Page 1 of One Happy Summer

Presley

Of all the stupid,idiotic, ridiculous things I’ve ever done, this has to be the worst.

Presley James, you moron.

I laugh to myself as I sit on the plush leather chair of a private jet I hired to get me out of California as quickly and discreetly as possible.

It’s not a real laugh; it’s a what-the-heck-have-you-done kind of laugh. It’s also mixed with some tears because I’m feeling very up and down right now, sort of like Jekyll and Hyde. Only, I’m not as crazed as Hyde. I hope.

Whatever the metaphor, it’s all because of the dumpster fire my life has suddenly become. It’s all my fault, of course. I have no one to blame but myself. I’d like to fault others—and I have. I’ve mentally pointed fingers at every person I can think of, trying toput the responsibility on someone else. But at the end of the day, it all comes back to me. Just me.

“Miss James, can I get you a drink?” asks a woman dressed in a tailored, plum-colored blazer and matching skirt. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a chignon and her lips, currently forming a soft, fake-looking smile, are coated in similarly plum lipstick.

I’ve never met this woman until today, but I’m fairly confident she hates me. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people, because you have to in this business, and I can tell she’s not at all happy to be here serving me drinks. It’s in the forced smile, the way her eyebrows are pulled down just slightly, and the faint tic in her jaw. She’s probably seen the leaked video and thinks I’m one of those spoiled celebrities, someone who thinks the world revolves around her, rather than the overworked actor who hasn’t had a break in years and was at the end of her rope.

Not that it excuses my actions, but maybe if people knew the truth, they might not be so quick to judge. Somehow, I doubt that. Everyone loves a good fall-from-grace story.

Should I apologize to her? Maybe explain what happened? I haven’t really been able to talk to anyone who would actually listen. All the people I thought were my friends apparently aren’t, and everyone else is paid to be there. That includes my own mother.

No. It would be stupid to offer an apology to the flight attendant. She probably doesn’t want to hear my sob story. Or she does and would sell it to the highest bidder. It’s best to just keep quiet through this five-and-a-half-hour flight. Plus, it’s possible I’ve got it wrong, and she hasn’t seen anything. I could just be projecting. But just in case, I give her my best please-don’t-hate-me smile. It’s toothy, and my cheeks instantly burn with the exaggerated way they are pulling upward.

“Um, yes, please,” I say to her in my sweetest voice. “Some sparkling water would be great.”

With a simple nod, the woman walks toward the galley at the front of the plane and I drop my ridiculous grin.

Maybe I should have ordered something stronger. Something to take the edge off or at least to mask all the crappy feelings I’m having right now. It’s probably not a good idea. I need a clear mind, especially if I’m going to figure out how to get to my destination, which isn’t all that cut-and-dried. There’s the transport from the airport to the ferry and then the ferry to the island, and then once I’m there, I guess I’m supposed to walk to the resort because there aren’t any cars at my intended destination. Or, rather, my escape. I also need to do all of it without being seen or recognized. It will take a miracle.

I didn’t actually have to walk. Noah, an acquaintance of mine and the person who offered me this refuge, said he could pick me up in a golf cart, but I declined. It was the idea of smalltalk on the way to the resort that had me saying no. The stilted conversation. Having to skirt around the big, bad, terrible thing I had done. At least Noah didn’t think it was horrible enough to take back his offer allowing me to stay at his family resort whenever needed. And boy, do I need it now.

Okay, that’s great. The tears are back. No crazy laughter this time. I couldn’t possibly laugh with the instant snot-nosed crying fest that’s just begun.

“Here you go,” the flight attendant says with absolutely perfect timing. And by that, I really mean the worst timing ever.

I mutter a barely audible thank you, keeping my head down so she doesn’t see me weeping. Not that I’m hiding anything, not with my hunched posture and my obvious shaking shoulders. Oh, and I just made a very audible hiccupping noise. She doesn’t ask if I’m okay or try to offer any comforting words, not even a pat on the arm or anything; she just turns and walks back to the galley.

It’s fine; I don’t need comfort right now, especially from a stranger. I’m not the kind of person who enjoys being comforted, to be honest. Not that I’ve gotten much anyway. It’s mostly been stern looks and words like “How could you let this happen?” and “What the hell were you thinking?” The latter was from my dear mother.

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. That’s the real answer. I had a big, fat brain fart. Or really, I jumped on the crazy train and went for a joyride.

It wasn’t like I woke up three days ago and chose violence. It was more like a myriad of things, a combination of frustrations that were a long time coming, and it all came bursting out of me in a verbal tirade over set lighting, of all things. I’d been standing there for what felt like an eternity, waiting for the gaffer to get the lighting right, my mind awhirl about how ridiculous my life had become, how everything I did was for show, and I just lost it.

Of course, someone recorded the whole thing and it was immediately put on social media for all the world to see, spreading like wildfire and taking me from A-list status to crap-list status in just a few short days.

I know why. I’ve seen the video myself. I’ll forever be able to hear the shrillness in my voice and picture the redness of my face as I spit out phrases like “you people,” “unprofessional,” and “Do you even know who I am?”

Oh, dear heaven above. I can’t believe I said all that. I didn’t even mean it.

Do you even know who I am?I’d laugh at the ridiculousness if I wasn’t currently making unladylike snorting noises as I continue my sobbing. I reach up and wipe my running nose with the back of my hand. Oh, if the gossip sites could see this version of me.

I deserve all the bad press I’m getting right now. But I also sort of don’t. Aren’t I allowed a moment of weakness? A bit of time to be human, to make a mistake like humans often do? Not in this industry, I’m not. Not when I’m America’s Sweetheart, which is what a few gossip magazines have deemed me.

I do try to be a sweetheart, for the most part. One very bad instance aside. I set out to not let this industry jade me, to not get used to the lifestyle, to never stop appreciating the hookups and the handouts. I’ve tried my darnedest to keep both feet on the ground at all times.

I don’t make unnecessary demands. I don’t stipulate there be only green M&Ms in my dressing room, no all-white trailer with an on-demand masseuse to pamper me between takes. None of that. I treat my assistant with respect, and I get stuff done myself—I don’t load it all on her. She’s amazing, though, and I’ve often wondered out loud what I’d do without Shani. I guess I’ll soon be finding out because even she doesn’t know my current whereabouts.

I take a deep breath, leaning my head back on the seat. That’s right, Presley, enough with the crying. It’s not going to help anything anyway.

I need a distraction, something to tide me over until I arrive at the Fort Myers airport, but I’ve got nothing. I don’t have my phone. Before I left LA, I got a new one—a cheap phone without all the bells and whistles so nobody can figure out how to trackme, and a new number so no one can call me. This means I don’t have anything to keep me occupied, no social media for obvious reasons, no apps for reading or listening to books, not even Candy Crush. I didn’t think this through. I should have at least gotten a phone that would allow me to play Candy Crush.

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