“Back to my home, to LA?” It sounds ridiculous even as I say it, but if I could bring Briggs with me, I think I’d be less sad about leaving.
Do I even hear myself? Bring Briggs with me, like he’s some sort of souvenir.
“Never mind,” I say, feeling like an idiot. It would be nice if I could think before I speak. “I’m just being stupid.”
He gives me a sad smile. “I’d go with you,” he says. “But I just—” He pauses, exhaling through his nose. “I need to figure out what I’m doing with my own future, first.”
I nod. “Yeah. I get it.”
“I could . . . come visit, though? Maybe next month?”
“Really? Truly?” I say, looking up at him. “That would be so amazing.”
Briggs could come for a visit. I could show him around town. Maybe he’ll love LA and want to move there. Or he could hate it. Or I could move closer to him at some point.
I’m getting ahead of myself. But I have to hope that it will all work out. It’s the only way I’ll be able to leave this island.
Briggs
“Briggs!” Scout comes running into the bookstore from the back, waving her phone at me.
“Here you go, Mr. Shuman,” I say, looking back at the older man who’s just purchased some books and handing him his change.
The man waves goodbye before leaving, slowly moving toward the door on old fragile-looking legs, the bells jingling as he walks out into the humid air.
“Briggs!” Scout yells again, now standing in front of me doing some sort of weird jumping thing.
“What, Scout?” I ask, laughing at how ridiculous she’s being right now.
“You’re famous!” she says, holding up her phone for me to see, but the screen is black.
“I’m . . . what?”
“You’re famous,” she says again, turning the phone back toward her before muttering, “Oh crap,” and putting her passcode in. She hands it to me this time.
I look at her screen, and then feel the color drain from my face. There, under the headline Presley James Has Been Spotted, and With a New Man, is a picture of Presley and me, asleep on the beach.
“No,” I say, scrolling through the article with the edge of my thumb, feeling a twisting in my gut when I see more pictures. One of Presley and me making a sandcastle, and another of us playing in the water at the resort, our arms wrapped around one another. One of me helping Presley get off the boat after we went tubing, and next to that, a grainy capture of us in a lip-lock in front of the resort. There’s another one of us riding bikes and one of us walking down the beach together, Presley smiling, her arms outstretched. The most disconcerting ones, though, are of us roasting marshmallows in my mom’s backyard, and one taken through the window of the bookshop, our arms around each other.
Then I read the words.
Presley James has been seen with a new beau, according to sources, while vacationing on an island off the Florida coast. It turns out the mystery man is a local who works at the town bookshop. Could this mean the rumors are true that Presley and Declan have called it quits for real this time? And did it have anything to do with the viral video?
Having read and seen enough, I hand the phone back to Scout.
“My friends are gonna freak out,” Scout says, cradling the phone in her hands like it must be protected. She’s got all the proof she needs right there that Presley James is on Sunset Harbor.
“Please don’t tell them,” I say, back to my old ways of trying to protect Presley, but then I realize it’s pointless. This article is from a prominent gossip site, and anyone can see it. Chances are it’s spread around the island already, or it will soon enough. I’m just grateful whoever wrote it didn’t print my name or the name of the island.
“Actually, Scout,” I say, searching the counter for my phone, and when I find it, placing it in the pocket of my shorts. “Can you watch the shop? I need to go talk to Presley.”
“Sure,” she says. “But hurry back because I’m gonna need to throw this in my friends’ faces.”
I feel like maybe I should quickly talk to her about bragging and how it’s not a good thing, but I don’t really have the time right now, so I hurry to the resort, running as fast as I can in flip-flops. I’m winded and sweating by the time I get there.
“Excuse me,” one of the employees says, trying to stop me as I run past her and take the stairs two at a time up to Presley’s suite. I don’t have time to check in with anybody now.
I knock on the door and then take my glasses off, cleaning them with the edge of my shirt while I wait for her to answer.
The door opens after I knock a second time, and I see Presley there, her eyes bloodshot and her face blotchy and red.
“You saw it,” is all I say.
She nods her head as tears well in her eyes, and she opens the door wider, letting me in. I walk inside and shut it behind me. I want to take her into my arms and hold her, let her know we’ll figure this out together, but instead I follow her as she walks toward the sitting area.
“Presley, I—”
“Briggs, this is my mom, Didi Shermerhorn,” she says, holding her hand out toward a woman who looks to be in her late fifties sitting on one of the couches. She’s wearing some sort of blue pantsuit, and her hair is in a very straight, shoulder-length bob. She has the same coloring as Presley, especially in the hair and eyes. She stands up as we approach.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand toward her, which she takes and gives a delicate shake.
“Likewise,” she says, before pulling her hand out of mine. “It’s nice to meet the reason why my daughter has been hiding from me.”
I look to Presley, who’s rolling her eyes.
“Mom, I told you I came here on my own,” Presley says.
