“Were you the one taking pictures of us that morning on the beach? Hiding behind the tree?” It didn’t look like her, but now that I know she’s an evil sort of genius, maybe I didn’t realize it.
“Oh no,” she says, shaking her head. “He hid behind a tree? What an idiot. I’d never do that. I have no idea who that was. I’d already sold the pictures I’d taken and left the island the day before. I think that was just a regular old paparazzo who’d caught wind of you being there. Little bastard jumped on my train.”
I’m sort of in shock right now, facing this same woman, clear across the country. And then my stomach does a sort of turning thing, and it’s not the spicy tuna from dinner.
“I blamed people for those pictures. Innocent people.”
She nods. “I can see how that might have happened.”
I blamed Briggs’s mom and sister for those pictures.
I’m an idiot. Not that I would have ever suspected that this grouchy woman was taking pictures of me, but why was I so sure it was Briggs’s family that I refused to consider there was another option?
I look her in the face. “Betty—”
“Deborah,” she corrects.
I breathe out my nose. “Whatever. I’m really glad I ran into you, but I’m probably going to have to get a restraining order against you.”
She gives me a shrug like it’s no big deal. “It’s all in the game, right? You wouldn’t be the first, but you just might be the last. And stand up straight. You really do have terrible posture.”
I don’t know why, but I put my shoulders back and stand a little taller.
“Also, no one is fooled by you and Declan Stone,” she says. “Plus, I’ve got pictures that no one wants to buy of him snogging some older woman.”
Oh gosh.
“But that guy on the island,” she goes on. “That’s the real stuff right there.”
Briggs. Oh, Briggs. She’s right. This crazy lady is right. And I messed it all up.
With that, Deborah—who will always be Betty to me—gives me a nod of her head, like she didn’t just rock my world, and then, lifting her nose up toward the sky, she walks away.
Later that night, I’m sitting on my bed, wearing the white T-shirt that Briggs let me borrow after having spilled iced coffee on me the first time I met him (I never returned it and am not giving it back now; it’s my favorite souvenir from the island). I’ve written approximately five thousand different versions of a text to him. Nothing seems right. I want to tell him what happened and apologize, but the words all look wrong on my screen.
Me: Hey, Briggs, turns out you were right. It wasn’t your mom and sister who took the pictures. Hilarious, right?
Me: Hey, Briggs, remember when I accused your sister and mom of taking pictures of us and selling them to a gossip site? Turns out I was wrong. It was that weird lady with the big hat instead. Hahahahaha. Anyway, please forgive me. Pleeeeeeease.
Me: Hey, Briggs, I feel terrible, but it turns out I was wrong about the pictures. Anyway, hope life is going well for you!
Me: Briggs Conrad Dalton, I am miserable without you and I messed up and will you forgive me and can we run away together and I hate hate hate how things turned out between us and can you forgive me please I hate it here nothing feels right and I miss the island and your face and your hands and you were supposed to tell me your middle name and I wish I could see you right now and know if I screwed things up so badly that we can never have a chance and could you please tell me your middle name?
The last one was a bit of an unhinged run-on sentence that I’m super glad I didn’t send.
In the end, I don’t send him anything. It just feels wrong to text him. I could call him, but would he answer? Is it pointless to even try? He deserves to know that he was right, and I was a stubborn fool who should have believed him, and would he just forgive me and take me out on that boat and make out with me again?
There I go once more with the run-on sentences. I fall back on my pillows, my phone in my hands. He deserves to know, and I’ll tell him. I just have to figure out the right way to do it.
Briggs
“Hey, Jack,” I say into my phone, feeling anxious as I pace back and forth in the princess living room.
I’ve finally grown a pair and am doing something I should have done weeks ago. Even if it took me another week to get up the courage. Now I just need him to lay it on me. Are we going to apologize? Will I need to sell a kidney to pay off some remaining debt? It’s time to rip the Band-Aid off and find out.
“Briggs,” he says, and the way he says my name doesn’t sound like he’s mad or that he’s the bearer of bad news. So that’s a good start. “You finally got a chance to call me back, huh?”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s been a bit crazy.”
“Oh?” he says. “New job?”
I pause, trying to think of what to say. No, but I spent last month with Presley James and got my heart trampled on; so yeah, crazy, right?
I clear my throat. “Um, no. Not yet. You?”
“No,” he says. “I wanted to apologize to you for how we left things.”
“Uh yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
“I know we probably both said things we didn’t mean.”
“For sure,” I say. “I’m really sorry about all that, Jack.”
“Anyway, I just wanted to make sure we’re good.”
