18. Chapter 18
Briggs
“Briggs!” Scout comes running into the bookstore from the back, waving her phone at me.
“Here you go, Mr. Shuman,” I say, looking back at the older man who’s just purchased some books and handing him his change.
The man waves goodbye before leaving, slowly moving toward the door on old fragile-looking legs, the bells jingling as he walks out into the humid air.
“Briggs!” Scout yells again, now standing in front of me doing some sort of weird jumping thing.
“What, Scout?” I ask, laughing at how ridiculous she’s being right now.
“You’re famous!” she says, holding up her phone for me to see, but the screen is black.
“I’m . . . what? ”
“You’re famous,” she says again, turning the phone back toward her before muttering, “Oh crap,” and putting her passcode in. She hands it to me this time.
I look at her screen, and then feel the color drain from my face. There, under the headline Presley James Has Been Spotted, and With a New Man , is a picture of Presley and me, asleep on the beach.
“No,” I say, scrolling through the article with the edge of my thumb, feeling a twisting in my gut when I see more pictures. One of Presley and me making a sandcastle, and another of us playing in the water at the resort, our arms wrapped around one another. One of me helping Presley get off the boat after we went tubing, and next to that, a grainy capture of us in a lip-lock in front of the resort. There’s another one of us riding bikes and one of us walking down the beach together, Presley smiling, her arms outstretched. The most disconcerting ones, though, are of us roasting marshmallows in my mom’s backyard, and one taken through the window of the bookshop, our arms around each other.
Then I read the words.
Presley James has been seen with a new beau, according to sources, while vacationing on an island off the Florida coast. It turns out the mystery man is a local who works at the town bookshop. Could this mean the rumors are true that Presley and Declan have called it quits for real this time? And did it have anything to do with the viral video?
Having read and seen enough, I hand the phone back to Scout.
“My friends are gonna freak out,” Scout says, cradling the phone in her hands like it must be protected. She’s got all the proof she needs right there that Presley James is on Sunset Harbor.
“Please don’t tell them,” I say, back to my old ways of trying to protect Presley, but then I realize it’s pointless. This article is from a prominent gossip site, and anyone can see it. Chances are it’s spread around the island already, or it will soon enough. I’m just grateful whoever wrote it didn’t print my name or the name of the island.
“Actually, Scout,” I say, searching the counter for my phone, and when I find it, placing it in the pocket of my shorts. “Can you watch the shop? I need to go talk to Presley.”
“Sure,” she says. “But hurry back because I’m gonna need to throw this in my friends’ faces.”
I feel like maybe I should quickly talk to her about bragging and how it’s not a good thing, but I don’t really have the time right now, so I hurry to the resort, running as fast as I can in flip-flops. I’m winded and sweating by the time I get there .
“Excuse me,” one of the employees says, trying to stop me as I run past her and take the stairs two at a time up to Presley’s suite. I don’t have time to check in with anybody now.
I knock on the door and then take my glasses off, cleaning them with the edge of my shirt while I wait for her to answer.
The door opens after I knock a second time, and I see Presley there, her eyes bloodshot and her face blotchy and red.
“You saw it,” is all I say.
She nods her head as tears well in her eyes, and she opens the door wider, letting me in. I walk inside and shut it behind me. I want to take her into my arms and hold her, let her know we’ll figure this out together, but instead I follow her as she walks toward the sitting area.
“Presley, I—”
“Briggs, this is my mom, Didi Shermerhorn,” she says, holding her hand out toward a woman who looks to be in her late fifties sitting on one of the couches. She’s wearing some sort of blue pantsuit, and her hair is in a very straight, shoulder-length bob. She has the same coloring as Presley, especially in the hair and eyes. She stands up as we approach.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand toward her, which she takes and gives a delicate shake.
“Likewise,” she says, before pulling her hand out of mine. “It’s nice to meet the reason why my daughter has been hiding from me. ”
I look to Presley, who’s rolling her eyes.
“Mom, I told you I came here on my own,” Presley says.
“Well, I can see why you stayed,” her mom says, looking me up and down. “He’s handsome.”
“Uh . . . thanks,” I say, not sure how to respond to that.
Presley shakes her head at her mom. “Can I have a minute with Briggs, please?”
Yes, we need a minute so we can figure this out. I can’t take the heartbroken look on her face right now.
Her mom gives me a closed-mouth smile before going to the bedroom and shutting the door.
“I’m sorry,” I start. “I didn’t know your mom was here.”
“She showed up this morning.”
“How did she find you?”
She sniffles. “I’m sure she got it out of my agent or my assistant, since they know now.”
I put my hands on her arms and rub them. “Presley, are you okay?”
She shakes her head, the tears starting up again. “No, I’m not,” she says. “That article, Briggs . . . it’s not good.”
“Well, yeah, but they didn’t mention my name or the name of the island, so that’s good.”
“It doesn’t look good for me,” she says.
“I’m not following,” I say, letting go of her arms .
“Those photos in that article,” she says, pointing to some random spot in the room, “show me laughing and having a great time, and not looking repentant for my actions captured in that stupid video. I look ungrateful and irresponsible . . . and it’s not a good look, Briggs.”
“Oh, Presley,” I say. “I never thought of that. I’m so sorry. We can fix this.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if we can.”
“We can figure something out,” I tell her. There’s got to be a way.
She pushes some hair behind her ear. “There’s a picture of you and me in your mom’s backyard,” she says, a single tear dropping from her eye and down her face. I want to wipe it away, but somehow, I get the idea she wouldn’t want that right now.
“I know,” I say. “I have no idea how anyone got that one.”
She lets out a breath. “Briggs, it could only be your mom or Scout.”
“What?” I say with a confused-sounding laugh. “Presley . . . there’s no way.”
Her shoulders drop, and she puts her face in her hands. “That’s the only way, Briggs. Who else would have taken those photos?”
I stare at her, wondering how she could think my family would do something like that. I understand the evidence is damning—it is a picture of us in the backyard, and I did say my mom and sister were both gossips. But they wouldn’t do this . They’re fiercely loyal; they’ve been going to bat for Presley since we asked them to.
“They didn’t do it, Presley. They wouldn’t.”
She wipes tears away with the back of her hand. “Your mom mentioned the bookshop isn’t making a good profit.”
“So?” I ask, not understanding where she’s going with this.
“People get paid a lot of money for pictures like that,” she says.
“Wait,” I say, taking a step back from her, feeling shocked by this turn of events, by the words coming out of her mouth. “You think my mom sold pictures of us, for the bookshop?”
“Or maybe she just needed the money? I don’t know.” She says the last part through a sob.
I shake my head. “I’m telling you right now, my mom and sister did not do this.”
“I know you don’t want to believe it. And I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Briggs. But . . . there’s just no other way.”
“It wasn’t them,” I repeat myself. I feel like if I keep saying it, maybe it will get through to her. “What about whoever was taking pictures of us yesterday?”
“I thought about that, and I’d believe it if it were just the one shot, but there were private, intimate pictures on there, Briggs. No one else would have known. Do you know how violating that feels?”
“Well, I was in the pictures too,” I say, my hackles rising.
“I know, but—”
“But I’m not a ridiculously famous actor,” I say, cutting her off. “So, I guess it’s not the same.”
“It’s not the same,” she says, her voice rising. “This is my career, Briggs.” She points to herself. “I get to deal with the fallout, and you . . . you just get to work in a bookstore.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re right. I’m a nobody.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” She puts a hand to her forehead.
“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.