Page 51 of A Summer of Stars
He ignored me. “I took off practice to see you.” I knew how that sounded. But he offered it as an olive branch. A sign ofI’m trying, see? You’re worth it.
“Well, I’m sorry it was wasted.”
“This wasn’t a waste to me. Let me take you out to dinner. I just want to talk.”
“I really don’t want to talk,” I admitted, growing impatient.
“Then practice with me; you can serve every time. Or invite me to one of your matches, or come to one of mine,” he suggested. “I’ll take anything.”
“I’m in a relationship now, Jeremiah, I can’t see you, nor do I want to.”
“Really? The stunt with that actor?” He laughed. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”Walk away. Walk away.
“Why are you resisting this? Why are you resisting me?” he asked. He always had a response. Never blundered or stumped.
Because you broke my heart.But I didn’t have the guts to say it.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“Practic—”
“Don’t lie to me, we both know you don’t practice the weekend before a tournament.”Bad luck. My muscles needed time to recover, not tear with no time to repair. “Bad luck,” he remembered.
“I’m busy,” I answered.
“You’re Luna Aldridge, of course you’re busy,” he said it with admiration, like I was someone important. “I want to know how I can find myself in those plans. Unless you have none…”
I rolled my eyes.
“There she is,” he said, his voice sounding like my husband’s, rather than the man who cheated on me a year ago. “The woman who was never scared to tell me no but always wanted to say yes.”
“That isnottrue!” I argued, almost on the verge of a laugh.
“You told me no all the time. No to Horror Movie Mondays. No to a pet turtle—which was a fun idea! No to my paint color in the kitchen.” Imissedthat kitchen. Perfect shade of periwinkle. “Quite a lot of nos as of late,” he said.
“That’s not fair,” I started, any sign of a laugh withdrawn.
“You’re right, I know. Let’s start over: You have no plans, and we’re both in the same country this weekend… Maybe you could be my date to the Mansfield.”
The Mansfield Mansion was an estate-turned-hotel north of London that held a ball the weekend before Wimbledon every year. Despite it being in celebration of those gathering for the tournament, you almost never saw any tennis players. They were busy preparing to win a Grand Slam (except those with bad luck premonitions and arrogance). It was more to please and entertain the wealthy. I had been a few times, but Jeremiah and I went once together before we eloped, never again after.
“Again, in a relationship,” I repeated, my voice sturdier.
“Fine, you have a boyfriend. If you like him so much, then bring him. Come this weekend.” It sounded like a dare.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“And what is that?” he asked, beckoning me.
“I’m not dragging Kieran to Mansfield just to prove something to you.”
“Who said anything about proof?”
He kissed me on the forehead, just like he did after every match. He’d jump into the stands, sweaty and elated. “I’ll see you in Mansfield. And if I don’t, well, then I’ll know your boyfriend isn’t as committed as you assumed.”
Before the divorce, my father used to say Jeremiah should have been a lawyer because he was so convincing. He was right. Jeremiah’s ability to persuade and charm was exactly how I ended up in a car with Cecilia and Deidra, playing our tenth round of Uno, driving through the countryside the next morning.
