8. Chapter 8
Briggs
Jack: Let me know when we can talk, B.
I set the phone down on the counter at the bookshop with more force than I mean to use. He’s called me twice since the last text and I haven’t responded. He should catch on by now. But apparently not. Jack has always been a little thick. I should call him, but I’m not ready to talk just yet. The wounds from how everything went down are still too fresh. But honestly, what is there to actually talk about? Maybe he wants to apologize, and I probably need to as well, but is it really necessary? Can’t we just let it die like our failed business?
Some of the things I said to him were pretty awful though, and he didn’t deserve it. I mean, he said things too, but that doesn’t excuse my actions. I definitely need to apologize. I’m also still worried he’ll have bad news and my struggling finances can’t really take that hit right now .
A few stragglers at the bookshop slowly make their way out as I get ready to close up, leaving one person still hanging around, apparently until the last minute. The day hasn’t felt as long as I thought it would. It was still busier than it normally would be in the summer, but not as bad as it was Saturday. Hopefully the whole gossip mill has moved on, or maybe because no one saw Presley, they realized it was fruitless. Little did they know she did show up and spent the evening with me.
I did have a strange run-in with a woman named Jane—someone I went to middle and high school with. I thought she was fishing around for information about Presley James, but it turns out she wanted to ask me out. Which was . . . very random. I couldn’t say yes; I’m not in a place to date right now. Even though I sort of offered that to Presley. But it’s not really dating. Just she and I doing summery things . . . alone.
Okay, well, that does sound a bit like dating.
I felt sort of dumb for even offering it. Who do I think I am, anyway? I’m just some penniless island dweller at the moment, living in an apartment that’s been decorated by the inner child of a fifty-two-year-old woman. If my college professors could see me now. Especially after all the you’re going places, kid accolades they gave me at graduation.
Yes. I’m really going places right now. So many places.
I hope what Presley is doing works for her. I hope the rumors about her staying here on the island will die down and she can move on with her life. I told her that as I walked her back to the resort late Saturday night. There was no spontaneous kiss when I left her at the entrance to the Belacourt Resort. It’s not like I wanted one anyway. Okay, that’s a total lie. I almost went for it when she went up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek before walking away.
The rumors will settle here, and the islanders will move on to something else, like they always do, and Presley will become a blip in my life. A blip I’m not going to tell anyone about because no one would believe me anyway. I still don’t fully believe it myself.
“Closing up?” Carl asks, looking up from a book he’s been reading for the past two hours. I just turned off half the lights in the store, the universal sign for please leave this establishment .
“Yep,” I reply. “Off to have dinner with my mom and Scout.”
“Oh?” His bushy eyebrows shoot up.
I think he might be fishing for an invite, and heaven knows there will be plenty of food because Marianne McMannus doesn’t know how to cook for only three people. But since I never told my mom about him digging for info on her dating status, I’m not sure inviting him would be the best idea. Plus, let’s be honest here: Carl is annoying.
“Yep,” I answer him. “And I’m running late, so I’ll see you around, Carl.”
I go to the door and hold it open for him .
“I’ll be in later this week,” he says, giving me a single nod as he walks out the door.
“Sounds good,” I tell him. He’s after the refrigerator-repair manuals I did finally order for him. Apparently, YouTube was too confusing. There was too much information.
I lock the door behind him, turning the sign over to closed , and then start closing up the shop, doing a checklist of things I have memorized: shutting the shades on the windows, putting any misplaced books back where they belong, and organizing all the things on the checkout counter. My mom comes in and deep cleans the place on Sundays, so there’s not much to do cleaning-wise, but I pick a few things up off the floor and move a few chairs back into place.
I’m just about to turn off the lights when I hear it. A knock on the door of the shop. Unexpectedly, my heart does a little speeding-up thing.
I shake my head as I walk to the door, seeing someone in a pair of shorts and that same black hoodie and sunglasses, the hood covering her head and pulled tightly, just like Saturday night.
I quickly unlock the door and open it, letting Presley James inside.
“Hey,” she says, removing her hood and then messing with her hair so it’s no longer flat to her head .
“What are you doing here?” I can’t help the smile that’s evident in my tone.
She smiles back. “It’s my thing,” she says, in that lower raspy voice of hers. “I stay inside for two days and then I can’t take it anymore and I come here to bother you.”
