Page 43 of A Summer of Stars

I rolled my eyes. “I already prepared the chicken, so this hardly counts.”

“I’m going to assume you haven’t had the same cooking experience with your mom?”

“No,” and I kept it at that. Talking about her for the first time in months with someone like Kieran felt unfair. It should be with Cecilia or Dad. Not a man who found tennis pompous.

An awkward silence swam between us for a moment before he picked up a new set of words. “The picture…”

I flipped my gaze up. “An ex,” I said plainly.

He nodded but said nothing.

“I don’t miss him or anything. It was just a nice photo,” I explained.

“Of course.” He focused on chopping, making it impossible to gauge his judgment.

“I promise I’m not some pining weirdo—”

“Luna.” He looked up, unwavering blue eyes holding me steady. “I believe you.”

He was being honest. I stared at the closed drawer behind him, feeling overtaken by mortification nonetheless.

“Have you been dating?” he asked casually.

I laughed. “Not for love, that’s for sure.”

“You sound like me.”

You could never love someone like that.

“We are nothing alike.”

The knife paused. “And what’s so wrong with being like me?”

Your heart is too big. Always was. It’s making you weak, as Jeremiah had told me.

Images of Jeremiah jumping out of the hotel bed flashed in my mind. I could still feel the fiery nagging at the back of my throat as I screamed,I thought you loved me.

Months of wet tears staining my cheeks and stomach aches when I left the house and empty breaths when I saw someone in a movie confessing their love or across the street holding hands, walking toward me.

I pictured the countless headlines that portrayed Kieran as the same type of man.

I was so tired of men saying they were above love.

“Because I have a heart that’s too big to be an uncommitted man who’d rather taste-test women than actually dedicate his life to someone,” I argued.

His jaw clenched. “Says the woman who doesn’t date for love.”

“I’m allowed to not date for love because it was the one thingthat ripped me apart when I poured everything into it.” My voice cracked.

He looked taken aback; his bite whisked away. By the time I finished, my throat burned with the urge to yell—or cry, I couldn’t tell.

“Well, that makes two of us,” he said.

My lips parted.

Fortunately, I was saved by a knock at the front door.

It was six o’clock.