3
Five Years Prior
“Film Writer & Director Penelope Collins and Actor Kieran Alexander’s Romance Ends”
—Hollywood Today
I FREED UP all 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 to motivate 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 at me, 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.
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 my home? 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 for her. 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.