“Were the teenagers bugging you again?”
I talked to Scout yesterday when I took her to get ice cream at the shop on the other side of the square from the bookstore. She acted like she had no idea what I was talking about, and I couldn’t tell her that it was Presley who told me she saw a bunch of teens sneaking in, or she’d have been back with her friends attempting it again today. I just reiterated the lie I’ve been telling that Presley James isn’t here and not to waste her time or get in trouble for doing something dumb like that.
“No teenagers today,” Presley says, shaking her head.
“Bored?”
“Always.”
“So . . . what are you doing?”
She sighs. “Being stupid, I guess.”
“You really can’t take more than two days by yourself,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I know. That seems to be my limit.”
I lift my shoulder briefly, wondering if I should say what my mouth wants to say right now. I decide to just go for it .
“You know, you could just come here at night, and we could hang out, sometimes . . . when you’re bored, that is. If you want to, or you know . . . whatever.”
Right. Really smooth, Briggs. I mess with my glasses, pushing the bottom of the frames up with the back of my finger.
“Actually,” she says. “I was thinking that . . . I mean if you’re still up for it, that maybe . . . we could do your summer plan?”
I rear my head back, confused. “But what about—”
“I know,” she says, holding up a hand. “I know what I said, and it’s probably a very bad idea, but I can’t do it. I can’t stay in that room. I feel like I’d rather risk it than lose my mind at the resort. And I am . . . losing my mind. We can be careful, right?”
“Of course,” I tell her, having already worked out some ideas, even though at the time it felt fruitless. I give her a grin that she returns. “Let’s do all the summer stuff.”
“Really?” she asks, her eyes doing a sort of twinkling thing.
Did she really think I’d turn her down?
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and pull up my notes app. I was bored myself yesterday, what with not working at the bookshop and also not having a five-foot-nothing famous actress keeping me company.
“What’s that?” Her eyes go from my phone to me.
“I made a list of things to do.”
“You . . . made a list? ”
I give her my best sheepish smile. “I figured it could end up being useful.”
“You assumed I wouldn’t be able to stay at the resort, didn’t you?”
“No,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose with a finger. “Of course not. I made it just in case.”
Her mouth pulls up into a full smile, and it’s pretty dazzling.
“What’s on it?” She tries to peek at my phone, but I hold it away from her.
“It’s a surprise,” I say. It’s not a surprise, but it feels sort of vulnerable to let her look at the list I made. What if she hates it? What if it’s stupid?
“I love surprises,” she says.
“Good,” I tell her. “Because that’s why . . . I mean that’s what it’s going to be. A surprise.” Great. I’m fumbling over my words again.
“So, what should we do tonight? Can we knock something off the list?” She points to the phone in my hand.
I scan my screen to see what we could do this evening before remembering that I already have plans. “Oh crap,” I say, shaking my head and briefly looking up at the ceiling. “I have dinner with my sister and my mom. But I can cancel it.”
“No,” she says as I start to pull up my mom’s number. “Do you think . . . would they . . . would they care if I came with you? ”
I stare at her, unsure I heard her right. She fumbles with the drawstrings on her hoodie, and I put the phone in my back pocket, which begins to vibrate as soon as I do, but I ignore it.
I open my mouth to say something, but she talks first. “If it’s too much to ask, don’t worry. I’m . . . sorry. We can meet up tomorrow, or the next day, or whatever?”
The way she’s fumbling through her words and her nervous energy makes me smile. She’s Presley James, famous actress extraordinaire. And I’m . . . well, I’m nobody. And yet, with the way she’s acting right now, you’d think she was trying to ask for a meeting with King Charles.
“Sorry, was that dumb to ask?” she says, now taking the ends of the drawstrings and nervously tapping them together.
“No, my mom would love to have you,” I say. “That’s not the problem.”
“Really? Then what’s the problem?” She looks around the room for a possible answer, and then back at me when it seems like she’s landed on one. “Oh, did you . . . were you planning on bringing someone with you? Like a date or something?”
I shake my head, quickly. “No, no date. It’s just me and my family. The problem is”—I reach up and adjust my glasses—“my mom happens to be the person who most likely spread the news that you might be here, and my sister was probably part of the teenage group that kept sneaking into the resort. ”
Not probably—they literally did those things. But I don’t want to tell Presley that.
