Page 68 of One Happy Summer

I was more colorful there, too. More light in my eyes, more coloring in my face. I hardly recognized myself when I’d look in the mirror, I was so . . . happy.

And now I’m back in LA and it all feels drab and sterile and stupid. I saw myself in the entryway mirrorof my two-story Mediterranean-style home just a few minutes ago, and I look like I’ve died and been unwillingly brought back to life.

Presley, you colorless fool.

The paparazzi were waiting for me when we landed. No doubt the flight information had been leaked by my mom.

“How could you not even tell your own mom where you were?” she’d asked me on the flight home, riding in first class with tickets I’d purchased.

I hadn’t wanted to have this conversation on the plane, but it needed to be said. After earlier that day with Briggs and the way he looked at me before walking away, my own heart breaking into a million freaking pieces, I was not in the best mood.

“You were the last person I wanted to tell,” I’d said.

“Why’s that?” she’d asked, looking genuinely upset by my answer.

“Because you report my location to the paparazzi all the time.”

“I do not,” she’d said, the sincerity gone and the facade back and lit up like a marquee board.

“Mom, I needed a break from everything. I had one planned, and I thought we could go together, and then you . . . ruined it.”

“I ruined it? I didn’t make that video, Presley. Is this because of Declan?”

“No,” I’d said emphatically. “He’s all yours, that’s not the problem. I’m not blaming you for the video; that was on me. But it was the fact that you told people where we were going on that trip, and you wanted to turn it into a publicity thing.”

“But I did that all for you,” she’d replied. “The world is always watching you, Presley, whether you like it or not. Everything I’ve done is for you.”

“Mom,” I’d said, stopping her from theI gave up my life for your careerspeech she often gives me when I push back. She has worked hard, especially when I was younger, and I came out mostly unscathed from an industry that can take some terrible turns if you don’t have the right people in your corner, and I’m grateful to her for that.

I looked at her with pleading eyes. “When I say I need a break, I need you to believe me.”

She’d looked away then, out the window of the plane. She did apologize later, as we’d started our descent into LAX. And we had a heart-to-heart about everything. It wasn’t our first, and it won’t be our last, I’m sure.

Now, here on my stupid white bed, I can’t stop thinking about how terribly things turned out with Briggs. I can’t stop replaying the conversation in my head. I hate the memory of that hurt look on his face, how painful it was to tell him about the pictures. And then I thanked him for all he did for me? Like he was some sort of glorified tour guide?

Oh gosh.

I miss Briggs, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. I feel this emptiness without him. I’m sad that he didn’t believe me. That he wouldn’t even consider that the pictures were taken by his family. How could it possibly be anyone else? I do appreciate how loyal he is. But that’s Briggs.

When I saw the pictures, I knew right away he wouldn’t believe me. I also knew that we wouldn’t be able to get past it. I’d always be worried around his family, not being able to trust them, and he’d be defensive like he was today. I knew when I saw the pictures in that article that we’d been flung up the side of an insurmountable hill. There was no way to get over it.

I hope the way things ended doesn’t forever taint my memories. I hope I’ll be able to look back on the past few weeks and remember all the fun things I did with Briggs and feel something positive, like the happiness the adventures created. Even cut short, and terribly so, it was still my first real summer.

It’s sort of ruined right now, after my exchange with Briggs, those pictures in that article, and the heartbreak I’m feeling, but I hope someday I can move past all that.

I’m still face down on my bed, my tears soaking the duvet underneath me, which is white, of course. I’m changing that tomorrow. I’m ordering myself a bright-blue bed covering. I’m going to brighten up this entire place. My world is no longer white. It’s orange, red, blue, and heartbreakingly green.

I should get up and shower off the grime from the flight, but I don’t bother doing any of that. I don’t even change into my pajamas. I just crawl up my California King bed and under the sheets, and then I cry myself to sleep.

“How was that?” I ask Kara after I’ve recorded what’s to be my apology video, written and directed by my publicist. We picked a drab background with natural lighting to sit in front of, I’m wearing a trusty old sweatshirt, I’ve got minimal makeup on, and my hair is pulled up in a bun.

And it’s all a big show.

It’s the first day of July, only fifteen days until we start filming, and the producers ofCosmic Furyexpect it of me. So, here I am, telling the world I’m sorry about being caught having a very human experience, albeit a pretty awful one. I do feel bad for losing it on set; it was unprofessional of me and inconsiderate. And that’s what I say in my apology.

I don’t offer excuses, no reasons, no telling the world what had been happening in my life at the time to try to divert the blame away from me. The general public won’t know that I hadn’t had a real break in fourteen years and that my mom had ruined my first opportunity. Oh, and that she and Declan Stone are acouple. I think my being away actually pushed them closer together.

“I think it was great,” Kara says, giving me a thin smile. I feel bad for my whole team—my agent, Kara, my publicist, Leslie, and Shani, my assistant, who thank goodness is still working for me. They were the ones dealing with this while I was gone, trying to spin stories and manage contracts while I was having the time of my life. I’ve apologized to all of them, repeatedly. I’m not sorry I left them like I did, but I am sorry they’ve had to deal with the fallout.

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