Okay, that’s great. The tears are back. No crazy laughter this time. I couldn’t possibly laugh with the instant snot-nosed crying fest that’s just begun.
“Here you go,” the flight attendant says with absolutely perfect timing. And by that, I really mean the worst timing ever.
I mutter a barely audible thank you, keeping my head down so she doesn’t see me weeping. Not that I’m hiding anything, not with my hunched posture and my obvious shaking shoulders. Oh, and I just made a very audible hiccupping noise. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay or try to offer any comforting words, not even a pat on the arm or anything; she just turns and walks back to the galley.
It’s fine; I don’t need comfort right now, especially from a stranger. I’m not the kind of person who enjoys being comforted, to be honest. Not that I’ve gotten much anyway. It’s mostly been stern looks and words like “How could you let this happen?” and “What the hell were you thinking?” The latter was from my dear mother.
The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. That’s the real answer. I had a big, fat brain fart. Or really, I jumped on the crazy train and went for a joyride.
It wasn’t like I woke up three days ago and chose violence. It was more like a myriad of things, a combination of frustrations that were a long time coming, and it all came bursting out of me in a verbal tirade over set lighting, of all things. I’d been standing there for what felt like an eternity, waiting for the gaffer to get the lighting right, my mind awhirl about how ridiculous my life had become, how everything I did was for show, and I just lost it.
Of course, someone recorded the whole thing and it was immediately put on social media for all the world to see, spreading like wildfire and taking me from A-list status to crap-list status in just a few short days.
I know why. I’ve seen the video myself. I’ll forever be able to hear the shrillness in my voice and picture the redness of my face as I spit out phrases like “you people,” “unprofessional,” and “Do you even know who I am?”
Oh, dear heaven above. I can’t believe I said all that. I didn’t even mean it.
Do you even know who I am? I’d laugh at the ridiculousness if I wasn’t currently making unladylike snorting noises as I continue my sobbing. I reach up and wipe my running nose with the back of my hand. Oh, if the gossip sites could see this version of me.
I deserve all the bad press I’m getting right now. But I also sort of don’t. Aren’t I allowed a moment of weakness? A bit of time to be human, to make a mistake like humans often do? Not in this industry, I’m not. Not when I’m America’s Sweetheart, which is what a few gossip magazines have deemed me.
I do try to be a sweetheart, for the most part. One very bad instance aside. I set out to not let this industry jade me, to not get used to the lifestyle, to never stop appreciating the hookups and the handouts. I’ve tried my darnedest to keep both feet on the ground at all times.
I don’t make unnecessary demands. I don’t stipulate there be only green M&Ms in my dressing room, no all-white trailer with an on-demand masseuse to pamper me between takes. None of that. I treat my assistant with respect, and I get stuff done myself—I don’t load it all on her. She’s amazing, though, and I’ve often wondered out loud what I’d do without Shani. I guess I’ll soon be finding out because even she doesn’t know my current whereabouts.
I take a deep breath, leaning my head back on the seat. That’s right, Presley, enough with the crying. It’s not going to help anything anyway.
I need a distraction, something to tide me over until I arrive at the Fort Myers airport, but I’ve got nothing. I don’t have my phone. Before I left LA, I got a new one—a cheap phone without all the bells and whistles so nobody can figure out how to track me, and a new number so no one can call me. This means I don’t have anything to keep me occupied, no social media for obvious reasons, no apps for reading or listening to books, not even Candy Crush. I didn’t think this through. I should have at least gotten a phone that would allow me to play Candy Crush.
I lean my head back against the chair and sigh, although it comes out as more of a hiccup. I’ve only got to make it through the summer. That’s my goal. Three months of hiding away on an island should be enough time for everyone to forget about my big faux pas or at least move on to something else. That’s my hope, or really, my need, because that’s when I start a big project—possibly the biggest of my career. So I need everyone to move on, for all the gossip sites to focus on something else by then so I don’t get dropped from the movie. And it’s a possibility, considering I’ve already been dropped from another project in the fallout. My agent, who has no idea I’m on a plane right now, guesses there might be more fallout to come. But they can’t cancel my contracts if they can’t find me, right? This is my plan, as faulty as it is. My entire career hinges on this idea.
Three months. I can do this.
Briggs
They say never put all your eggs in one basket.
Well, I’m here to tell you that they—whoever they are—are right.
“What can I help you find, Carl?” I ask the only handyman on the island of Sunset Harbor as he peruses the shelves of the bookshop, his brow pulled downward as he concentrates, sweat glistening on his forehead.
It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with this. He was knocking on the glass door of the shop before I came downstairs to open.
“I need a book about refrigerator repair, particularly for the Samsung brand,” he says, not bothering to look in my direction.
I push my glasses up my nose and will my eyes not to move to the ceiling, like they are straining to do, wondering if it’s possible for a man who’s been a permanent fixture on the small island where this bookshop has been for many years to think he could find that kind of book here.
“Sorry, Carl, this is mainly a fiction bookshop,” I tell him. The Book Isle, my mom’s third child, opened its doors nearly thirteen years ago, not long after I turned fifteen.
“Yes, well, doesn’t hurt to ask,” Carl says. “You ought to consider carrying some nonfiction books.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that on to my mom,” I say.
“It’s good business practice,” he says with a confident nod.
“I’m sure refrigerator-repair guides will fly off the shelves.”
He nods in agreement, clearly missing the sarcasm.
I’ll pass it on for sure, but mostly as a joke. Marianne McMannus, an avid reader of fiction, bought the store for the sole purpose of housing the books she loves. Which means this quaint bookshop, with the soft lighting, the framed prints of vintage book covers on the walls, and the plush chairs placed thoughtfully around the space, carries mainly romance books, even though that hardly turns a profit. Of course, there’s a smattering of other books, especially the classics. My mom is a big fan—my sister, Scout, and I were both named after characters from her favorite books. I didn’t get a literary first name, but I did get a middle one. I rarely tell people what it is because I hate it. Most of my closest friends don’t even know. Not that I have many of those these days. If they were right about not putting all your eggs in one basket, then they—again, not sure who they are—were even more right about not going into business with friends. It’s just a bad idea. I know that now.
Carl lets out a large breath, his round belly moving up and down with the effort. “Well, I guess I better figure out how I’m going to fix this dang ice machine for the Vanderduesens.”
“You could maybe . . . check YouTube?” I say, giving him a little shrug of my shoulders.
He reaches up and scratches the side of his neck, just under his jaw, his eyes squinting. “Yeah, I guess. Do you think they have something like that on there?”
“I do,” I say.
Carl turns his face toward me, his gaze curious. “Say, Briggs, what are you doing back here anyway? I thought you started some big, important company in Miami.”
“It was Fort Lauderdale, actually,” I say, not sure why I bothered to correct him. I adjust my glasses, a tic I seem to get when I feel suddenly anxious.
He pulls his eyebrows together. “What’re you doing back here?”
Oh yes. The million-dollar question. It was the basket that held all my eggs, and when they broke, I had only one option, which was to come back to Sunset Harbor, my figurative tail between my legs. That was the first part of May, and here I am, one month later, still without a clue about what to do next.
