“Isn’t it, though?”
“I’m sorry, I’m just upset,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I hardly recognize the person standing in front of me right now.
“I have to leave,” she says. “I’m going back to LA tonight. I’ve got to do damage control.”
I point at myself. “For me?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Or, I guess, yes. For all of it. For leaving, for running away, for that stupid video. And for those photos.”
“So . . . then what?” I ask after a few beats of silence.
“Then . . . I start working on the film,” she says.
I point to her and then me. “And you . . . and me?”
Another tear falls down her face. “I want to thank you for all the things we did this summer, for all you did for me.”
“Oh, got it,” I say, taking another step away. So that’s it, then.
She shakes her head. “You mean a lot to me, Briggs, but it’s just too hard. There’s . . . too much. Our lives are too different.”
Too hard. Right. I’m starting to see a trend with Presley James. When things get hard, she runs away. Glad I figured that out now and not later when it would have been much worse.
I wait to see if she has anything else to say, and maybe a part of me is sort of hoping she takes it all back. But when she just looks at me, tears running down her face, I know that’s not going to happen.
“Goodbye, Presley,” I say, before walking away from her and out the door.
Presley
My home in Calabasas feels cold and sterile as I dump my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom with the almost all-white decor and then collapse face-first on my bed.
Usually when I travel for work, I can’t wait to get back to my home, to all the creature comforts I’m accustomed to. But this time around, I actually hate being here. I hate what it means. I hate that I decorated this place in so much freaking white. There was so much color in Sunset Harbor. The water, the green foliage, the amazing sunsets. A pair of beautiful green eyes and dirty-blond hair.
I was more colorful there, too. More light in my eyes, more coloring in my face. I hardly recognized myself when I’d look in the mirror, I was so . . . happy.
And now I’m back in LA and it all feels drab and sterile and stupid. I saw myself in the entryway mirror of my two-story Mediterranean-style home just a few minutes ago, and I look like I’ve died and been unwillingly brought back to life.
Presley, you colorless fool.
The paparazzi were waiting for me when we landed. No doubt the flight information had been leaked by my mom.
“How could you not even tell your own mom where you were?” she’d asked me on the flight home, riding in first class with tickets I’d purchased.
I hadn’t wanted to have this conversation on the plane, but it needed to be said. After earlier that day with Briggs and the way he looked at me before walking away, my own heart breaking into a million freaking pieces, I was not in the best mood.
“You were the last person I wanted to tell,” I’d said.
“Why’s that?” she’d asked, looking genuinely upset by my answer.
“Because you report my location to the paparazzi all the time.”
“I do not,” she’d said, the sincerity gone and the facade back and lit up like a marquee board.
“Mom, I needed a break from everything. I had one planned, and I thought we could go together, and then you . . . ruined it.”
“I ruined it? I didn’t make that video, Presley. Is this because of Declan?”
“No,” I’d said emphatically. “He’s all yours, that’s not the problem. I’m not blaming you for the video; that was on me. But it was the fact that you told people where we were going on that trip, and you wanted to turn it into a publicity thing.”
“But I did that all for you,” she’d replied. “The world is always watching you, Presley, whether you like it or not. Everything I’ve done is for you.”
“Mom,” I’d said, stopping her from the I gave up my life for your career speech she often gives me when I push back. She has worked hard, especially when I was younger, and I came out mostly unscathed from an industry that can take some terrible turns if you don’t have the right people in your corner, and I’m grateful to her for that.
I looked at her with pleading eyes. “When I say I need a break, I need you to believe me.”
She’d looked away then, out the window of the plane. She did apologize later, as we’d started our descent into LAX. And we had a heart-to-heart about everything. It wasn’t our first, and it won’t be our last, I’m sure.
Now, here on my stupid white bed, I can’t stop thinking about how terribly things turned out with Briggs. I can’t stop replaying the conversation in my head. I hate the memory of that hurt look on his face, how painful it was to tell him about the pictures. And then I thanked him for all he did for me? Like he was some sort of glorified tour guide?
Oh gosh.
I miss Briggs, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. I feel this emptiness without him. I’m sad that he didn’t believe me. That he wouldn’t even consider that the pictures were taken by his family. How could it possibly be anyone else? I do appreciate how loyal he is. But that’s Briggs.
When I saw the pictures, I knew right away he wouldn’t believe me. I also knew that we wouldn’t be able to get past it. I’d always be worried around his family, not being able to trust them, and he’d be defensive like he was today. I knew when I saw the pictures in that article that we’d been flung up the side of an insurmountable hill. There was no way to get over it.
