I give Presley my best apologizing expression. It’s shrugging shoulders and downturned lips, a silent plea to forgive my nutty family.
Presley just smiles at Scout. “I’m sure we can do something like that.”
“So, Presley,” my mom says. “Has Briggsy here given you a tour of the island?”
“I haven’t,” I tell her. “Not yet.”
I feel Presley’s gaze on mine. “Briggsy?” she asks. I can tell by just her tone, not even having to look at her, that she will be using that later.
“I’ll take you on a tour,” Scout excitedly offers.
“So you can parade her around the town and introduce her to your friends?” I ask.
Scout smiles. “I said I’d keep her secret, but you know if we accidentally run into people . . .”
“No,” I say, emphatically. “I’ll figure out a way to show her around the island so we have less chance of running into people.” How I’ll do that is a mystery at the moment.
“But you have to work at the bookshop, so it should be me,” Scout says, giving me a smug grin.
“I’ll work at the shop so Briggs can show you the island,” my mom pipes in. I think she might be back to imagining weddings and babies.
The fact that she’s offering bodes well, though. I’d told Presley I’d give her a fun summer but hadn’t really thought out the logistics of how I was going to actually do that, since I’m supposed to be working at the shop so I can stay in the apartment for free and give my mom a break. I didn’t think the details through because I didn’t expect it to really happen.
“That way, I can make sure I spread the rumor that you’re not really here to people in the bookshop,” my mom says.
“I really appreciate it,” Presley says.
“It’s my pleasure,” says my mom, and I can tell by the twinkle in her eyes she’s going to enjoy spreading the lie more than she would have telling the truth.
Maybe this will work out after all.
Presley
“Briggs!” I scream after he does some sort of double-bouncing thing that shoots me up so high off the trampoline, I can see above the houses and to the ocean in the not-so-far distance.
I can also feel my dinner flopping around in my stomach. Is there a rule for how long after eating you should wait before jumping on a trampoline? Like with swimming?
We finished dinner with his family, ending with some delicious peach cobbler and ice cream, and then Briggs told me he wanted to show me something in the backyard. I actually squealed when I saw the trampoline sitting in the corner of the well-manicured lawn.
I immediately ran over to it, and with a little help from Briggs, I climbed up and started jumping.
It was everything I thought it would be as a kid. I never got to jump on one because it was always in my contracts to stay off trampolines and away from basically anything that might cause me to break a limb or dislocate a shoulder. No skiing, on snow or water, rock climbing, or extreme sports of any kind. Nothing that could delay production of a film or show. I surely have the same clause in my latest contract, but I don’t really care. No one is here to hold me to it.
“Have you had enough?” he asks, looking up at me and smiling as the next bounce throws me much less high.
“I think I might need a little break,” I say as I flop on my back and bounce lightly there until I come to a complete stop. The air is thick with humidity, but the ocean breeze makes it tolerable.
Briggs comes over to me, his steps on the flexible mat forcing my body to roll toward the center of the trampoline before he flops down on his back next to me, the bottom of his light-gray T-shirt moving up before he yanks it back down.
I look up at the night sky, bright and beautiful and full of stars without all the city lights to dim it. How long has it been since I’ve seen a sky like this?
“So, how did your first time on a trampoline feel?” he asks, his arm brushing up against mine.
“Well, except for the possibility of my dinner coming back up, it was amazing.”
“Sorry if I bounced you a little too much.”
“I think I just ate too much. Your mom’s macaroni salad was amazing.”
“That was your favorite part?”
“Pasta is my favorite thing in the world, and I never get to eat it because I’m always on a diet for my next role,” I say, my tone sounding slightly dramatic on purpose. I am an actor, after all.
He nudges me. “Don’t you have a role coming up?”
“Yes, I do, and don’t remind me.” I probably need to up my cardio game while I’m here to start getting myself ready since I don’t have a trainer or anyone forcing me to do it now. Of course, I might not even have the role anymore. Negotiations could be happening right now to take me off the movie and I would have no idea. It’s so weird to not be in contact with anyone—not my manager, or my mom, or my assistant. And I’ve stayed off social media, so I don’t even know what’s going on there. I’m kind of proud of myself for that, for not breaking down and finding a computer at the hotel to use. Every once in a while, I get the notion to see what people are saying, to have a little peek. But then I remember that a tailspin is not what I need right now.
“What’s the role? Or are you not allowed to say?” Briggs asks.
“I’m not supposed to say much, but you’re already keeping my secrets, so why not one more?”
He chuckles, and it’s rich and warm, and my stomach does a little spinning thing that has nothing to do with the food in my belly.
“It’s a movie adaptation for the book Cosmic Fury,” I say. “Have you read it?”
“I haven’t,” he says.
