Page 72 of One Happy Summer

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is,” Strawberry Blonde pipes in. “Buy her flowers.”

“Oooh.” The redhead nods in agreement. “And bring her a gift. Girls love gifts.”

Now they’re discussing what I should buy for Presley as an apology gift. Okay, this is ridiculous. I’m not taking relationship advice from a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.

And anyway, I don’t need to apologize to Presley. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s her. She’s so . . . stubborn. She refused to look at any other possibilities, any other options for who might have taken those pictures.

I realize that my mom and Scout did make the most sense, from her point of view. But it wasn’t them, and I knew it wasn’t. Why didn’t she believe me? For Presley to not trust me, to not even want to try . . .

I’m so sick of thinking about all this. What Presley and I had is over. And that’s really all there is to it.

I’ve been tuned out, thinking to myself and looking off into the distance, so when I return my focus to my teenage love therapists, I find that like all fickle teens, they’ve ditched me and are now dancing to Mo and the Kokomos singing a version of “Fun, Fun, Fun” by the Beach Boys.

Well, that’s my cue. Time for me to go.

I make my way out from the party and get stopped a couple of times to talk to people and catch up (cue fake zombie smiles), and then I go back to my apartment, where I watch the fireworks from my bedroom window and try to stop myself from wondering what Presley is doing right now.

Happy Fourth of July to me.

Presley

I hate this somuch.

“Presley, over here!” a paparazzo yells.

“Declan! Look this way!” another one says.

We’ve just exited Nobu, and thanks to my publicist—and I’m sure my mom—there are plenty of photogs here to get my picture with Declan Stone. We are officially back together. Only, we’re not. Because he’s with my mom now, and also, I don’t like Declan like that. I never really did, even when we actually tried to date for that little bit.

My apology video went as expected: Hated the first week, and then all the fuss died down and has pretty much been forgotten about, just like my publicist predicted. I’ve been too busy to think about it all that much. With meetings, press conferences, and costume fittings, I feel like I haven’t had a moment to myself. Filming starts in less than aweek, I’ve got so much to do, and right now I’m having to pretend to be back with Declan.

I’m playing the game again. I’m not being real. In fact, I’m being the most unreal I could possibly be, standing here with this man, his hand on my lower back. He looks like he always does, handsome in a rugged way. Dark hair perfectly coiffed, clean-shaven jaw, in a dark-gray suit and blue shirt that makes his eyes pop, but unbuttoned too low in my opinion.

“Wave and smile,” Declan says in my ear, his breath causing creepy little tingles to move down my spine. Mostly because I don’t like his breath on my ear, but also what the hell did he eat in there? An entire clove of garlic?

But I do as he says, pulling my lips up into a fake smile, leaning my head away so I don’t have to smell his breath. The sun is setting, and the lighting is perfect, we’re here to give everyone a show, and a show is what they’ll get. But really, what I’d like to do is run away from my mother’s boyfriend.

Presley James, get yourself together.

“Lower that hand any farther and I’ll cut you,” I say through my teeth, keeping the grin bright on my face, posing for the cameras in a little black strapless dress and matching shiny patent leather heels that I had delivered today because I hated everything in my closet. It was after I tried this dress on that I realized I just hated the thought of getting done up for tonight, and it had nothing to do with my clothes.

“You wish,” Declan says, his smile bright and intact.

We’ve gotten so good at communicating through our smiles that it’s like second nature and no one is the wiser.

“Your breath smells like a butt,” I tell him, my cheeks starting to ache from the strain, while turning to my side and wrapping an arm around him from the front.

We are just adorable right now. The picture of love and affection.

“Your face looks like a butt,” he says through his teeth, waving at no one in particular.

“I hate you,” I say through my teeth. I don’t actually hate Declan, I just don’t like him.

We pose and preen, and everyone eats it up. The flashes are going off, and the paps are yelling questions for us to answer, which neither of us do. We just let them speculate like they always do. It’s kind of dumb how easy it is. Show up together for dinner, look cozy as you leave, and voilà, you’re front page on the gossip sites and someone has made a countdown clock for your future wedding and added more pictures to their Presclan fan page.

“Give him a kiss,” one of the paps yells, and at the request I almost upchuck the spicy tuna roll I ate earlier. I’d hate to do that; it was a really good roll.

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