Her face falls, just the slightest bit, but I see it, and I hate that it’s my own family that’s been some of the cause of her seclusion.
“That does pose a problem,” she says.
I don’t respond; I just nod.
A noise from the back of the shop has us both turning our heads in that direction.
“Briggs! Mom made me come here and tell you to come to dinner. You ignored my call,” I hear my sister say as she walks into the main area of the shop with her phone in her hand, having most likely used the back entrance.
She stops dead in her tracks, only a few feet away from us, when she sees me standing there with Presley James.
“Holy crap,” Scout says, her eyes wide. “It’s true!” She covers her mouth with her hand.
“Scout,” I say as I take the few steps toward her. “She’s not who you think she is.”
“Briggs,” Presley says. “It’s okay.” She moves to stand next to me.
“You’re Presley James?” Scout finally says, her words muffled behind her hand.
She nods. “Yes, and you must be . . .” Presley looks at me for some help .
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head, trying to get my bearings. “Presley, this is my sister, Scout.”
“You really are Presley James?” Scout asks, her eyes still wide. “You’re in Sunset Harbor?”
“It’s really me,” she says, holding her hands out, like she’s presenting herself.
“Oh my gosh, Briggs.” Scout turns toward me. “You liar.”
“Sorry, Scout, I’ve been trying to keep Presley’s secret. She doesn’t want people to know she’s here.”
“Oh, right, because of that video,” Scout says, like it’s no big deal, like it didn’t completely upend Presley’s life. “Was that AI? Because I’ve been telling people I think it was.”
“Uh,” Presley starts, but you can tell she’s not sure where to go with that.
“Scout,” I say, attempting to save Presley. “You can’t tell people she’s here, okay?”
Scout nods her head in quick little movements. “Sure, yeah. Okay.”
“It’s really important that you don’t tell your friends or anyone else.”
“Briggs,” Scout huffs, putting her hands on her hips. “I heard you the first time. Stop being an annoying weirdo.”
This makes Presley snort out a laugh. She takes a step toward Scout, reaching out and taking one of my sister’s hands in hers .
“I think your brother is just trying to protect me, but it would mean the world to me if you kept the secret . . . at least until the end of the summer.”
“You’re here for the whole summer?” Scout asks, her eyes wide.
“That’s when I have to go back to work,” Presley says.
“Can I tell people after you leave?”
This makes Presley smile. “Absolutely.”
“Done,” Scout says. “But . . . could I get like an autograph as proof? I mean, for after you leave. And probably a picture too, so people believe me.”
“Scout,” I chastise.
“I can definitely make that happen,” Presley says.
Scout claps and does a little dance in place. “Everyone is going to freak out.”
“Okay, but they can freak out after she leaves,” I remind her.
“Briggs,” she says, with a roll of her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah, you . . . said that already.” According to Scout, the word is starting to become synonymous with my name.
Scout’s phone beeps, and mine vibrates in my back pocket. It doesn’t take amazing deduction skills to know it’s our mom.
“We need to go home for dinner,” Scout says, looking at her phone and then at me .
“Yeah, okay,” I say, nodding my head at her and then at Presley.
“Oh! Presley should come with us,” Scout says, practically jumping in place now.
“I’m not sure,” I say at the exact same time that Presley says, “Okay.”
“Really?” Scout asks, her focus on Presley like she didn’t even hear my response. “You’ll come to dinner?”
“Scout, you know how Mom is with secrets,” I admonish.
She waves my words away with her hand. “I can handle Mom.”
I look to Presley. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.” A sick feeling swims around in my stomach, thinking about my mom and her inability to keep gossip to herself. I don’t even think she does it maliciously—she just likes to talk and know things.
“Briggs,” Scout says, putting her hands on her hips. “If we tell Mom that Presley needs to keep it a secret, she will.”
“Are you sure?”
“She’s kept lots of secrets from you about me.”
I lower my brow. “What secrets?”
“Never mind,” she singsongs. “You don’t need to know. But she’s also never told me about what went down in Fort Lauderdale and why you’re really back home. ”
My face feels instantly heated. I haven’t told Presley why I’m here, and I kind of wanted to keep it that way. There’s a reason I kept directing our conversation back to her on Saturday night.
“Trust me,” Scout says. “Mom won’t say a thing.”
“This is the best pulled pork sandwich I’ve ever had,” Presley declares.
