Page 44 of A Summer of Stars

Everyone funneled into the kitchen, and Kieran and I separated, like two fallen leaves drifting apart in a rough tide.

I spent the majority of dinner catching glimpses of him, wondering what anomaly I had just experienced in the kitchen—the man who tended to a childish cut, and the one who reminded me of everything I’ve been trying to bury.

“Kieran Alexander Looks Lovestruck, but Not by His Costar Eliza Whitfield”

—LA Reporter

I’M PRETTY SUREthe interviewer across from me forgot her questions, because she held no cards, and her eyes resembled grapes that were about to burst.

“I—was there—um, I’m sorry, I just need a moment,” she apologized, rifling through a slew of papers on her lap, her hair falling forward. “I’m so sorry, I was prepared, I promise. I had worked on these questions for weeks,” she said, looking toward her cameraman. “I wasn’t meant to go today.”

My costar, Caleb, was sighing and bouncing his leg impatiently like a customer waiting for their takeout order. We were only two hours into press interviews, and he was already bored.

He reminded me of the cowboys in the Western shows my mother used to watch. Unkempt hair, bulky muscles, and a slight Southern twang. But there was none of that Southern charm. He didn’t know when to stop talking or staring. He dressed like a man who dedicated himself to sports on Sundays.

He was cast as the other love interest in the film—the one whowasn’t chosen by the main protagonist but made bad decisions she found attractive. He looked nothing like the character now, who was supposed to have a five o’clock shadow, short hair, and a body that lived off cigarettes. I jumped when he walked into the room. I thought for a moment a football player had joined the security team.

We rarely had scenes together, but the film’s PR team thought it would be “more compelling” to have us paired up for interviews.

Wonderful.

Caleb’s voice either put me to sleep or stung my eardrums, there was no in-between. He also had an obsession with rubbing his jaw like a magic lamp. Was he wishing for an interesting thought to share? Not sure.

The last interviewer wanted to hear why we were interested in the project, so Caleb spoke for fifteen minutes about an ex-girlfriend leaving the book behind in his apartment and how it “felt like a message from the universe.”

Very entertaining stuff. Epitome of journalism. I wasn’t falling asleep at all.

Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to stand next to him at the premiere tonight.

The young woman in front of me looked fresh out of college. She reminded me of Mila. (Mila had cut her hair to shoulder length when she graduated university too.) If she was in her early twenties then there was a high chance she had read the book.

Caleb bounced his leg again. It was getting faster. He was gearing up to make a snide remark.

“Abigail, right?” I asked, leaning forward before he could.

Her head snapped up and she nodded sheepishly.

“Did you like the movie?” I asked.

She shoved strands of hair behind her ears. “Yes, oh my gosh, yes,” she said, smiling. It was so enthusiastic that it squished her cheeks.

“That’s really nice to hear. Did you happen to read the book?”

“Of course. I’ve read it six times and listened to the audiobook twice,” she responded, settling into her chair.

“We could start there if you’d like?” I offered.

Surprise riddled her face. “Oh, yes, yes!” She pushed her papers to the side. “Did the two of you read the book to prepare for your roles?”

I had heard that question about one hundred twelve times, but she looked as if she genuinely wanted to know. And her hands had stopped shaking.

I leaned back in my chair, knowing Caleb would answer first.

The interview went smoothly from there. Abigail asked about differences readers could expect from the film, along with our favorite scenes to shoot and whether we related to our characters.

We wrapped her interview, and she asked me for a hug. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. Yes, fans asked for hugs and photos and autographs. But journalists often viewed you as a commodity. They’d ask their questions, leave, and make room for the next set of questions that asked nothing of interest.

She wrapped her arms around my chest. Pulling away, she thanked me and walked off before I could thank her, the next interviewer sitting down.