Page 17 of Plotting Summer

CAPRI

It’s a clear violation of our BFF Code of Conduct. Where’s the loyalty?

When Jane and I were in seventh grade, we created a list of rules we’d uphold in our friendship, forever and always. To make it binding, we signed it with our blood and our signatures in perfectly dramatic middle-school girl fashion. But even now, when circumstances necessitate, we refer back to it. Though we’re mostly joking.

JANE

Technically, not informing you about Tristan doesn’t break any of the rules. Not like your clear disregard for Rule #9.

CAPRI

I had to move. I had no choice in the matter.

JANE

That point is very much debatable. Unlike my choice to withhold information for your benefit. And our friendship’s. It’s been too long since you’ve been home, and you wouldn’t have come if you’d known.

But I will always be Team Capri.

I allow myself to bask in my wretched existence for a moment longer before looking at the dashboard clock. I’ve got an hour and a half until Jane will be at Tala and Heath’s for dinner. Possibly Walker too. Which, now that I think about it, isn’t a lot of time, so I’d better stop sulking and head inside with my mental list of basic necessities to get me through the next few days. Can I technically buy all the things I need at the general store on Sunset Harbor? Absolutely. But I have no intention of repeating the awkward run-in with Tristan from earlier. Or anyone else for that matter. Besides, I’m already on the mainland.

I turn off the ignition and ignore the momentary rattling as if a loose screw is bouncing around the engine. This beast has made odd noises for years and it’s still running, so I’m not worried. Grabbing my phone out of the middle console and making sure I have the keys in hand, I lock the paint-chipped door and head inside. I take a basket and mosey along the front of the store, just past the registers, glancing down each aisle. I can count the number of times I’ve come here on one hand, and even then, it’s been years, so I’m not familiar with where anything is. Finally, I locate the health and beauty section and start perusing the products. I grab a bristled brush, hair ties, shampoo, conditioner, and floss. I also place my go-to brand of deodorant in the basket in addition to another one that guarantees twenty-four-hours-stench-free because Florida humidity in the summer is no joke.

I pick out a tube of bright red lip gloss, some mascara, and a BB cream with sunscreen that looks to be a match for my pale complexion. Makeup wise, Tala should have anything else I need for the time being. I’m about to leave the aisle when I pass the feminine products and come to an abrupt stop.

No. No. No.

When is my period supposed to start?

I pull up the My Cycle app on my phone to double check, and I nearly groan out loud. This Monday?! I seriously can’t catch a break. Though now that I think about it, maybe that’s why I’ve been so out of sorts today. And grumpy.

Or more likely, my less-than-stellar mood has to do with the fact that I lost my keys, got stranded somewhere I’ve been avoiding, and ran into my secret crush after our fictional love story (that he knows nothing about) has been on the New York Times Bestseller List for months. But I can't imagine the flux of pre-menstrual hormones has helped my processing of the situation.

I glance at the array of pink and green packaged products. I briefly question whether Tala might have enough supplies to hold me over until I can get home, but a memory quickly surfaces waving red flags and blaring a warning horn. Last time I made that assumption, Tala had just had Jack, and after spending nine months pregnant, the only feminine products in the Vanderduesen household were Tala’s enormous hospital pads. To say the least, it was an uncomfortable few hours until Jane came to my rescue. With Lucas only being a few months old, I grab a box of Butterfield tampons and a pack of their pantyliners, then head to check out.

There are only three registers open, and with the parking lot as full as it is, it’s no wonder the lines are forever long. To kill time, I snatch a magazine and begin thumbing through it. I love celebrity gossip. It’s one of my favorite ways to mine for inspiration. There are so many juicy details to work with, and I’m completely engrossed in news of the most recent breakups and rumored hookups, mindlessly stepping forward when the line moves.

My attention catches on an article about Presley James: America’s Darling, No More? I'm curious what the A-list actress did to capture the ire of Hollywood. The piece is, unsurprisingly, way too vague on the particulars. I flip another page, and this time my gaze lands on an article that literally knocks the breath from my lungs: The Hunt for Sunny Palmer.

The hunt is on for the author behind the anonymous pseudonym, Sunny Palmer. Since her first book, Secret Crush, went viral last summer, she’s hit the NYT Bestsellers List consistently with not one or two but several of her backlist books. As an independent author represented by Maven Chase, publishing houses have been scrambling to sign her. With international book deals, screen rights, and merch contracts still up for grabs, it’s no wonder the search is intensifying. The problem? No one knows who’s behind the best-selling sensation.

As I continue reading, my stomach is roiling, and the last line sends a chill through me:

With so many hoping to get in on the potential goldmine Sunny Palmer has created, it’s only a matter of time until someone cracks the code and the world discovers the person behind the now acclaimed name for romance readers everywhere.

I think I need to sit down.

Or text Maven. She’ll know what to do.

I snap a picture of the article and send it. Then I force myself to take a deep breath. This is why I pay Maven a hefty chunk of my royalties each month. Maven and I have been extremely thorough in covering my tracks: registering my books as pseudonymous works; making a Delaware based LLC under a “Does Business As” name; a digital mailbox for all documentation; and hiring a specialist to scrub the internet not once but twice to be safe. If there was something to discover, it would’ve been found by now. But maybe we missed something. Maybe it is only a matter of time until someone cracks the code.

If I’m discovered, it won’t take long to figure out other things about me—about how I was the studious introvert and my next-door neighbor was the captain of the football team, exactly like the characters in my first book. How Tristan just so happens to have the last name Palmer. And then there’s the whole Bridget thing.

An image of a time bomb with the numbers steadily ticking downward enters my mind. If it explodes, it will leave my entire life a mess. And Tristan’s too.

This is bad. Like really, really bad. But I have no idea how to disarm it.

The squeaky wheels of a cart stop behind me, momentarily drawing my notice, but I return my focus to the magazine and my spiraling thoughts. What am I supposed to do?