18
“Kieran Alexander Looks Lovestruck, but Not by His Costar Eliza Whitfield”
—LA Reporter
I’M PRETTY SURE the interviewer across from me forgot her questions, because she held no cards, and her eyes resembled grapes that were about to burst.
“I—was there—um, I’m sorry, I just need a moment,” she apologized, rifling through a slew of papers on her lap, her hair falling forward. “I’m so sorry, I was prepared, I promise. I had worked on these questions for weeks,” she said, looking toward her cameraman. “I wasn’t meant to go today.”
My costar, Caleb, was sighing and bouncing his leg impatiently like a customer waiting for their takeout order. We were only two hours into press interviews, and he was already bored.
He reminded me of the cowboys in the Western shows my mother used to watch. Unkempt hair, bulky muscles, and a slight Southern twang. But there was none of that Southern charm. He didn’t know when to stop talking or staring. He dressed like a man who dedicated himself to sports on Sundays.
He was cast as the other love interest in the film—the one who wasn’t chosen by the main protagonist but made bad decisions she found attractive.
He looked nothing like the character now, who was supposed to have a five o’clock shadow, short hair, and a body that lived off cigarettes.
I jumped when he walked into the room. I thought for a moment a football player had joined the security team.
We rarely had scenes together, but the film’s PR team thought it would be “more compelling” to have us paired up for interviews.
Wonderful.
Caleb’s voice either put me to sleep or stung my eardrums, there was no in-between. He also had an obsession with rubbing his jaw like a magic lamp. Was he wishing for an interesting thought to share? Not sure.
The last interviewer wanted to hear why we were interested in the project, so Caleb spoke for fifteen minutes about an ex-girlfriend leaving the book behind in his apartment and how it “felt like a message from the universe.”
Very entertaining stuff. Epitome of journalism. I wasn’t falling asleep at all.
Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to stand next to him at the premiere tonight.
The young woman in front of me looked fresh out of college. She reminded me of Mila. (Mila had cut her hair to shoulder length when she graduated university too.) If she was in her early twenties then there was a high chance she had read the book.
Caleb bounced his leg again. It was getting faster. He was gearing up to make a snide remark.
“Abigail, right?” I asked, leaning forward before he could.
Her head snapped up and she nodded sheepishly.
“Did you like the movie?” I asked.
She shoved strands of hair behind her ears. “Yes, oh my gosh, yes,” she said, smiling. It was so enthusiastic that it squished her cheeks.
“That’s really nice to hear. Did you happen to read the book?”
“Of course. I’ve read it six times and listened to the audiobook twice,” she responded, settling into her chair.
“We could start there if you’d like?” I offered.
Surprise riddled her face. “Oh, yes, yes!” She pushed her papers to the side. “Did the two of you read the book to prepare for your roles?”
I had heard that question about one hundred twelve times, but she looked as if she genuinely wanted to know. And her hands had stopped shaking.
I leaned back in my chair, knowing Caleb would answer first.
The interview went smoothly from there. Abigail asked about differences readers could expect from the film, along with our favorite scenes to shoot and whether we related to our characters.
We wrapped her interview, and she asked me for a hug.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised.
Yes, fans asked for hugs and photos and autographs.
But journalists often viewed you as a commodity.
They’d ask their questions, leave, and make room for the next set of questions that asked nothing of interest.
She wrapped her arms around my chest. Pulling away, she thanked me and walked off before I could thank her, the next interviewer sitting down.
For a moment, I sat there wondering if I had been overdramatic about these tours since Abuela’s diagnosis. Actors like Caleb were a nuisance, yes, but maybe the industry was riding a new wave. One where people entered Hollywood out of passion rather than for profit and attention.
It was either that, or I had simply stopped recognizing those who cared versus those who pretended to care.
I spent so much time thinking that I missed what the woman across from me asked.
“Man.” Caleb bumped my shoulder.
“Apologies, would you mind repeating the question?” I asked, leaning forward, and fixing my pant legs. I needed to wake up.
She smiled. “Kieran, you play the main love interest in the film known for his romantic gestures. Would you consider yourself a romantic?”
The personal questions always made me uncomfortable. Nari said, “It’s what the people want.” But when it walked the line of my relationships, I expected a question about my inability to commit. I’d seen enough of the headlines by now.
“I guess you could say that. I think what I appreciate most about Theo Bennett’s character is his compassion for those he loves, regardless of the type of relationship.
You’ll see that in the film with his sister and mother.
He devotes a lot of his attention to their well-being, as well as his romantic love for Eliza Whitfield’s character Darcy.
But I don’t think it’s because he’s a romantic.
He doesn’t run to her house in the middle of the night or forget how to breathe when he sees her to be romantic.
He simply loves her,” I finished, dropping my hands in my lap.
“Speaking of your main character’s love interest, there have been rumors you’ve found your own real-life Darcy recently.”
I laughed lightly. I had been briefed on these types of questions for weeks.
Everything I said in regard to this relationship would be overanalyzed and therefore used to challenge its credibility.
Meaning I couldn’t say anything along the lines of, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” “I disagree,” or “How would you feel if I asked—”
“I like to keep my personal life personal,” I answered with a closed smile.
“You and the infamous tennis player Luna Aldridge have been spotted together frequently over the past month. Even photographed holding hands, leaving an event together. Would you say you’re good friends?”
Jesus, la gente está invasiva.
I fixed the sleeves of my shirt. Compliment, deflect, compliment, compliment, Nari said.
