Page 25 of One Happy Summer

Briggs

Jack:Let me know when we can talk, B.

I set the phonedown 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 theyou’re going places, kidaccolades 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 andshe 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 forplease 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 toclosed, 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?”

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