Page 6 of A Summer of Stars

“A public relationship with Kieran Alexander.”

He spun. “The guy who called you an excuse for a tennis player?” Evidently a rhetorical question. “You’re actually going to entertain this?”

I huffed, throwing the last pillow down. “It’s just business. I’m not happy about it either, trust me, but it’s just temporary.”Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I left the room and walked upstairs past my trophy display: five Wimbledon trophies, three from Roland-Garros, two from the Madrid Open, and one from the Australian Open. It wasn’t much compared to what others achieved at twenty-six in pro tennis. But the one that taunted me most was the missing US Open trophy. I managed to lose it.

Every. Time.

A dress shoe hit the floor before a foot was shoved into it, tapping up the stairs behind me. “You’re being oddly calm about this,” he said.

“I have no choice but to be calm. I’m doing what I can to smooth out this scandal. That way I can return to tennis without worrying about people shouting at me from the stands.”

There was a fist closing around my heart. All I could picture were the headlines saying I should never step outside, let alone on a court.

“It’s just a PR stunt. People in the industry do it all the time, it’s like a rite of passage,” I said.Everything will be fine.I exhaled, trying to alleviate the tension in my chest.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Luna,” he stated firmly. “Mom would say the same thing.”

He was right. She would. But she wasn’t here, and she didn’t know the situation.

“It’s me versus Jeremiah right now, and I’m not going to let him win by continuing to hide. Now go shower or we’re both going to be late.”

I finished the steps and closed my bedroom door.

Two hours until hell froze over.

Five Years Prior

“Film Writer & Director Penelope Collins and Actor Kieran Alexander’s Romance Ends”

—Hollywood Today

I FREED UPall the drawers in my place for Penelope. When I looked back on it now, I wasn’t sure if it was because I loved her or if it was because I was alone. But in those moments, I was sure that I loved her. I loved the way she set her toothbrush next to mine on the sink. I loved the way she sat by the open window of my apartment when a new idea came to her, scribbling it in her notebook. I loved the way she spoke, like every word had to be deserving of a soliloquy.

Back in Spain, I grew up familiar with the sound of the coffeepot gurgling and the door across the hall from mine clicking open. Mom would knock, ready for me to start cooking breakfast. With Dad already at El Mar, his restaurant (Spanish for “the sea,” because of its proximity to the ocean), there was one fewer set of hands to help.

I’d go straight to Abuela’s door. She didn’t need anyone tomotivate her—her favorite time of the day was the morning—until Abuelo’s passing. Now she only watched the seabirds from her window, making it that much more important to keep her moving. Grief loved immobility. So I cut the fruit, cooked the omelets, poured the juice, and met her outside for a walk on the beach. It was a routine we could both count on.

Moving to New York City years later to pursue acting—no family, no sea, no routines—I missed it. But Penelope brought color back into my life. She was a writer and director, directed a film I costarred in. When it wrapped, we celebrated in a dimly lit corner pub where she told me she found me “charming.” So I kissed her, and she kissed me back. Two weeks later, I didn’t want to let her go. Months later, I had to. She had a work trip to California for a few months.

“Don’t come, I’ll be flooded with work. It wouldn’t be fair to you,” she had urged.

“But, Pen—”

“No, Kieran, I mean it. I need to focus.”

“Yeah, of course, I get it. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Two months passed, and I was at her door the night she said she’d be home.

Then two hours passed as I watched the hydrangeas on my lap wilt away. Soft and fatigued. When I realized she wasn’t coming, I left, only to catch her as she was walking into the apartment complex. Satisfaction was slow to hit me in the chest, but quick to leave when I saw someone walk in with her.

“Kieran, what are you doing here…” she had said, looking between me and the guy beside her.

My cheeks were flushed, as if I had come in from the December air, rather than October’s comforting autumn. She stared atme, lost, like there wasn’t a nightstand in my room dedicated to her things. Like the necklace sitting around her collarbone wasn’t something I had bought.

“You had said… I thought…” I couldn’t compile the words. Not with him there, watching me the same way she was. I had never felt so small. “You’re back,” was all I could manage.