Page 89 of Summer People
I blow out a breath as my dad launches into all the reasons I need to come back. Casting agents have been calling. Producers are vying for me. Apparently disappearing from the limelight has everyone talking. “And with this nomination, you’ll have even more offers,” he finishes.
“Daddy.” With a sigh, I reiterate all the reasons I’m not coming back. This is not the first—or second or even fifth—time I’ve explained that I’m not sure if I ever want to act again. I can’t imagine constantly being surrounded by the narcissistic people on sets again. Hollywood is toxic. Or at least the version I saw day in and day out for twenty years.
I needed a break, and the eight weeks I’ve had so far haven’t been nearly long enough.
“At least fly in for the awards show. See how it feels to be back.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my chest tightening so painfully it’s hard to breathe.
“Libby, this is a big deal. Huge. Your mother—” He stops himself. He never talks about her. He’s never once used her memory to guilt me, and thankfully that remains true even now.
“Always wanted this,” I finish for him.
It’s the truth. My mother’s dream was to win an Emmy. She never got the chance. But that doesn’t mean I should live my life for her. Like I told Fisher, we need to live for ourselves, not for the ones we’ve lost.
“For you, Libs. She wanted this for you. She’d be so proud of you. And you deserve to tell your truth. To control the narrative. This is the perfect opportunity to put the production team in its place.Youhave been nominated. Not the show. Not Brad.”
I suck in a breath. He wants me to control the narrative, but he has no idea what the narrative actually is. I doubt he’d be telling me to come back if he did.
“I’ll think about it.” I pull the phone away from my face and put it on speaker.
As the topic changes and we talk about my life on the island, I scroll through emails about potential projects from my agent.
Each pitch, one after another, makes me shake my head. I’m almost ready to give up and ignore my inbox again when one catches my eye.
Boston Theater…Wicked.
As I read the details, excitement bubbles in my chest.
I say goodbye to my father and focus on Fisher and Sutton. She’s laughing as she and Bing race for the ball.
Boston isn’t that far…
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
fisher
I guideLibby down the row, then slip into the chair beside her and sink low in my seat. These town meetings aren’t my thing, but she loves them, so I’m here week after week, and after each one, I’ve got a new honey-do list put together by the people of Monhegan.
Lucky me.
Libby grasps my hand and gives me a small smile, and that phrase—lucky me—takes on a whole new meaning. Because, damn, am I a lucky bastard.
“Oh no.” Wilder angles forward, leaning around Libby. “Don’t fall under this spell. You and me, we have to talk.” He beats his chest, right over the image of a harried rooster. Its eyes are bugged out, its beak is open in a full squawk, and its feathers ruffled. Above it, the shirt readsI’m fine. Everything is fine.“Switch with me, darling.” Wilder stands and points to his seat.
Libby releases my hand and then gives Wilder a pointed look. “You’ve got five minutes, then I get my seat back.”
“Deal.”
Libby scoots over so she’s seated next to Maggie, and he flops down beside me.
“Nicole still driving you mad?” I cock a brow.
I swung by his place a few days ago to borrow stilts for Libby’s boat. It has a name, but much like Putt-Putt, I refuse to use it. I haven’t seen him since, which is unusual. Typically the guy is everywhere.
“No. First, the elephant in the room. You have a pink lake boat.”
No shit.
