Page 55 of A Summer of Stars

“You were about to hit your head on a stone staircase,” I explained, gesturing to the stairs behind us.

She followed my stare but didn’t gain any clarity.

She started again. “I…” but pulled her words right back like a fisherman’s line. Her eyes darted to my hands on her waist—mierda.

I lifted my hands and ran them through my hair, put them in my pockets, and then… I wasn’t completely sure, to be frank. I feltfrazzled. Her eyes were often filled with this fury, hotter than an 1800s furnace in a home like this (and by home, I meant mansion, which could fit an entire English town and its distant relatives).

Now, they were clear. A sense of vulnerability and reality. A calm ocean so vast, it was impossible to explore it all.

I didn’t know where on her face to focus. I was unsure of what letters in the alphabet to grab at and string together to distract from my long pause. But she spoke up first.

“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Your hair?” she said—asked? What the hell was happening?

“My hair?” I dipped my chin, trying to pull myself together and focus.

She pressed her eyes shut. “Yes, it’s, uh, different.” Was she flustered?

I tugged at pieces behind my neck, suddenly remembering the old color. “Bad different?”

Her lips parted. “Not at all,” she replied.

I nodded, feeling puzzled by her honest response. No offensive comment or quip.

“Well—”We jumped at the sound of a car horn. I turned, noticing the long line of cars accompanied by drivers. Their arms waved outside their windows because they were stuck behind my unattended car… Wonderful.

After I moved my car, I walked inside. The estate’s walls rang with an unexpected silence. The wood looked as if it carried generations of memories. Its age showed in the creaks of the floorboards and the curved lines in the walls. I wondered how many of those memories Aldridge was part of, and why it caused her shoulders to stiffen when she stared up at the mansion.

I wanted to shake her when she agreed to another social outing, asking if I’d come to ensure our fake relationship looked real. I wanted to tell her no, for both of us. But I was the last person she’d listen to, so I kept my mouth shut—after saying yes. Why did I say yes? Well, thinking about it meant thinking about how I felt about her.

Ugh. The floor and I groaned in unison as I stepped forward. Walnut wood stretched over my head in arches as I entered the foyer. The foyer, decorated with a chandelier and oil paintings, emptied out into a large circular space dedicated to two hallway entries going in opposite directions.

I shouldn’t have insisted on Franny taking the week off. It looked like I was walking through one of his episodes ofDownton Abbey, which I was almost positive he daydreamed about during our work meetings. He’d stare at the paintings and practice his British slang, most likely offending someone and embarrassing himself in the process.

A home of this magnitude looked difficult to fill. With the number of cars I had been waiting behind, I was surprised to see no one, so I followed the voices to a terrace that overlooked an ocean of ivy-green hills (the East Lawn, according to a small sign). At the bottom of the never-ending greenery, a plateau formed where guests mingled under lace umbrellas, wearing long dresses, eating hors d’oeuvres, and playing croquet.

Right in the middle of it all was Aldridge hitting a ball as if she were trying to send it to the West Lawn. She was the only one playing solo, unless you included the woman standing beside her. I recognized her from last night, following Aldridge with a notebook. Blond hair and an inch shorter, hand on hip.

Aldridge stuck out like a tulip in a field of sunflowers. Tiny pieces of her hair were frizzing under the sun, even when tied back. She was epically failing at hitting the ball with her friend micromanaging. It made me laugh. I couldfeelher grumbles about not needing help bubbling underneath her tongue.

Others looked on, watching, amused. I struggled to make out her reaction because someone else caught my attention. A man, several feet over, was watching her with a possessive stare. One that said he was debating approaching her. It twisted and tied a knot around my throat. My gut was completely clear of any confusion, though.

Suddenly, I was moving.

The bottoms of my shoes were crushing shards of grass as I entered the tea party. I wish I could say I entered without drawing looks. (You’d think I was dressed in head-to-toe sparkles or shouting to Aldridge. Nope. Just walking.) My father would love this.

You draw attention for what? For looking pretty?I could hear his voice as if it were bouncing off the back of my head.

I scratched the back of my neck, catching my hair.My hair. He was going to be livid. It looked just like his. Even though it was also mine.

He hated that I was his mirror, walking around with his eyes, hair, and nose, doing something that embarrassed him. Our resemblance was only amplified with my hair back to black.

He always knew I wanted to act, to leave Spain and study in New York. It wasn’t until I had an acceptance letter from New York’s Film Academy at eighteen that the true fight started.

“If you’re going to prance around Hollywood using your face to earn money rather than put in hard-earned work at a business I spent my life building, then you won’t share our name. You won’t share anything about this family.”

I dyed my hair blond the next day out of spite and to prove how committed I was to acting. He took that as me accepting his demands and never spoke of it again. Kieran Alexander Alvarez became Kieran Alexander the next day, and I moved to New York to major in drama.

I exhaled. This was a problem for another day.