Page 81 of One Happy Summer

“You . . . could have just called,” I tell her. “You didn’t need to come all the way out here to tell me.”

“I’m working in Florida right now, actually. OnCosmic Fury.”

“Really? Where?”

“Ocala,” she says. “And we had the day off because of rain, so I thought I’d come tell you in person.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” I tell her, and I mean it. “It’s good to see you, Presley.”

It’s actually heart-achingly hard to see her, to be honest. I know I missed her, but I don’t think I realized how much until right now. How sort of painful it feels to be in the same room and not be able to touch her or wrap my arms around her. Or kiss her.

“I also was hoping that maybe—” She stops talking, a hand now fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“Yeah?” I ask, wanting her to keep going, dying to know what she has to say.

“I was hoping you’d forgive me?” Her eyes fill with tears.

“Of course,” I say. “Done.”

She laughs then, a sad-sounding one, and a single tear falls down her cheek and onto her chin.

“I appreciate it,” she says. “I also kind of hoped maybe we could see each other again, sometime?”

“Absolutely,” I tell her, honestly. “I’d love that.”

She takes a tentative step toward me. “I’m saying this all wrong. I don’t just want to see you once in a while. I would like to see you on a regular basis.”

“Oh,” I reply, realizing what she said, realizing what she’s really trying to tell me. I run a hand through my hair.

“I’ve missed you a lot,” she says. “More than I’ve ever missed anyone, actually. And had I not messed everything up so badly,my hope was that we would try this out. Tryusout. And maybe see where it goes.”

“I saw pictures of you with Declan Stone,” I tell her.

“Yes,” she says.

“I thought you didn’t want to do that kind of stuff anymore.”

“I don’t,” she says. “That was to keep the paparazzi away from you.”

“Because you didn’t want them to see me?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t think you’d want it.”

“You’re probably right,” I say.

She takes another step toward me, and I stay still, standing by the counter.

“So, do you think maybe we could try?”

I stare at her for a beat before looking away, toward the bookshelves. I picture her standing there wearing her glasses, in that tank top and shorts all those days ago, smiling at my stupid jokes.

I look back at her. “You’re amazing, Presley, and I loved spending time with you.”

“Loved?” she says, shaking her head.

In the movieNotting Hill, I was annoyed with Hugh Grant’s character when he turned Julia Roberts away. But now that I’m having my own version of that moment, Presley with me in a bookstore, telling me she wants to be with me, I sort of get it. It feels . . . hard. Like too many insurmountable things in our way.And like Hugh Grant, I, too, feel like my heart couldn’t take another round of breaking from Presley James.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I finally reply, running a hand through my hair. “But . . . maybe it’s not a good idea.”

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