My mom is practically bursting at the seams. Half because Presley James is sitting at her dinner table, and the other half, I’m pretty sure, is because she can’t tell anyone about it.
I’m still skeptical, but Scout seems to be right about our mom. Once we explained the situation, that Presley needed to hide this summer, Marianne McMannus swore herself to secrecy, promising she’d never say a thing and even offering to tell people Presley isn’t here to try and throw them off the scent. She’ll probably succeed where I clearly failed because people in this town believe her, hence the crowd in the bookshop on Saturday.
She readily and heartily agreed to not tell a soul, and when Presley offered the same deal that she gave Scout—that my mom could tell everyone once summer is over—that pretty much sealed it.
“I’m so glad you like it,” my mom says.
Presley’s eyes widened when we arrived at my mom’s place and, after we got through the hoopla of Presley James really being Presley James, she saw that my mom had made us barbecue for dinner.
“My first summer barbecue,” she’d whispered to me after we sat down at the round table in the dining room of the two-story house we moved into when my mom married Keith. That was sixteen years ago, and a little more than a year later, Scout was born.
I didn’t tell Presley that, like her, I split time in the summer with my dad, who lives on the mainland in Naples. Mostly because it was a different experience for me. I had a slew of friends there and did a lot of summer things. It seemed like rubbing it in her face that we had similar upbringings, and yet mine wasn’t at all like hers.
“What was it like working with Austin Butler?” Scout asks around a mouthful of food, which our mom has reprimanded her for more than once already tonight. Scout gets like this when she’s excited, like nothing can get in her way when she’s got something on her mind. There have been many conversations with the bathroom door between us, her screaming a story at me while I’m trying to take a shower.
“You may not want to ask her about actors,” I say before Presley can answer Scout’s question.
“Briggs,” Presley says, pushing my arm lightly .
“I’m just saying, you might not want to know the truth about people.”
Presley rolls her eyes. “Austin Butler is probably one of the coolest people I’ve worked with.”
“Yes! I knew it,” Scout says, clapping her hands excitedly. “Was he a good kisser?”
“Scout Genevieve McMannus,” my mom says, an appalled look on her face.
“What?” Scout scrunches her button nose at our mom. “It’s a good question. He’s got really nice lips. Like, they’re so pillowy. He looks like he’d be good at it.” She puckers her lips and mimics kissing the air.
“Scout!” both my mom and I say at the same time.
Presley looks like she’s trying not to laugh, and having a hard time holding it in.
“Ignore her,” I tell Presley.
When Scout moves from air kisses to kissing her hand and making exaggerated smooching noises, Presley can no longer hold back and bursts into giggles. She leans in toward me, her head landing on my shoulder as she laughs. It feels like something you’d do with someone you’ve known for a long time. Even though I only officially met Presley four days ago, it doesn’t feel strange at all.
I look over at my mom, who should be putting a stop to Scout’s antics, and instead find her holding a half-eaten pulled pork sandwich in her hands, frozen as she watches Presley and me. I can actually see the calculations going on behind those green eyes. She’s picturing romance and weddings and grandbabies, and I will need to put a stop to it as soon as possible because there’s nothing romantic between Presley and me.
Sure, she kissed me, and I liked it . . . a lot. But that’s all that’s happened, and Presley apologized for it because it was a mistake. One that won’t happen again. My life is kind of a mess right now. I don’t have a job, nor any prospects, and my bank account is nearly empty—the last thing I need is to become romantically entangled with someone, especially Presley, who has her own stuff going on. Even if that weren’t the case and we were both in healthy places in life, that doesn’t mean anything would happen between us. We’re from two different worlds. She’s a famous actress, and I’m just a regular, small-town boy.
Even beyond all that, Presley would have to like me in that way, and I just don’t see it happening.
“Okay, if you won’t tell me about Austin Butler, then what about Zac Efron?” Scout says, her eyebrows wagging.
“He’s a great guy,” Presley offers.
“But is he a good—”
“No,” I say, shaking my head and cutting her off. “No more kissing questions.”
“Fine,” Scout replies to me, although her eyes are looking up toward the ceiling. “You’re so boring. ”
Boring is a step up from annoying, I’d say.
“Well, Presley,” my mom says, her voice indicating that we are changing the subject. “What do you think of the island?”
