“Well, I can see why you stayed,” her mom says, looking me up and down. “He’s handsome.”
“Uh . . . thanks,” I say, not sure how to respond to that.
Presley shakes her head at her mom. “Can I have a minute with Briggs, please?”
Yes, we need a minute so we can figure this out. I can’t take the heartbroken look on her face right now.
Her mom gives me a closed-mouth smile before going to the bedroom and shutting the door.
“I’m sorry,” I start. “I didn’t know your mom was here.”
“She showed up this morning.”
“How did she find you?”
She sniffles. “I’m sure she got it out of my agent or my assistant, since they know now.”
I put my hands on her arms and rub them. “Presley, are you okay?”
She shakes her head, the tears starting up again. “No, I’m not,” she says. “That article, Briggs . . . it’s not good.”
“Well, yeah, but they didn’t mention my name or the name of the island, so that’s good.”
“It doesn’t look good for me,” she says.
“I’m not following,” I say, letting go of her arms.
“Those photos in that article,” she says, pointing to some random spot in the room, “show me laughing and having a great time, and not looking repentant for my actions captured in that stupid video. I look ungrateful and irresponsible . . . and it’s not a good look, Briggs.”
“Oh, Presley,” I say. “I never thought of that. I’m so sorry. We can fix this.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if we can.”
“We can figure something out,” I tell her. There’s got to be a way.
She pushes some hair behind her ear. “There’s a picture of you and me in your mom’s backyard,” she says, a single tear dropping from her eye and down her face. I want to wipe it away, but somehow, I get the idea she wouldn’t want that right now.
“I know,” I say. “I have no idea how anyone got that one.”
She lets out a breath. “Briggs, it could only be your mom or Scout.”
“What?” I say with a confused-sounding laugh. “Presley . . . there’s no way.”
Her shoulders drop, and she puts her face in her hands. “That’s the only way, Briggs. Who else would have taken those photos?”
I stare at her, wondering how she could think my family would do something like that. I understand the evidence is damning—it is a picture of us in the backyard, and I did say my mom and sister were both gossips. But they wouldn’t do this. They’re fiercely loyal; they’ve been going to bat for Presley since we asked them to.
“They didn’t do it, Presley. They wouldn’t.”
She wipes tears away with the back of her hand. “Your mom mentioned the bookshop isn’t making a good profit.”
“So?” I ask, not understanding where she’s going with this.
“People get paid a lot of money for pictures like that,” she says.
“Wait,” I say, taking a step back from her, feeling shocked by this turn of events, by the words coming out of her mouth. “You think my mom sold pictures of us, for the bookshop?”
“Or maybe she just needed the money? I don’t know.” She says the last part through a sob.
I shake my head. “I’m telling you right now, my mom and sister did not do this.”
“I know you don’t want to believe it. And I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Briggs. But . . . there’s just no other way.”
“It wasn’t them,” I repeat myself. I feel like if I keep saying it, maybe it will get through to her. “What about whoever was taking pictures of us yesterday?”
“I thought about that, and I’d believe it if it were just the one shot, but there were private, intimate pictures on there, Briggs. No one else would have known. Do you know how violating that feels?”
“Well, I was in the pictures too,” I say, my hackles rising.
“I know, but—”
“But I’m not a ridiculously famous actor,” I say, cutting her off. “So, I guess it’s not the same.”
“It’s not the same,” she says, her voice rising. “This is my career, Briggs.” She points to herself. “I get to deal with the fallout, and you . . . you just get to work in a bookstore.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re right. I’m a nobody.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” She puts a hand to her forehead.
