Page 39 of One Happy Summer

“I never got to go to a school dance,” she says, now wearing an oversized white swimsuit coverup over her red bikini. She takes a bite of a club sandwich, which we each ordered from the resort. They delivered them to us on fancy trays and on real dishes. Food service on the beach is something I’ve never done before and will probably never do again. Especially since mybank account wouldn’t allow it at the moment. I argued to, at minimum, pay for mine, but Presley insisted it all be put on her tab.

“How did you do school?” I ask her, and then take a bite of my food. It tastes amazing, like all food seems to on the beach. It’s a strange phenomenon.

“Tutors, mostly. And some online classes,” she says.

“I can’t say you missed out,” I tell her honestly. High school for me was a rough time. I struggled with making close friends and resisted listening to Keith when he tried to be a father to me. I was kind of a jerk to both him and my mom, which, luckily, I was able to apologize for before Keith died. Still, it doesn’t make up for how I acted. I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t all that considerate or understanding either.

“Did you like college better?”

“Much,” I say. “I think I like being on my own.”

“Which is why you’re not happy being back here, working for your mom?”

I bob my head from side to side as I think about answering that. “I’m not unhappy about being back. I’m just not happy about how things turned out with my company.”

“I’m sure,” she says.

Once the sun is close to setting, employees from the resort bring out tiki torches and place them around the private beach. The umbrella we’ve been sitting under all afternoon has beentaken down by one of the beach attendants, and we’re now lying flat on our lounge chairs, looking up at a purple sky as a few stars start to appear.

“Thanks for spending the afternoon with me,” Presley says, and reaching over, she grabs ahold of my hand and gives it a little squeeze. I expect her to pull away, but she keeps it there, and I wrap my fingers around hers. Her hand feels dainty in mine, and soft. It’s a friendly handhold. That’s all it is. Just friendly.

“It was my pleasure,” I tell her. And it really was. Today has been a good day. I haven’t felt this free in . . . well, I don’t even know how long. Probably not since college?

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I have to work all day,” I tell her, feeling disappointment weigh on my shoulders.

“Oh,” she says, turning her head toward me so we’re lying on our chairs, still holding hands and now face-to-face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

“No.” I shake my head in tiny movements. “My mom and Scout had a shopping trip planned for tomorrow on the mainland that I don’t want them to miss.”

“Yeah, of course. They should definitely do that. We’ve got all summer, anyway,” she says, giving me a soft smile. “Maybe Thursday?”

“Or … you could maybe come over tomorrow, after I close up the shop?” I ask, feeling instantly nervous, for no reasonreally. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I’d just assumed we’d hang out tomorrow night, and now I feel sort of ridiculous for thinking that.

“Okay,” she says, her lips pulling into a wide grin, putting my nerves at ease.

Her head lollsback to the sky, and mine does likewise, and we lie like that, holding hands, looking at the stars until the sun sets fully.

Presley

“You’re seriously not goingto tell me your middle name?” I ask, leaning across the bookshop counter toward Briggs, who’s printing out some kind of sales report from the register after closing.

“No,” he says, adamantly. “I hate it.”

We’ve been going back and forth like this for a few minutes, not long after I showed up outside the bookstore, knocking on the glass door with my hoodie pulled up over my head. We were talking about our first names and how we got them (mine is after Elvis, of course, and his is an old family surname), but we’ve now moved on to middle names. Briggs is refusing to tell me his, which is both infuriating and exhilarating because I feel like I have to know. Like it’s now become the most important thing in my life.

“Did you know Presley James isn’t my real name?” I ask him, crossing my arms in front of me, bunching up the front of the pink tank I’m wearing.

He furrows his brow behind his glasses. “It’s not?”

I shake my head. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Couldn’t I just google yours?”

“That’s not fair,” I say, giving him my best pout.

“How about you guess mine,” he says, the corner of his lips pulled up into a smirk.

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