Page 7 of A Summer of Stars

She said nothing, only took my wrist and dragged me outside. “What are you doing here?”

“Just searching for ways to booby-trap the lobby of my apartment complex since there’s such an influx of mice lately, and your place really seems to be managing the epidemic well.”

“Kieran.”

“Penelope, I’m here to see you, of course.”

“I moved to another state for two months and told you not to visit—you didn’t think that meant something?”

“Not when you left all of your things at my place and answered my calls and spoke as if nothing had changed.”

“Well, things have changed.” Her words were closed off. Definite. Emotionless.

“When did you meet him?”

“A month ago. In California.” No hesitation.

“Pen,what the hell?You couldn’t have sent a postcard or something? Instead, you had to show up here with him?”

“You mean show up at myhome? Stop looking at me like that. I didn’t know how to tell you, Kieran, what did you want me to say?”

“Anything! Anything would’ve been better than this.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being so dramatic. It’s not like we were in love.” She laughed. My face fell. “Oh my God. Kieran, really? I could never love someone like you anyway. You must know that, don’t you?”

All that fire in my throat was smothered. Two fingers pressed over a flame.

You couldn’t argue with that. So I nodded, as if we had agreed on a contract both of our lawyers were happy to sign.

Termination Clause: You don’t love me, and I love you, but we’re going to pretend that we never knew each other.

At least I had left the flowers behind. Saved myself some pride.

I used to hate how far her place was from mine. Right then, I couldn’t have been luckier. It was hard to grab hold of the word “lucky” when it felt like she had thrown a stack of porcelain plates into the sink, let the spider cracks explode into shards, swiping the sharpest piece to lodge in my chest.

I could never love someone like you.

I took a cab back to my soulless apartment, letting the porcelain plate hang from my chest as I struggled to find air in my sleep, unable to clot the metaphorical blood. I turned twenty-three that night, and the only thing I wished for was to forget her.

I could never love someone like you.

Time went on, work got busier. I visited Spain as much as possible, but shards of porcelain still lingered. I didn’t love her anymore. But that didn’t make her words any less painful. The blood still trickled.

Dating from then on became casual.

She was probably right. I was incapable of being loved. Maybe I was meant to be a product of my art, rather than a product of love. My art was reliable. I loved the time my career required, even if it didn’t always love me back. But I think that was the only heartbreak I had space for.

Abuela being diagnosed with cancer soon after was proof that there was no more room for cracks. I had given up the last one forher. Fortunately, I didn’t have to give up any more, because there was nothing left to feel. My family was enough. My work was enough. The ocean outside my childhood home was enough.

Until I saw Luna Aldridge one rainy night in New York, two years later. It was the first time I had felt something in years. Not just an inkling, but an entire mosaic. One day, I thought my heart’s only purpose was to keep me alive. The next, it felt like it was made for moments like this.

Her laugh. Her surprise.Her. Everyone saw it. Even one of the producers on my film who tried to approach her.

I spent the entire night figuring out the right way to tell her that she looked beautiful, but by the time I figured it out, she was gone, only to find out she was just like everyone else I dated—fleeting. Unlike everyone else, though, she made sure to leave a lasting impression in the form of a tabloid rumor, upsetting enough to pull me from Spain in the middle of Abuela’s surgery.

Just when I thought I had felt something like romance, it curdled into hate.

Apparently I did have room for one last crack.