Page 17 of One Happy Summer

“No,” she says, her voice flat, then turns and heads back outside. The bell jingles, drawing everyone’s attention in that direction, only for them to realize it was just someone leaving. The disappointment is palpable.

A few seconds later, someone else enters the shop, and everyone goes quiet again until they realize it’s not Presley James and then go back to whatever they were doing. And the cycle continues. Why won’t anyone believe me?

I’ve told so many people that it’s not really her, I’m starting to wonder myself. It all feels sort of like a fever dream . . . spillingcoffee on her, going back to my apartment, the kiss I can’t stop thinking about. I still can’t believe she did that. I also can’t believe I kissed her back. I kissed Presley James.

Because I told her I would, I watchedNotting Hilllast night. It’s funny how similar the beginning is to Thursday’s encounter. I think that’s where it ends for my story with Presley, though—at the kiss that I can’t get out of my head. I doubt I’ll have another run-in with her. At least I won’t have to pretend I’m fromHorse & Houndmagazine if our story were to keep going. I don’t have the acting chops.

Our story?Good hell. I sound like an infatuated fool. And I’m not. It was just one day. One very strange day. I’ll tuck it away, a memory to think about later. Maybe it’ll be a story I tell someday—that time I kissed Presley James, or really, she kissed me. Maybe I’ll forget about it . . . yeah, that’s not going to happen probably ever.

I did get curious about why she’s here, hiding on the island. I’m not really one to stay up on pop culture. Not when my Google searches tend to be more about tech trends and market analysis. Or at least they used to be. Now my searches are more along the lines of what I should do next. I still don’t know. I’ve gotten two more texts from Jack that I’ve ignored. I’m not ready to talk to him yet. I should apologize at the very least. But I’m also nervous I’ll find out we owe more money and just thismorning I got a balance alert from my bank because I’d gone below the minimal threshold I set, which is concerning.

Anyway, I searched Presley’s name, and it brought up a bunch of recent articles . . . It was easy to put two and two together about what happened. I was even able to find the leaked video on YouTube.

I can see why people are upset, but also, it’s hard for me to reconcile the Presley I saw and heard on that leaked recording, yelling and red faced, with the Presley I met here on the island. They seem like two different people.

All I know is there are two sides to every story and I’m sure Presley has a good reason for why she went off like she did.

It doesn’t matter anyway. I doubt I’ll see her again, especially if everyone around here keeps acting like they are. How long before word spreads from here? I’ve never been around the paparazzi, but if they are anything like in the movies, the people on this island wouldn’t like it if they showed up.

“This is the worst Saturday of my life,” Scout says as she sidles up to me behind the counter. She’s wearing a bathing suit under cutoff shorts and a white button-up shirt she’s left open. She had plans with friends that our mom quickly put the kibosh on, telling her she had to work today instead.

Scout wasn’t happy and isn’t good at hiding her feelings. Especially when she thinks it’s unfair. And making her work ona Saturday when she had plans to go to the beach with friends is “totally not fair.”

It’s not fair, really. She can’t help her mother’s big mouth and the fact that there truly is an A-lister on this island. Even though I will go to my grave saying otherwise.

Scout tucks some of her naturally-highlighted blonde hair behind her ear and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Mom is the worst.”

Our mom isn’t here to defend herself; she had to take the ferry over to the mainland to run some errands. And so, as Scout’s older brother by fourteen years, I probably should correct her, but I, too, think my mom is the worst right now. Sure, the bookshop is busy and making quite a bit of money because apparently the islanders waiting on a Presley James sighting aren’t just sitting around—they’re shopping. But they wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my mom’s gossiping ways. The money does help, though. It’s not like this shop turns over a huge profit.

“You can go,” I tell a sulking Scout. I take my glasses off and clean them with the hem of my shirt.

Her eyes go wide. “Really?”

“I’ve got it handled.”

It’s been busy, but nothing I can’t take care of.

“What will you tell mom?”

“That you left me here to work by myself without even asking,” I say.

She whacks me lightly on the arm. “Briggs,” she whines.

“Fine. I’ll tell mom I told you that you could go,” I say. Teasing Scout is so fun. She falls for everything. Or at least she used to. I once had her totally convinced the animals on the safari ride in Animal Kingdom were animatronic. It was a couple of years before she figured out the truth. She still gets mad when I bring it up.

“You’re the best,” she says, wrapping her arms around me for a quick hug.

“Where are you going anyway?” I ask her when she’s pulled away.

“We’re going to crash Belacourt Beach.”

“Why?”

“To see Presley James, duh.” She says the last word like I’m an idiot.

I reach up and rub my forehead with my fingers. “I told you it’s not her.”

“And I don’t believe you,” she says. “Maybe if you didn’t lie to me about robot animals and that Bigfoot sighting in the nature preserve, I would.”

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