Page 67 of A Summer of Stars

The feeling of his hands on my skin and the look in his eyes haunted me in the middle of the night as the lights outside flickered on. Every time the lamppost’s light was uncovered by a tree, shining through my window, I was met with the nauseating reminder of his words. They were written in proper cursive that twisted high and low around my nerve endings, his evocative voice trapped in my ears.

You’re breathtaking. You’re breathtaking. Luna, Luna, Luna.

JULY

Wimbledon, London

Roland-Garros, Paris

“Luna Aldridge Returns to Claim Her Sixth Consecutive Wimbledon Win, but Will She Succeed?”

—Tennis Daily

EVERY YEAR THATI entered Wimbledon, the oldest of the Grand Slam tournaments, and walked through its historical brown doors, stepped onto its freshly cut grass court, and saw the hundreds of spectators waiting outside, everything else in my life became second. There was no personal life, no moral battles, no free time.

Last night’s events and this morning’s proceedings—waking up in bed with Kieran, slipping out from under the sheets before he woke up, and driving past the hundreds of rolling hills with my chin on the car window trying to forget Kieran’s lips and Jeremiah’s words—didn’t exist here. All those things were child’s play, because this was Wimbledon.

The Cathedral of Tennis.

I stared straight ahead as I crossed the space between my car and the entrance to the arena, photographers shouting and snapping photos. It was a flurry of noise that approached like a stampede.

I didn’t consume their questions or comments. I could write tomorrow’s headlines backward with my left hand:

“Aldridge Arrives at Wimbledon Despite Almost Year-Long Grand Slam Break”

“Aldridge Looks Optimistic for Sixth Consecutive Wimbledon Grand Slam Entering London Arena”

“Aldridge Is Last Player to Arrive at Wimbledon”

“Will We See Aldridge and Evans Cross Paths for the First Time Since Their Divorce?”

I nudged my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose and walked straight ahead, a tennis bag in each hand, as staff greeted me and shut the doors on the flashes.

I had the next twenty-four hours to try to squeeze every hour out of the practice courts without interfering with the schedule of other players. Then, the next fourteen days would be robust daily diets of Wimbledon and its limelight.

Sixty-four women’s singles competitors.

Half a million in-person spectators.

Hundreds of celebrity sightings and royal appearances.

Four rounds of matches. Then quarterfinals. Semifinals. And finally, the final.

I’d practically be sleeping standing up on the court, a tennis racket in hand and a familiar sweat building around my chest.

In two weeks, I’d have another Wimbledon win, even if it killed me.

“And Aldridge is moving on to the final!” Ed Meriden, one of the tennis commentators who spoke during my semifinal match yesterday, cheered.

“What a match. Aldridge managed to avoid moving into a third set by the skin of her teeth,” Lou Harris, the other commentator, wowed.

“You know what, Lou?” Ed asked.

I listened closely as I watched the replay of yesterday’s win in the locker room. The camera panned to me on the court after I served, winning the last point I needed. My knees hit the grass with exhaustion and relief. I watched myself stand back up and walk to the net, shaking my competitor Jeolt’s hand. The footage cut to Lou and Ed in the commentator box, each wearing a pastel button-down shirt, sport coat, and headset.

“What?” Lou responded.

“I have to admit, I didn’t anticipate Aldridge being a frontrunner this week. She’s only played in one other tournament this year, and before that, Wimbledon, a year ago. These other players have done fifteen, maybe twenty tournaments, since then. It’s unheard of for an unseeded player to do this well after such a break, with her ranking dropping from six to seventy-four at the start of the year. Frankly, the odds are stacked against her.”