He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “You have no idea.”
“Anyway, so I invited her to go with me. And she was excited, I think. I started telling her about my plans, and she basically told me we could do whatever I wanted.”
Looking back now, I should have seen the next part coming. It seems foolish I hadn’t expected it.
“But about a week before the film I was shooting was set to end, she asked for an itinerary, claiming she just wanted to know what I had planned. Little did I know, she’d leaked it to some people so we could get some paparazzi shots while I was on my much-needed vacation. She was going to use it for publicity because ‘the world is always watching,’” I say, doing a poor imitation of my mom. “It’s something she’d often say to me. Especially when I’d try to go incognito to even the freaking grocery store. She didn’t like that.”
“I’m assuming you confronted her?” Briggs asks, giving my hand a little comforting squeeze.
“I did,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the back of his hand. “It was the last day of shooting, and my assistant handed me an invitation she’d received, inviting me to stay at a hotel in Florence, which surprised me because no one besides my mom knew my plans. So, I called the hotel and they said they had confirmed I was coming to their city and offered me a suite at their hotel. I confronted my mom right after, and she wasn’t even remorseful about it. ‘It’s all part of the job’ is what she said.”
“Wow,” Briggs says. “So then you, what . . . lost it on set, and it was recorded?”
“Yes,” I say. “Except, before that happened, it got worse.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose. “How so?”
I laugh, and it’s an ironic-sounding one because I haven’t fully wrapped my brain around it and I’ve never said it out loud. “I was mad, of course, but right as I was about to do my last shot of the film, she pulled me aside and asked—actually, she told me that Declan Stone would be joining us on the trip.”
“Why?” Briggs asked.
“For publicity, of course. More buzz, or whatever. At least that’s what I thought. It turns out my mother and my fake boyfriend who’s my age are dating.”
“What?”
“That’s right. My mom wanted Declan to come along so it would look like he and I were together for pictures, creating a buzz, when really it was going to be a secret romantic vacation for the two of them.”
“That’s . . . that’s ridiculous.” Briggs chortles then. The kind of laugh that just bubbles right out of you.
“I’m glad you find it funny,” I say, kind of feeling the same way. Saying it all out loud, it’s even more absurd than I realized.
He lifts his glasses with his free hand, since I’m still holding on to his other one, and swipes at his eyes with his fingers. “It sounds like a soap opera,” he says.
“It does, right? But it’s not. It’s my life.” I’m giggling as I say this, even though it’s not all that funny. But it kind of is at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” Briggs says.
I take in a deep breath. “It’s . . . whatever. It’s frustrating. I just wish I had handled it differently, yelling at the crew and calling them all unprofessional, singling out that poor gaffer who’d done nothing wrong. I especially wish I hadn’t swiped all that food off the craft services table.”
“That did seem a little over the top,” Briggs says, making a pinching gesture with his thumb and index finger.
“Oh gosh,” I say, leaning my head back on my chair. “It’s so embarrassing.”
Even though telling all this to Briggs has been mostly lighthearted and I haven’t once felt judged by him, I turn my head away, my eyes tearing up as pictures of the fallout go through my mind. The people I thought were my friends, the online uproar, the lies everyone made up about me, fans canceling me.
“Presley?” Briggs asks, concern in his voice after he hears me sniffle. I thought I’d done it quietly, but apparently not.
“I’m fine,” I say, the words sort of choking out of me. The tears are coming faster now.
“Come here,” he says, tugging on my hand.
“What?” I ask on a sob, confused by what he’s getting at.
“Just come here,” he repeats.
I put my feet on the ground, moving to stand, and he pulls me toward him so I’m now in front of him. Then he tenderly guides me onto his lap, where I instinctively turn on my side toward him like we’ve done this before, curling up while he wraps his arms around me and rests his chin atop my head.
I let out a breath, like I’d been holding it, as I lean into him. This. This is what I’ve needed. Someone to hold me, not tell me it’s okay or that things will turn out fine. But just be with me.
I’ve always told myself I don’t like to be consoled, but maybe that was just something I made up in my head because I’ve never known what true comfort from another person feels like. This is it, right now, in Briggs’s arms. And when I feel him kiss the top of my head, another tear escapes down my cheek. This is what feeling cherished must be like. I realize if none of the story I just told him had happened, if I were in Italy right now, visiting the Vatican or drinking wine at a vineyard, then I’d never get to have this . . . this time with Briggs. I’d never even have known he existed. And right now, snuggled up in his lap, I’m feeling happy to know there’s a Briggs in this world and I get to be here with him.
Briggs
“So, how are things going with Presley?” my mom asks me, her voice full of insinuation with a dash of hopefulness. It’s full of romance and weddings and grandbabies.
We’re both behind the counter of the bookshop. I worked the morning and early afternoon, and she came in to work the remainder of the day so I can take Presley out on a boat for a day at sea. Our next summer activity.
I’ve borrowed a boat from Dax, a guy I knew from school who now owns Keith’s boat repair shop. Keith left it to him in his will. There was some chatter around the island after Keith passed and didn’t leave the shop to me, but the truth is, I never wanted it. I have no idea how to fix a boat, and it’s never been something that interested me. It was right that it went to Dax. That’s who should be running it.
Meanwhile, I have no idea what I should be doing with my life. It’s weird to be so directionless and nearly penniless right now. I have no idea what to do next, but I need to do something.
Maybe I should call Jack to see what he wants to talk about. Maybe he’s got something up his sleeve, or maybe my nightmares will come true and I’ll learn he’s only been trying to reach me because we owe more money. Since I currently have no money, that would not be good news. Maybe he wants to continue the fight we had before I left. Maybe I should never call Jack again and run away and hide on an island like Presley. Of course, I’m currently on an island, one I also sort of ran away to, so I guess that’s pretty much what I did. Huh. How am I just now realizing this?
“Things are fine with Presley, Mom,” I say, trying to indicate with my voice that nothing is happening, so she’ll stop with the freaking stars in her eyes and the naming of the grandchildren.
“I think you’re in love with her,” Scout says, walking up to the counter, obviously eavesdropping and not dusting the shelves like she’s supposed to be doing right now. Instead, she’s stuck the end of the feather duster into the bun on top of her head, and it’s looking like some sort of Regency-era headdress. And the only reason I know anything about that is because my mom forced me to watch period pieces with her when I was young. I don’t even know the number of times I’ve watched Pride and Prejudice. I think the 2005 adaptation is the superior version, but I would never admit that to my mom. She’s a Colin Firth fan forever.
