Page 3 of A Summer of Stars

“Mr. Alexander’s team is trying to promote his upcoming romance film. However, he’s garnered the reputation of a—”

“Frat boy.”

“—bachelor. Seeing him in a romantic relationship would help make his character more believable and increase ticket sales.”

“So he needs me.”

“No, you need each other.”

“Why can’t his team find someone else?”

“His teamcanfind someone else, Luna.Weare the ones who can’t. You also already know him—the public has seen the two of you interact in years past, so it’ll make this more believable. But if you’re not going to come out about the truth, then we need to be strategic about this. Your last and only sponsor wants you in a relationship to market theirlove-inspired jewelry. And the public sees you as a toxic, stuck-up, unloving woman because the world’s most popular tennis star said so. So if the public trusts tennis’s prince so much, then I’m positive they’ll listen to Hollywood’s king.”

“Spotted: Luna Aldridge Photographed for the First Time in Eight Months—Everything We Know About Her Return”

—Pop Culture Weekly

MY “SPOTTED SIGHTING”was a morning run through my secluded neighborhood. At least I had worn my good sports bra.

But the headline felt like some mistake; had it truly been eight months?

Eight months ago, I couldn’t fathom returning to professional tennis, not after everything that happened with Jeremiah. I felt like a wrung-out towel left to dry in the sun after spending too many hours in the water, every fiber of my being whittling away and flaking off, leaving me hollow.

They—my team—had given me six months after I left Jeremiah. Six months to breathe and peel my anxiety and sadness off like some stubborn Band-Aid before reentering the limelight.

I was going to convince them to give me a few more weeks once the six months were up. Just another month hiding in my childhood home, allowing mornings to blend into afternoons, and afternoons to nights. Of granting my body the permission to bleed asmany tears as I wanted and practice my sport like it wasn’t my job. Like it wasn’t supposed to be perfect.

Then everything exploded two months ago.

Deidra showed up on my doorstep and played me an unaired interview that would be released in hours, given to us early to prepare.

My skin iced over. My joints stiffened and my mouth dried up, and it felt as if I were watching myself from afar, like Scrooge witnessing his foreseeable future. But this wasn’t fear for the future or some teaching lesson. It was happening simply because my existencebotheredJeremiah.

She played the interview. His voice was the same. Of course it was the same. And suddenly, there was mine too. He had pulled a sound bite from our argument to justify his stance. I vomited at the sound of my voice.

I went from empty and evasive to hated and pushed out when Jeremiah participated in that insane interview and released that recording. It seemed like there wasn’t a person in the world who hadn’t watched it. Which meant that there wasn’t a person in the world who didn’t hate me. He turned me into a commodity for his personal amusement, using the one thing that scared me most to keep me hidden:

Ruining my reputation.

I wanted to hide for another six months—years—as I read people’s reactions.

My PR team flooded my messages with game plans and prepared responses. My foot bounced and my lip bled under the weight of my teeth as I read and listened and watched, praying that someone would speak up.

But they all believed him.

I didn’t respond; I didn’t leave my home. Yet colleagues and fans and the media repeated the names he called me, as if in solidarity.Within one night, the whole world decided I was worthy of their anger. Hate mail, lost sponsors, spammed social media accounts with criticism. I was suffocating in an empty home with their words.

Almost two months had passed since then. Two months that allowed fury to curl around itself and build.

I wanted my goddamn sport back.

Jeremiah was a resurrected nightmare that had returned one more time to stab me in the back. But I didn’t feel like crying with the knife in my back anymore, so I yanked it out and handed it to Deidra.

If she said Kieran would be my answer, then I’d do whatever it took to get my life back.

“Don’t do this, Luna, this is ridiculous.”

Sweat was forming its own river down the side of my temple. I cut its path short, wiping it with the back of my hand.