7. Chapter 7
Presley
“Favorite book?” I ask Briggs as we sit together on the couch in his regally decorated apartment, the movie we were watching abandoned before it even really got started. Now it’s just background noise.
It was Notting Hill . I wanted him to watch it, but apparently Briggs already had. He admitted to it just before Julia Roberts comes back for her bags in the movie. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me when I suggested watching it. It’s kind of cute that he watched it on his own.
Briggs looks up at the ceiling as he thinks. He’s reclined on the couch, his back sinking into the lower cushion, legs stretched out before him, his fingers intertwined and resting on his stomach. He looks like the epitome of relaxation, with not a care in the world, and I aspire to be him. He’s also two cushions’ worth of couch away from me.
Not that I’m keeping track of that .
Except, I totally am. Presley James, what is wrong with you? I can’t help that it feels like he’s a mile away. I’m not sure if he still doesn’t believe me about Declan, or if he’s just trying to be a gentleman. But he could sit a little closer.
I have hateful feelings toward my publicist right now. The are-they-aren’t-they thing with Declan is so old. We are most certainly not . No way. And definitely not now after everything . . .
Nope. Not going there.
I didn’t come here tonight with the expectation of more kissing, even though the one outside his door keeps replaying in my head and I wouldn’t mind engaging in more of it because I am only human, after all. But I did apologize for it, and I meant it. It was really presumptuous of me. Honestly, I’m doing all kinds of idiotic things lately. What if he has a girlfriend? Somehow, I doubt it. Not with how he reacted about the Declan thing. And not with how he kissed me back.
It doesn’t matter, because it’s for the best that we stay on our separate ends of the couch—me on my end and he on his. I’m here for the summer to hopefully fix my life, not complicate it more. I don’t think Briggs wants to get caught up with a disgraced actress anyway. Even if the video didn’t seem to bother him. Which is . . . odd. And also lovely.
We can just be friends. Friends who never see each other again since I must go back to my resort prison and stay put this time for real. I can’t leave again .
I don’t know what compelled me to leave this time. I’d made it nearly two days by myself. It might have been the lack of fresh air since I couldn’t go out on the veranda, or the fact that even though I’m loving the Sunny Palmer book, I just can’t focus. But just as the sun started setting, I couldn’t take it anymore. I borrowed a bike from the hotel and flew over here, a woman on a mission.
Sitting here with Briggs, I feel like I should have regrets, or at least be mentally punishing myself right now for once again not being able to stay put, and yet . . . I can’t even bring myself to feel regretful.
But I am staying put. After tonight. I swear it. No more leaving the resort for me.
“I haven’t read a fiction book in a while,” Briggs answers my question, his eyes on the TV, even though he hasn’t been watching. “But I’d say it’s probably Harry Potter.”
“Good answer,” I say, giving him an appreciative nod. “I love those books too. And the movies.”
“Don’t tell me about the actors in real life,” he interjects quickly, looking toward me. “I don’t want to know if they’re horrible.”
“They’re not,” I say through a laugh. “Am I . . . tainting Hollywood for you?”
He gives me a side-eyed glare through his rectangle-shaped glasses. “Maybe a little. ”
“I’m ruining the magic with all my name-dropping, aren’t I?”
“You do drop a lot of names,” he says, tilting his head to the side.
I let my jaw fall open, placing a hand on my chest. “I’m not a name-dropper—you told me you wanted to know.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
I grab a throw pillow out from behind me, a red velvet one that looks like it might be used to present a glass slipper, and toss it at his head.
“Um, my mom would have you kicked off this island for that kind of roughhousing,” he says before setting the pillow gently beside him and giving it a little pat like I’ve hurt its feelings.
“Apologies to your mom,” I say. “I promise to never attempt to damage anything of hers again.”
“Thanks. But if you do, maybe next time you could go for the curtains,” he says, pointing to the ruffled, pink billowy things on the window across the room. “I actually like this pillow.” He pets the velvet material again.
I chuckle. “I’ll do my best.”
Being around Briggs is delightful and also kind of calming. Like a healing balm to my heart. So unlike anything I’ve experienced in a while.
For so long I haven’t known if people are spending time with me because of the fame thing or if they actually want to be my friend. It’s something that’s always in the back of my mind, hanging over me like a dark cloud. And after the video went viral, I found out the truth: It wasn’t my friendship they wanted. So, that was fun.
With Briggs, it feels different. Genuine. Real. I’ve hardly spent time with the guy, but I recognize it because I haven’t had much real in my life in . . . well, I actually don’t know when the last time was. Eighth grade? Wow. That’s sad. And maybe a little pathetic.
He could be faking it. Maybe he’s only interested in the fame part of my life and is just using me for my social status too. Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. Not as I watch him practically snuggle a red velvet tufted pillow.
“So, how did you get into acting?” he asks.
See? Right here. This is what I’m talking about. Most people would have read my Wikipedia page and then regurgitated it back to me thinking it would give them some sort of clout with me. But not Briggs.
“In middle school, actually,” I tell him, reciting the story I’ve told probably hundreds of times. But it feels fresh and new, telling him.