“I’ve known Ms. Aldridge for many years now. She is one of the most hardworking people I’ve ever met, and I’m very fortunate to know her.”
The interviewer gave me a tight smile, realizing I wasn’t going to admit to dating Luna Aldridge. Her thirty minutes were up.
Every interviewer from there on, all twenty-two of them, asked about Aldridge.
Our last conversation in her kitchen had been gnawing at me. We’ve spent so many years sharpening our words and aiming them with precision to guarantee they landed, that I never thought it’d actually make her pause. Flinch. Stare back at me, my words splayed across her face.
She had poked enough wounds that I assumed doing it back would feel satisfying. But I felt guilty.
I’m allowed to not date for love because it was the one thing that ripped me apart when I poured everything into it.
Her voice had been sharp, but her eyes were glazed over with tear-filled waves.
It felt like the blade had slid through my palm.
I wanted to take back everything I had said.
Return to memorizing the lines of her palm and the shape of her mouth as she focused on correctly using the knife.
It was sticking to me like a virus.
Catching the picture frame in her drawer, evidently something she didn’t want seen, only made the guilt simmer longer.
My entire day revolved around Luna Aldridge, and she wasn’t even here.
And it didn’t stop at the premiere either.
A benefit of being in London was the one-hour time difference from Valencia, Spain.
Meaning I didn’t have to set myself a reminder at two in the afternoon to reach my family before they went to bed.
But that also meant Nari would stare at me the entire time while I took my phone call because everyone was supposed to be on the carpet… according to my watch… this second.
I was in the limo in a gray satin suit, waiting for Mila to hand the phone to Abuela so I could hear about this morning’s checkup.
“Finally, Abuela. How are you feeling?” I asked. Nari’s stare softened.
“Alejandro, I am fine. You don’t need to worry,” she argued. “Mila told me you should be working now. What are you doing calling me!”
“I called to see how you were doing!”
“I am fine,” she repeated. “Where should you be right now?”
“On a red carpet talking to people that are nowhere near as entertaining as you.”
She laughed. A real laugh. I held my breath, expecting a cough to follow. “Will the beautiful girl be there? Luna?” There was an uptick in her voice. It was weird to hear her say that name, especially when it flowed so rhythmically with a Spanish accent.
“Yes, Ms. Aldridge will be here.”
“I sent you those photos, where you’re holding hands. Did you see them?” she asked. This woman didn’t give up.
“Of course, Abuela. But I don’t think you need to attach the same photo taken from ten different angles next time. I was there,” I explained. She shushed me. “I told you about the situation, though—this isn’t real.”
“You two look in love!”
“Yes, because it’s staged.”
“I don’t know. She looks awfully sexy in these photos.” Nari snickered
“Abuela, that word does not mean what you think it does.” I shook my head.
“Don’t tell me you don’t tell the stars about her, Alejandro?”
“Not this—”
She began to recite a story I had heard since I was a teenager, sitting me down and sharing it after catching me kissing a girl outside our house.
“When I was young and first met your abuelo, I used to stay up late, staring at the stars in the sky, asking them what to do cada noche. I was in love with two men at the time, you know?”
“Ricardo, yes, Abuela, I remember.”
“Ah, Ricardo, that man was so handsome.”
“Yes I know, I know.”
“But then, the photo of your abuelo on my desk was taken by the wind, pulled right out my window. I ran outside to grab it, and there was your abuelo, standing at my door, the photo in his hand. It was a sign, Alejandro, from the stars. The stars listened to me—they knew what to do.”
Nari tapped the time on her phone, her nostrils flared. She unlocked the car door—my last warning.
“Sí, I will let the stars know later. Te amo,” I told her.
“Te amo,” she replied warmly.
I followed Nari out, fixing my pant legs. A wave of voices, faces, and flashes came crashing toward me. I picked my hand up and waved, smiling.
The red carpet was a velvet path of crimson where heels and leather shoes stood, posing.
The left side of the carpet was barricaded by fans and the city.
Every actor from the film was here, some taking pictures, others signing books.
On the right was a grand limestone building wrapped like a gift in a golden backdrop.
It read Saving September, photographers focusing their attention there.
I could see some of my costars spread out across the carpet. But the director, Angela, and Eliza and Caleb were standing together, waving me over.
Nari walked in front of me, leading the way.
Photographers shouted as I walked by, requesting for me to come back.
I was interrupting everyone’s photos. She walked with determination, holding on to her access lanyard.
I patted guys on the back, apologized to women I didn’t recognize, and laid a kiss on the cheek of the actor who played my best friend in the film.
Suddenly Nari’s footsteps halted.
“What—” I paused when I realized what had stopped her.
Right in our path was Luna Aldridge having her photo taken.
I could visualize the silent panic on Nari’s face. She couldn’t turn and formulate a plan of action—it’d look obvious.
I was on my own.
She walked forward, quickly moving behind Aldridge, out of the way, without drawing any attention.
With Nari gone, I could see all of Aldridge.
She had this magnetic blue silk dress on.
The dress wrapped around her neck and enveloped her figure, leaving her back exposed.
The color complemented her shadowy eyes, and her dark hair swayed as she looked over her shoulder for the cameras.
Something similar to want—no, need—crawled up my throat, convincing me I was bold enough to step right up to her and kiss her.
Bold enough to take back my real last name and dye my hair back to black.
Mierda. It was a lot harder to hate her when she looked like that. Wouldn’t the stars just love to hear about that.
I had to move. Too much time had passed. I walked forward without second-guessing.