“To protect Presley’s privacy—”
They all moan at once, cutting me off, their shoulders falling at nearly the same time. Do they practice this?
I turn to Scout, giving her a questioning glare. What can I even say right now?
I clear my throat. “I’ll say this: I had a great time with Presley while she was here, and . . .” I pause, racking my brain for more to say, because right now I feel like I’m writing some generic online review. “And I wish her well.”
There. It was boring, but it’s the truth.
“But like, was she your girlfriend?” a girl with strawberry-blonde hair asks me.
“No, she wasn’t. We were just friends,” I reply, realizing belatedly that my bland answer wouldn’t be enough, because it never works on Scout. She always has too many follow-up questions.
“But did you love her?” another girl with nearly-black hair chimes in.
“I . . . well,” I hesitate, adopting a casual stance. “I don’t . . . think so.” This is a lie. There were definitely love feelings happening. At least for me there were.
“Did you ever hold her hand?” a girl with curly red hair and freckles asks eagerly.
“I did,” I confirm, and they sigh in unison. Is there some kind of manual for fourteen-year-olds that gets them all on the same page with this stuff?
“Did your heart feel like it was gonna burst out of your chest when she was around?” the girl with the nearly-black hair asks.
“Well, I—”
“Did you get sweaty palms and butterflies in your stomach?” the strawberry-blonde girl cuts me off.
“I think I probably—”
“Dude, you’ve got it bad,” declares the girl with the dark hair.
I’m not even sure what just happened. I’ve barely answered their questions and they’ve already diagnosed me.
“So, what went wrong?” asks the strawberry-blonde girl.
“It was a lot of things. She’s famous, and I’m not. And we live very different lives.” What am I doing? Why am I even telling them this?
“Those are just details,” the girl with the black hair says.
“They’re kind of big details, though,” I say.
“Just apologize and tell her you’re sorry,” the redhead says.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is,” Strawberry Blonde pipes in. “Buy her flowers.”
“Oooh.” The redhead nods in agreement. “And bring her a gift. Girls love gifts.”
Now they’re discussing what I should buy for Presley as an apology gift. Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m not taking relationship advice from a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.
And anyway, I don’t need to apologize to Presley. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s her. She’s so . . . stubborn. She refused to look at any other possibilities, any other options for who might have taken those pictures.
I realize that my mom and Scout did make the most sense, from her point of view. But it wasn’t them, and I knew it wasn’t. Why didn’t she believe me? For Presley to not trust me, to not even want to try . . .
I’m so sick of thinking about all this. What Presley and I had is over. And that’s really all there is to it.
I’ve been tuned out, thinking to myself and looking off into the distance, so when I return my focus to my teenage love therapists, I find that like all fickle teens, they’ve ditched me and are now dancing to Mo and the Kokomos singing a version of “Fun, Fun, Fun” by the Beach Boys.
Well, that’s my cue. Time for me to go.
I make my way out from the party and get stopped a couple of times to talk to people and catch up (cue fake zombie smiles), and then I go back to my apartment, where I watch the fireworks from my bedroom window and try to stop myself from wondering what Presley is doing right now.
Happy Fourth of July to me.
Presley
I hate this so much.
“Presley, over here!” a paparazzo yells.
“Declan! Look this way!” another one says.
We’ve just exited Nobu, and thanks to my publicist—and I’m sure my mom—there are plenty of photogs here to get my picture with Declan Stone. We are officially back together. Only, we’re not. Because he’s with my mom now, and also, I don’t like Declan like that. I never really did, even when we actually tried to date for that little bit.
My apology video went as expected: Hated the first week, and then all the fuss died down and has pretty much been forgotten about, just like my publicist predicted. I’ve been too busy to think about it all that much. With meetings, press conferences, and costume fittings, I feel like I haven’t had a moment to myself. Filming starts in less than a week, I’ve got so much to do, and right now I’m having to pretend to be back with Declan.