“We did a play— Anne of Green Gables . I played Anne, and my teacher, Mr. Davis, called a talent scout friend of his to come watch it, specifically to see me. I got signed to an agency pretty quickly after that and was filming my first movie that summer. ”
“So you were thirteen? Fourteen?”
“I’d just turned fourteen. My mom moved us to LA, and that was the start of it.”
Then my mom made my career her entire personality, but no need to bring that up. Or think about it.
“Is that unusual? To be discovered like that?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Are you being modest right now?” The corner of his mouth pulls up into a smirk.
“Maybe,” I say. “It’s not uncommon to be discovered like that.”
“But it isn’t all that common, is it?”
I don’t answer him. I just give him a little shrug in response. He obviously knows. Because yes, it’s not how things are usually done. It’s the dream, to not have to struggle or keep going from audition to audition, experiencing rejection after rejection, while dealing with overdraft fees from your bank because your only source of income is waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory.
It’s not that this career has been handed to me on a silver platter. It was at first. It felt so easy, and I was too young to truly comprehend it—to really appreciate it. But I’ve worked hard to get where I am now. I’ve taken classes and studied with world-renowned coaches. I take my job seriously.
Funny how easily all that hard work can be ruined in an instant. Or not funny, actually .
“So, what’s next for you? I mean after this summer of hiding . . . or not hiding,” he says, giving me another smirk.
“After tonight you’ll never see me again.”
He twists his lips to the side, doubt in his expression. “Should we bet money on that?”
“I need that pillow back so I can throw it at you again,” I say, holding out a hand.
“No way,” he says, hugging the pillow close to him, petting the top of it like it’s a beloved pet.
The man is adorable.
I sigh. “Fine. After the summer—the one where I’ll be hiding in my room, thank you very much,” I eye him dubiously. “I start filming a new movie . . . That’s the plan right now, at least.”
“Could it change?”
“Things change all the time in Hollywood. But this time there’s a small chance they might release me from my contract.”
This makes me sad to consider. I worked hard to land this role. A lot of the movies I’ve done in the past have been pretty much handed to me, some even written with me in mind. But this one . . . It’s an epic fantasy, an adaptation of a beloved book, with a lead that on the character breakdown looked nothing like me—Callis, a futuristic warrior who’s tall with long blonde hair. But I waltzed into the audition with platform boots on my short legs and a wig over my dark-brown hair and . . . I nailed it. It was a proud moment in my career .
And then, not long after, I had a very not-so-proud moment. Bleh.
Because of that not-so-proud moment, the script for the movie is sitting in my suitcase untouched, even though I should be running lines. But what if I do and it turns out to be a waste of time?
“What happens if they release you from the contract?” he asks, his eyebrows peeking out over the top of his frames.
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully, feelings of unease swimming around in my stomach. I’ve already been released from at least one role in the fallout. “I guess I’ll quit working and live out my days on this island.”
“That serious?”
“Probably not,” I say. “At some point the gossip will move on and I’ll start getting work again. People forget.”
Probably. Hopefully. Please, oh please, oh please.
“Of all the places in the world, why would you pick Sunset Harbor?” he asks.
“That’s a great question. I’m friends with Noah Belacourt—do you know the Belacourts?”
He nods once. “Of course,” he says, and I feel stupid, because who doesn’t know the Belacourts? They’re almost more famous than I am. I expect Briggs to point that out, but instead he says, “If they’ve been on the island a long time, then I know them. And the Belacourts have been around for a while. ”
I want to let out a sigh. He’s just so refreshing.
My mind goes back to Thursday and Bratty Betty. If she’s been on the island awhile, maybe he knows her? Is she a permanent fixture on the island, going around telling everyone to sit up straight and stop looking at their phones?
“How do you know Noah?” he asks.
“I met him at a party a while back, and he told me I should visit the island and stay at his family’s resort. So, when everything went to crap recently, I took him up on it,” I say. “I figured it’s a remote island, not easy to access, so it’s kind of perfect. Well, except that people talk on tiny islands. I didn’t know that when I decided to come here.”
“And except for running into men who spill iced coffee on you.”
“Yes, that too,” I say, giving him a teasing smile. The truth is, I’m really glad Briggs spilled iced coffee on me. I’m also happy I came here tonight, even though I should be in my room at the resort.
Ugh. The thought of going back to my place makes me feel sort of sick to my stomach.
“Anyway, I’m hoping if I stay put and word doesn’t spread too much, then maybe I can go back to life as usual,” I say, my hands in prayer pose. “It’ll just be another crappy summer for me.”
“Another one?” he asks, frowning .
“I never had a good one growing up, and adulthood hasn’t been much better, so what’s one more dumb summer for me?” I know I sound like I’m joking right now, but somewhere deep inside, my inner child is stomping her foot.
“You’ve . . . never had a good summer,” Briggs repeats, his tone dry, clearly not believing me.
I let out a dramatic exhale. “Summer is the worst.”
“No, summer’s the best,” he says.
“You live in permanent summer,” I say, throwing my arms up.
