Page 67 of One Happy Summer

“Wait,” I say, taking a step back from her, feeling shocked by this turn of events, by the words coming out of her mouth. “You think my mom sold pictures of us, for the bookshop?”

“Or maybe she just needed the money? I don’t know.” She says the last part through a sob.

I shake my head. “I’m telling you right now, my mom and sister did not do this.”

“I know you don’t want to believe it. And I know you didn’t have anything to do with it, Briggs. But . . . there’s just no other way.”

“It wasn’t them,” I repeat myself. I feel like if I keep saying it, maybe it will get through to her. “What about whoever was taking pictures of us yesterday?”

“I thought about that, and I’d believe it if it were just the one shot, but there were private, intimate pictures on there, Briggs.No one else would have known. Do you know how violating that feels?”

“Well, I was in the pictures too,” I say, my hackles rising.

“I know, but—”

“But I’m not a ridiculously famous actor,” I say, cutting her off. “So, I guess it’s not the same.”

“It’s not the same,” she says, her voice rising. “This is my career, Briggs.” She points to herself. “I get to deal with the fallout, and you . . . you just get to work in a bookstore.”

“Right,” I say. “You’re right. I’m a nobody.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” She puts a hand to her forehead.

“Isn’t it, though?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just upset,” she says.

I don’t say anything. I hardly recognize the person standing in front of me right now.

“I have to leave,” she says. “I’m going back to LA tonight. I’ve got to do damage control.”

I point at myself. “For me?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Or, I guess, yes. For all of it. For leaving, for running away, for that stupid video. And for those photos.”

“So . . . then what?” I ask after a few beats of silence.

“Then . . . I start working on the film,” she says.

I point to her and then me. “And you . . . and me?”

Another tear falls down her face. “I want to thank you for all the things we did this summer, for all you did for me.”

“Oh, got it,” I say, taking another step away. So that’s it, then.

She shakes her head. “You mean a lot to me, Briggs, but it’s just too hard. There’s . . . too much. Our lives are too different.”

Too hard. Right. I’m starting to see a trend with Presley James. When things get hard, she runs away. Glad I figured that out now and not later when it would have been much worse.

I wait to see if she has anything else to say, and maybe a part of me is sort of hoping she takes it all back. But when she just looks at me, tears running down her face, I know that’s not going to happen.

“Goodbye, Presley,” I say, before walking away from her and out the door.

Presley

My home in Calabasasfeels cold and sterile as I dump my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom with the almost all-white decor and then collapse face-first on my bed.

Usually when I travel for work, I can’t wait to get back to my home, to all the creature comforts I’m accustomed to. But this time around, I actually hate being here. I hate what it means. I hate that I decorated this place in so much freaking white. There was so much color in Sunset Harbor. The water, the green foliage, the amazing sunsets. A pair of beautiful green eyes and dirty-blond hair.

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