Page 29 of One Happy Summer

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 likeit,” 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 pulledpork 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.”

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