26 #2
Of course, he spoke French fluently. I watched with wide eyes as he undid his tie with one hand and gripped the landline with the other.
“Merveilleux. Puis-je commander une salade de pastèque, un thé au miel, et un croque-monsieur? Oui, c’est tout. Je vous remercie de votre attention.”
I turned around abruptly as he dropped the phone into the receiver.
“I ordered you a watermelon salad and tea with honey. You should take a cold shower before it arrives.” He dropped his undone tie beside the phone.
“Honestly, I’m fine, really, you can go. I appreciate you ordering me food and offering to help, but I’m fine. I used to pass out all the—”
“I saw you fall.”
“I’m fully aware.”
“You were running around in almost ninety-degree weather for two hours. Then you collapsed due to the heat, and now you’re going to get back out there and play again.
You’re going to run your health into the ground if you don’t rest—” He exhaled, cutting himself off.
He had this distant look in his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed. “Sorry, I…”
I filled in his sentence. “No, it’s fine. I, um, I’ll go shower.”
There was an ache in my chest as I walked into the master bedroom and collected fresh clothes.
Something about the lack of composure in his tone made me feel stubborn for pushing back.
It was another exposed thread to Kieran that I hadn’t asked for, or expected. There were so many unstitched threads.
First, he kissed me, then apologized for it.
Then he showed up at my match without it being required.
Now he was saying things about my health that felt deeper than just me. I itched to pull at more strands, but it felt like crossing a permanent boundary. One that required access to an ocean I wasn’t permitted to watch, let alone swim in.
I held tightly on to the side of the shower, stepping under the cold water.
Quickly, I scrubbed my hair and let the cold stream pacify the warmth of my skin before I began shivering.
Twisting the metal knob, I stepped out, dried off, and pulled on a thin tank and shorts.
My hair was already soaking the back of the shirt by the time I returned to the living room.
The entire room smelled of melted gruyère and toasted bread.
“That smells so good.” I sighed with relief, only to find Kieran sitting on the couch with a melted ham and cheese sandwich on the coffee table in front of him.
He gave me a weird look I couldn’t decipher as I took a seat beside him.
“You get a croque monsieur and I get a salad?” I asked in disbelief.
“It’s recommended that you eat hydrating foods. Eat your salad and maybe I’ll share,” he said with a tantalizing tone, raising his eyebrows and taking a first bite.
I rolled my eyes and stabbed a piece of watermelon. “You know a lot about heat exhaustion for someone who just found out I was sick.”
He cleared his throat. “My grandmother is in cancer remission. It’s really important for cancer patients to maintain a normal body temperature.”
My heart sank. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize.”
He shook his head, brushing it off. “She’s doing better now. At least that’s what she and the rest of my family are telling me.” He took another bite of his sandwich, thinking before continuing. “She’s like you: stubborn.”
I smacked his arm. He laughed, leaning away. “She must be pretty amazing if she deals with you all the time,” I thought aloud.
“Oh, she’s amazing all right. But who’s dealing with who is up for debate.”
“What are you possibly putting up with?”
“She emails me at the same time, every week, with every article she’s read that includes my name.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“Do you read the articles that are written about me?” He narrowed his eyes. “When I say every article, I mean every article. The ones about my dating life, my health routine, my sex life.”
“No!” I gasped, covering my mouth.
“Oh, yes.” He nodded in embarrassment. “She has no shame. She likes to rate the women I’m speculated to be dating too. Does all this research on their careers, their families, how they treat others, and then sends me an updated ranking.”
I collapsed into the armrest of the couch with hysterical laughter. “Stop, this is too funny,” I mustered, wiping tears.
“I wish I was kidding! There have been twice as many articles now with all our outings.” He let his head tip back on the cushion. I watched closely as his throat bobbed.
“What does she say about them?” I asked, curious now.
He stared up at the ceiling. “She refuses to believe our relationship is fake. She says the photos are too real.” He had a boyish smile.
“Well, that’s a good sign.” I laughed lightly in agreement.
He tilted his head toward me. His eyes were so much more piercing this way, under the darkness of his hair and the high of my laughter. The air coming in through the balcony pushed at his open collar. He looked so ethereal. He must’ve known it too, because he simply allowed me to explore his face.
