I missed out on all the things that are quintessential summer childhood things. I’ve never run through the sprinklers, or jumped on a trampoline, or made a sandcastle, or gone camping. I’ve never even roasted marshmallows or slept under the stars.”
