We’re lying on sleeping bags, which are on top of a beach blanket, all of which I borrowed from my mom. The waves crashing against the shore have been the background soundtrack to what’s been a pretty perfect night.
Sleeping under the stars. That’s what we’re doing tonight. It was one of the things Presley told me she’d never gotten to do when we were first getting to know one another all those days ago. I wasn’t sure when we’d get to, since timing and the weather had to cooperate. But everything fell into place for tonight. We’re not on the private beach, but one further down the island.
It’s been three days since the practice kiss that really wasn’t a practice kiss. And what a kiss that was. I really hope Landon West doesn’t kiss Presley like that. Maybe I won’t watch Cosmic Fury when it comes out. I don’t think I’d be able to take it.
There’s been no other kissing between Presley and me since. Not practice ones or real ones pretending to be practice. I think we’ve gone back to our unspoken rule of not kissing because of . . . Actually, I don’t even know why. Wait, yes I do. She’s a famous actress, and I’m a nobody. She works in Hollywood, and I . . . need to find a job and figure out what I’m doing with my life and have a bank account that isn’t on the verge of zeroing out.
But somehow all of that seems less insurmountable lately. Like, who really cares about the details? I need to care about them, though, because I have a heart, and it’s on a precarious perch right now. One that, with just a small little nudge, could fall hopelessly and desperately for the woman lying next to me. And, if I’m being totally honest with myself, it may already have.
It feels like a bad move for my heart. Like if I were to write it out on paper, there’s just no way that I can carry the one and divide it by two to get to the result I’m hoping for. Which is . . . what? I don’t even know. Summer doesn’t last forever. Well, it kind of does on this island, but that’s not what I mean. This summer right now that I’m having with Presley has an ending. And I’d prefer it didn’t.
“I feel like I’m hogging the binoculars,” Presley says, pulling them away from her face and turning toward me. She’s lying on top of a red sleeping bag in a white T-shirt and black leggings.
“You are,” I say.
“Briggs Samwise Dalton,” she says, her voice mock appalled. “Why didn’t you say something?” She tries to hand them to me.
I push them back toward her. “I’m kidding. I can see this anytime.” Not that I ever do this kind of thing. It’s been over a decade since I slept on the beach.
“Oh my gosh,” she says, excitement in her voice, lifting her head up slightly. “Is it Samwise? Did I get it?”
I shake my head in tiny, probably imperceptible, movements since it’s pretty dark out here. But she must see it because her head drops back down on the pillow, defeated.
“Do you think I’d hate that one? I’d rock that middle name,” I say.
“It does sound pretty cool,” she says, turning her face toward the sky and bringing the binoculars up to her eyes again.
“It definitely beats Homer,” I say, referring to the name she tried earlier tonight.
“Briggs Homer Dalton has a ring to it, though.”
“Not really,” I say, thinking my real middle name doesn’t sound half as bad as some of the ones Presley’s been guessing, but then I think of it and . . . no. I still hate it.
Presley looks up at the sky again through the binoculars that were once Keith’s. He loved anything to do with the cosmos and knew so much about constellations and planets. He’d take me out at night to look sometimes. It’s one of the fondest memories I have with him. I wish I had told him that before he passed.
“It’s kind of funny,” Presley says, still looking at the sky, “to think how insignificant things really are when there’s this whole universe out there.”
“That was deep,” I say, my voice teasing.
“I mean it,” she says through a chuckle. “Why do people care so much about me?”
I think about that for a few seconds. “Probably because in your profession, you’re under a microscope. Like Sirius right there.” I point to the brightest star in the sky. “You stand out more than others and so you get the most attention. You’re the most studied.”
“Now who’s being deep?” she asks. She lets out a long exhale. “I think when this all passes, when I have to go back to my acting life, I’m doing things differently.”
“How do you plan to do that?” I ask her.
In my peripheral vision, I see her head turn toward me, so I reciprocate.
“I don’t want to play any more of the stupid games they make me play,” she says, tucking some hair behind her ear. “I think I’m going to take fewer contracts, not put myself out there so much. And no more pretending to be with someone for exposure. Or going places just to be seen and photographed. I just want to be real.”
“You seem pretty real to me,” I say, reaching over and poking her in the arm, as if she might be an apparition.
She chortles. “I think you’ve gotten to see the most authentic me I’ve been in a long time. A part that’s felt buried until recently.”
“Well then, I like the real Presley Shermerhorn.”
“That’s Presley Renee Shermerhorn to you. I freely share my middle name, not like some people I know.”
“Actually, Google shares your name freely with people.”
We’re smiling, our heads turned toward each other. Then Presley’s smile falters and she looks back at the sky.
“Maybe I want to quit my job and start something new,” she says after some silence.
“Quit acting? I thought you loved it.”
“I do love it,” she says. “But just the acting part. The other parts, like the having to put my best foot forward all the time part, can really suck sometimes. Most times, really. And when I don’t do that, for once in my life, it turns into a viral video for all the world to spread and talk about and judge me for.”
I don’t say anything in response because what is there to say? There are no words to soothe her or to take away the ugliness of people.
“The dumb part is,” she continues, “if you don’t play the game, then you are forgotten. And if you are forgotten, then you don’t get work.”
“Who could forget you?” I ask.
She smiles. “Lots of people.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I could never forget her. That I’ll never be able to forget her or this summer. Probably for the rest of my life. Even if it ended tomorrow and she went back to LA, it would still be the best summer I think I’ve ever had.
