“No,” he says, adamantly. “I hate it.”
We’ve been going back and forth like this for a few minutes, not long after I showed up outside the bookstore, knocking on the glass door with my hoodie pulled up over my head. We were talking about our first names and how we got them (mine is after Elvis, of course, and his is an old family surname), but we’ve now moved on to middle names. Briggs is refusing to tell me his, which is both infuriating and exhilarating because I feel like I have to know. Like it’s now become the most important thing in my life.
“Did you know Presley James isn’t my real name?” I ask him, crossing my arms in front of me, bunching up the front of the pink tank I’m wearing.
He furrows his brow behind his glasses. “It’s not?”
I shake my head. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“Couldn’t I just google yours?”
“That’s not fair,” I say, giving him my best pout.
“How about you guess mine,” he says, the corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk.
“Okay . . . How about Rufus?” I say, conjuring up the worst name I can think of.
He shakes his head.
“Bartholomew,” I guess again.
“Nope,” he says.
“Driggs?”
He gives me a confused look. “You think my name is Briggs Driggs?”
I snort out a laugh. “Well, I don’t know. But wouldn’t you hate it if it were?”
“I definitely would.”
“Is it worse than that?”
He nods. “You know, come to think of it, I’d rather be Briggs Driggs. Maybe I can have it changed.”
“Give me a hint,” I say, unfolding my arms and placing my hands on the counter between us. I feel like I might spontaneously combust if I don’t know it right away. Patience has always been a struggle of mine.
“It’s literary,” Briggs says, grinning slightly.
I think for a minute. Literary? Truthfully, I’d need the help of Google with this one, because it’s been a while since I’ve read any classics. And I’m assuming it’s probably a classic name.
“Atticus,” I say, wondering if maybe Briggs’s mom loved To Kill a Mockingbird and likes a theme, since his sister’s name is Scout. He does live in a very themed princess and fairy apartment, after all.
“Try again,” he says, picking up his phone and typing something into it. The short sleeves of the black button-up shirt he’s wearing pull taut around his muscles, and it almost makes me forget my train of thought. But I stay the course.
Anyway, I’m sort of glad it’s not Atticus because I like that name and I think I might have been disappointed if he hated it. Why, I’m not exactly sure.
I snap a finger. “Oh, is it Heathcliff?”
“Nope,” he says, looking up from his phone.
“Frodo?”
He laughs at that one.
I huff out a breath. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
He shakes his head slowly. “Nope.”
It has now become my life’s mission, my sole purpose, to figure this out.
“Well, I’m not telling you mine until you tell me yours.”
“Presley Renee Shermerhorn,” he says, looking me directly in the eyes.
“Curse you, Wikipedia,” I say, trying not to smile so he doesn’t get the satisfaction, but the extra smug look on his face is making it hard not to.
He reaches up and rubs his jaw. “Not gonna lie, I can see why you went with a stage name.”
I let my jaw drop, mock appalled. “I like my name, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, but Shermerhorn is a mouthful.”
I let out a breath. “That’s exactly what my agent said.”
“Where did you get James from?”
“It’s my grandpa’s name, and I’ve always loved him, even though he’s gotten crotchety in his old age,” I tell him, and then make a scoffing noise. “Why did I tell you that? I could have used it as leverage.”
