Page 30 of A Summer of Stars

I hated makeup. The way it sat on my skin and shifted when I got sweaty at practice made me look like a clown lacking artistic abilities.

But I loved to sit on the carpet in her bedroom, watching her apply lipstick and brush brown eyeliner along her eyelashes like a painter. She’d glance over at me and laugh when she realized I was still watching. She’d gesture me over, and I’d immediately hop up. Opening another drawer, she’d pull out a hairbrush and run it through my hair until my head fell forward in a slumber.

“My Luna,” she’d whisper to wake me up.

“Why do you wear makeup, Mom? You’re already beautiful.” I looked at her in the mirror, confused.

“You think so?” She quirked a brow, still brushing my hair.

I shook my head eagerly.

A smile kissed her face. Then she pressed it to my forehead. “Beauty comes from in here.” She pressed a finger to her chest. “This”—she waved a hand over the items on her vanity—“is for fun. I do this for myself. But my beauty comes from what I love, not how I look.”

I used to feel anxious at the beginning of my career when makeup artists would rush around me with brushes and palettes. Stress used to stifle my breathing, like a chimney backed up with soot. I didn’t understand why they wanted to change my face. Was this fun for them?

Today was the first time in years I had to remind myself of those moments with her to keep myself calm.

My first public appearance in a long time.

“We’re not entertaining interviews tonight, because honestly, I’m not sure what direction some of these reporters will go,” Serena stated, sitting across from me. She handled all events and appearances, carrying this large planner with her the day of. It rested open on her lap. “Smile and ignore everything else.”

Cecilia paced the room taking assistant-related calls, while Willow, who managed social media communications, argued with someone from Luka Limited—the purse brand hosting the event that started in an hour and a half. “Do not post anything of her—no one’s supposed to know she’s going to be there,” she ordered. Then there were the numerous people from my sponsor, Charles Elizabeth, caring for the jewelry I’d wear. Polishing it, and inspecting it for… well, I wasn’t completely sure.

“Got it.” I nodded to Serena, as my hair stylist, Edward, tugged my head back with a straightener.

We sat in my old apartment where I used to get ready for New York events. Jeremiah had moved in during our marriage, tainting everything, so I had traded in the Village for Scarsdale last year. You’d never know I didn’t live here anymore. There were still clothes in the closet, silverware in the drawers, and meaningless décor on my shelves. I didn’t come here much since everything happened. There was too much noise now. But it didn’t make sense to have everyone drive out to Scarsdale for me, so I tried to ignore the spaces where Jeremiah used to keep his things and stared straight forward.

I looked past Serena to the window that painted a view of a West Village neighborhood. There was a girl outside walking by with a bouquet of daisies. She was on the phone, laughing hysterically. It was so youthful. So much joy she couldn’t contain. It made me laugh. Serena gave me a funny look, turning to the window. I exhaled, trying to absorb the girl’s serenity.

Wasn’t that me just two years ago?

The idea of stepping onto a red carpet had been giving me a cramp in the center of my abdomen.

I used to blend in at these events. I’d have my photo taken. Answer reporters’ light-hearted questions. Go home. Make the Best Dressed list the next day. Now, all people cared about—no.Breathe.

I clutched the tennis racket charm on my bracelet.

At least on a court no one could interrogate me.

“Luna, tell me you are ready!” I twisted in my seat, finding Kelsey walking in with a garment bag and three more people. Edward finished up as if on cue, leaving to make room for everyone else.

As Kelsey began to unzip the garment bag, everyone huddled around her to see the dress, as if it were a newly engaged womanwith a shiny ring. There was a big exhale of satisfaction as she pulled the dress out.

It was a black dress, similar to something I had seen at a fashion show in Paris. All black, no straps, fitted in the waist, bodice, and hips, just about floor length, with a leather strap wrapped around the waist, held up by a prominent gold loop.

“It’s stunning,” one of Kelsey’s assistants whispered.

“I love it.” Willow jumped.

“Wow,” Serena awed, mirroring the reactions of the people from Charles Elizabeth.

I turned to Cecilia, who was always the first one with an opinion, but had said nothing. “What do you think?” I asked.

“It’s beautiful, but I liked the red one.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re radiant in red.”

If you told me there was a rabid bird trapped inside my chest, fluttering its wings with no intention to stop, I would’ve believed you. But I didn’t let it show on my face as I entered the swarm of well-dressed guests.

Most red carpets were made up of one long pathway, about a mile long and the width of a three-lane highway. The first half was usually lined with fans behind a barrier, and journalists chatting at the center of the carpet. Halfway down, spectators and fans were replaced by photographers snapping photos of celebrities that would make magazines the next day.