“Where do I rank?” I whispered.
He parted his lips, the hint of a smile there. “At the top. She said that you’re beautiful.” His voice was a gruff whisper that made my heart pause.
“She did?”
“She did,” he confirmed. His blue eyes searched my face. “She also said you’re incredibly talented.”
My heart melted into a sentimental puddle. “She said that?”
“Well, I added the incredibly part,” he said, the corner of his lips pulling into a small smile. Then, it fell. “You are incredibly talented, Luna. And beautiful… very beautiful.”
All of the air in my throat was snatched from its place as he searched my face. It warmed me from the inside out, like a gas lamp flickering beneath my fingertips. His Adam’s apple bobbed again, and suddenly, I had this overwhelming urge to kiss where it resided.
A confusing ache formed in the center of my chest, fighting me to move closer and lean forward with intention, to hover my lips over his and divulge in a whisper all of the perplexing dreams I had to sleep with since our kiss.
That I dreamed about his hand traveling further, his lips staying longer, and his voice breathing my name in a prayer.
He cleared his throat, standing up. Just like that, I was left feeling whiplash.
He stacked our dishes, and asked, “How are you feeling?” Before I could answer, he was leaning forward to press his hand against my forehead. “You already feel cooler, that’s a good sign.” He pulled away quickly and picked up our plates, leaving them by the door.
“Yeah, I feel better.” I tried to respond without my voice squeaking like an overused rocking chair.
“And you’re still going to play?” he asked, disappearing into the bathroom.
“I am. I have to.”
“Why do you have to?” He returned, a folded-up face cloth in his hand. “Keep this against your forehead,” he ordered, pressing the damp material to my skin.
“I… I don’t have to. I love my job, I love tennis. But lately, there’s been this extra pressure to be good and prove people wrong. I can’t miss a match.”
“And Wimbledon was your only chance?” he asked, sitting down.
I unfolded the cloth across my face. “It sounds stupid when you say it out loud,” I groaned.
“No, it doesn’t,” he reassured me. “But I do think you’re focusing too much on what everyone else thinks. You’re too talented to be doing this for anyone else but yourself. What do you think?”
“That I’m a failure,” I mumbled under the material. There was a shuffling of the couch cushion. Then he was lifting the face cloth up, letting a stream of light in. His face was so close now. Too close for me to think.
“You’re not a failure. You’re an eleven-time Grand Slam–winning tennis player,” he whispered. It was the hottest thing I had ever heard a man say.
“Did you google me?”
“Maybe.” I could anticipate his annoyingly handsome smirk—the one where he bit down on the inside of his lip to hold back from saying something Kieran-like. “Only fair since I know you’ve watched my movies,” he said.
I pulled the face cloth off and threw it at his chest. He laughed, sitting down beside me.
A moment of silence passed before he quietly said, “Whatever you want, Luna, you can have. You could probably turn the green summer leaves an autumnal brown simply by asking them to. Don’t doubt your abilities. ”
I felt his words in my chest. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Tell me about when you first started playing tennis,” he requested.
Instead of questioning his curiosity, I welcomed it, too tired to poke and prod.
I rested my head against the armrest and let the cloth lie on my forehead.
I recalled summers in Rhode Island where my racket was practically glued to my hand.
I told him about the days my mother would walk down to the court with a pitcher of iced tea to watch me play until she was bribing me with dinner to return home.
On Friday nights, after practice, I’d run straight to the beach down the street, diving into the ocean.
I told him about the first championship I won and the first I lost. I described the ache that burrowed itself in your ankles and wrists when you were first learning. And the satisfying nugget that hit you smack in the middle of your chest when you struck the ball just the right way.
I watched the lampposts outside fall asleep as I spoke, Kieran listening the entire time.
The subtle street music of travelers’ steps on the cobblestones and chatter bouncing off the buildings soon diminished.
My shoulders began to slump into a perfect slumber, and my words became a whisper even I couldn’t understand.
I dreamed of strong arms lifting me from warm sand, with the rumble of a chest whispering prayers to a midnight moon.