I look to Presley, who’s smiling kindly. “It’s great, very beautiful,” she says. Oh, she’s got the acting thing down. I know she doesn’t think it’s great and feels more like she’s trapped here.
My mom dips her chin once. “It is, isn’t it? It’s been home for sixteen years now.”
“What brought you here?” Presley asks.
“My husband, Keith,” my mom says, a sorrow-filled smile spreading across her lips. “I’d given up on love and all that after I divorced Briggs’s dad. But then I met Keith, and he swept me off my feet. He’s from the island, and so he convinced me to move here.”
Presley must not notice the solemn look on my mom’s face, because she looks to me and then back at my mom. “Did he . . . have to work tonight?”
“Daddy passed away three years ago,” Scout says.
Both my mom and I look at Scout, who, up until this moment, hadn’t been able to say that to anyone without breaking into tears. But she looks fine right now, her lips pulled into a straight line, her eyes bright and dry, her expression calm and composed .
My mom clears her throat, unable to hold back her own feelings as her eyes shine under the pendant light hanging above the dining room table. “It was a heart attack,” she finally says.
Presley looks to me with big eyes, nonverbally asking me why I hadn’t told her this. It wasn’t that I was purposefully keeping it from her—it was just never part of the conversation. We didn’t talk all that much about me on Saturday night except for superficial things. Favorite books, favorite movies, that kind of thing. There was no diving into the nitty-gritty of my past because we just never went there. And also, I didn’t want to.
“I’m so sorry,” Presley says, her voice almost a whisper.
“Oh, it is what it is,” my mom says, dismissing the sentiment with a shake of her head. She’s trying to keep it in, but her words come out wobbly. I’ve never been married, but I’m assuming you don’t ever get over the loss of a spouse, especially one you loved very much.
And my mom did love Keith, even if he and I didn’t always see eye to eye. My relationship with him wasn’t bad—it just wasn’t all that good, either. Still, I miss him, especially for my mom and for Scout, who was only eleven when he died.
My mom takes a big breath. “Okay, let’s talk about something lighter, shall we?” Her head bobs up and down as she looks around the table .
“Well, I love the bookshop,” Presley says, and that’s the perfect topic change, as my mom’s sad eyes instantly turn to heart ones.
“Thank you. I’ve loved running it. It doesn’t make much money, but we’re staying afloat for now. It did help when there was a rumor Presley James had been in the store.”
“And we can spread the rumor again after she leaves,” Scout says.
“Perfect,” says Presley.
“Oh!” Scout says, her loud voice reverberating off the walls. “Maybe we can do a photoshoot of you in the bookshop that we can hang all around the room! Like different poses of you with the books and stuff.” Her eyes are wide, full of ideas.
I give Presley my best apologizing expression. It’s shrugging shoulders and downturned lips, a silent plea to forgive my nutty family.
Presley just smiles at Scout. “I’m sure we can do something like that.”
“So, Presley,” my mom says. “Has Briggsy here given you a tour of the island?”
“I haven’t,” I tell her. “Not yet.”
I feel Presley’s gaze on mine. “Briggsy?” she asks. I can tell by just her tone, not even having to look at her, that she will be using that later.
“I’ll take you on a tour,” Scout excitedly offers .
“So you can parade her around the town and introduce her to your friends?” I ask.
Scout smiles. “I said I’d keep her secret, but you know if we accidentally run into people . . .”
“No,” I say, emphatically. “I’ll figure out a way to show her around the island so we have less chance of running into people.” How I’ll do that is a mystery at the moment.
“But you have to work at the bookshop, so it should be me,” Scout says, giving me a smug grin.
“I’ll work at the shop so Briggs can show you the island,” my mom pipes in. I think she might be back to imagining weddings and babies.
The fact that she’s offering bodes well, though. I’d told Presley I’d give her a fun summer but hadn’t really thought out the logistics of how I was going to actually do that, since I’m supposed to be working at the shop so I can stay in the apartment for free and give my mom a break. I didn’t think the details through because I didn’t expect it to really happen.
“That way, I can make sure I spread the rumor that you’re not really here to people in the bookshop,” my mom says.
“I really appreciate it,” Presley says.
“It’s my pleasure,” says my mom, and I can tell by the twinkle in her eyes she’s going to enjoy spreading the lie more than she would have telling the truth.
Maybe this will work out after all.