“Well, yes, that’s true.” He reaches up and scratches the side of his face, his fingers moving slowly over his clean-shaven jaw. “But this island has always been more fun in the summer, since tourist season is over and things feel more relaxed. And maybe there’s some nostalgia there from when I was younger . . . that feeling of not having to go to school was so freeing.”
“Ah, but see, I never had that. My parents divorced when I was young, so when school was over in Nashville, where I grew up, I was packed up and shipped to my dad’s place in North Carolina. He was always busy working during the summer, and it was so incredibly boring. I was at his house all day, with no friends, and a babysitter who most days would sleep on the couch while I played all by myself. And then when I started acting, it filled every summer after that. ”
It’s hard to believe that at twenty-nine, I’ve never had just a regular old summer—time to spend with my friends, playing in the sprinklers, swimming at the community pool, all the things I used to dream about doing when I was younger.
It’s always touchy for me to complain about my life, since from afar it looks ideal to most. The picture painted about acting and fame and the lifestyle that comes with them isn’t the full view. Sure, it’s extravagant parties and red carpets and all the things you see online, but there’s also a lot of loneliness, a ton of comparison—not just from others, but from yourself—and constantly feeling judged.
“And this summer was supposed to be different?” Briggs asks, his head resting on the back of the couch and lolling toward me.
“This summer I purposefully left open for once, and I was going to travel.”
“That sounds like a good summer plan.”
“Not the entire summer, but for some of it. And then I thought I’d do other summery things like, I don’t know, have a barbecue, or play beach volleyball, or make a bonfire on the beach.” With what friends, I have no idea. Of course, I still had friends—or at least I thought I did—before the stupid video.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Things you’ve never done, I gather. ”
I shake my head. “I’ve been on short beach vacations, but when you’re in the spotlight and paparazzi are always around . . . you feel like you’re constantly putting on a show, or worried about an accidental wardrobe malfunction that will haunt you for life.” To be honest, I haven’t been on a lot of vacations. I’ve just been working, working, working the past fifteen years of my life. No wonder I don’t know how to take a break.
He gives me an understanding dip of his chin. “That makes sense.”
“And because of how I grew up, I missed out on all the things that are quintessential summer childhood things. I’ve never run through the sprinklers, or jumped on a trampoline, or made a sandcastle, or gone camping. I’ve never even roasted marshmallows or slept under the stars.”
“That’s not every childhood,” he says.
“Was it yours?”
“Well . . . yes, I guess it was.”
“And you probably took it for granted.”
He doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t need to. I feel stupid for complaining. But it doesn’t seem like Briggs is judging me right now. He looks more contemplative.
“And now I get to spend the summer cooped up in a hotel.”
“You’re not in a hotel right now,” Briggs says. He’s giving me a teasing grin. It’s in the upward curve of his lips and the look of mischief in his eyes .
“Okay, I’m supposed to be in a hotel room. And after this, I’m going to stay there.”
He gives me a questioning stare. “I don’t know. You’ve been here for, what, less than a week? And you’ve already left the resort twice.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I know. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.”
Briggs is quiet for a minute, and I pull my hands away from my face to see him looking at me.
“It can’t be that bad at the resort,” he says.
“It’s not; the resort is beautiful. It’s not that, anyway. I’m just not good at staying put. I don’t know how to do it.”
Briggs looks off to the side, going quiet as if he’s thinking about something.
“We could do some of those things,” he says.
I pull my chin inward. “What . . . things?”
“The summer stuff. While you’re here.”
“I’m supposed to be hiding in my room, remember?” He was literally just teasing me about it.
He reaches up and adjusts his glasses. “Yeah, but you just said you don’t know how you’re going to do it. So . . . don’t. I’m here for the summer and feeling pretty directionless right now, so we could, I don’t know, do stuff . . . together?”
I can’t help it when my eyes tear up a little. I blink the moisture away and hope he doesn’t notice. I’m an actress, after all. But I’m completely touched by the fact that he wants to spend time with me, especially after seeing the video of me losing my crap. Why did everyone else turn their backs, but not him?
I know right away that I can’t spend the summer gallivanting around with Briggs. Even if I really, really want to. But just the fact that he’s offered means so much to me.
“That is seriously the sweetest offer, and I’d love to take you up on it, but it’s for the best if I stay at the resort,” I tell him.
I want to say yes. I want to scream it, actually. A whole summer doing summer things with a guy who is so unexpectedly not what I’m used to. But, I can’t. I can’t risk it. This is my career. If word gets out and the paparazzi catch me roaming around an island having what would probably be the best summer ever—because, let’s face it, any kind of summer activity would be better than what I’ve been doing my entire life—the headlines would be scathing.
Presley James Living Her Best Life, Despite Video
Presley James Doesn’t Care What We Think of Her
Did She Think We Forgot Already? Presley James is at it Again
“We could be discreet,” Briggs says.
“We could,” I say. “But with everyone already talking and the teens sneaking onto the private beach, the damage might already be done. I think right now I probably need to lie low.”
It’s for the best, even if I hate it with a passion .
He nods. “Well, the offer stands if you ever change your mind.”
Even as I want to say never mind, let’s have the best summer ever , I know I can’t change my mind.
This is how it has to be.