5
Three Years Prior
—Hollywood Today
IT STARTED ON a Friday night at an RBY party, three years ago. The rain was pelting the black SUVs outside the building. My purse slipped from my hand as I stepped out of the car. My event coordinator, Serena, gasped so loudly that everyone around us spun. You’d think I’d snapped my ankle.
One of the people who turned was a tall man in a navy-blue double-breasted suit.
I recognized him immediately. Kieran Alexander.
He had played Will Carter in the romance movie I’d watched on my flight there.
He was the only person standing in the rain, letting the water completely soak him.
His brownish blond hair was slicked back in a disorderly way, like a mysterious neighbor you spent months pining over from your window seat, caught in the rain walking his dog.
He made it look romantic. Worthy of lingering on.
Everyone else stood under the awning waiting for their dates, evidently no more standing room left.
His head whipped around at the sound of Serena’s gasping and caught my gaze.
His eyes widened but quickly shifted to the purse that had tumbled into the puddle below.
He bent down in haste, retrieving the bag and unbuttoning his blazer.
I stared in confusion until he began brushing the debris off the purse with the inside of his jacket.
I wasn’t with Jeremiah then, so I wasn’t ashamed to find him attractive. I was rattled by his gesture and boy-next-door smile.
I extended my hand as he returned the bag. “I’m Luna.”
“I know.” He smiled. He almost looked awestruck. I felt overwhelmed by his attention. “I’m Kieran. It’s nice to meet you, Luna. I hope to see you inside,” he said before I was gestured forward, inside.
“That was Kieran Alexander,” Serena said in awe.
“Yes, it was.” I tried to catch one more glimpse of him before leaving.
Hours of shoulder-shaking music, loud laughter, and familiar faces from fashion magazines passed in what felt like only a moment. But I had yet to see Kieran again.
Drowsiness was showing in my posture, and the drinks I had were catching up with my bladder. Gin and tonics: 1, my bladder: 0.
Looked like my luck had run out for the night and I wouldn’t be seeing him after all. So I located the women’s bathroom down one of the winding hallways, coming to a halt when I heard my name.
Kieran Alexander had said my name.
And it was followed by the words “uptight princess.”
I took a short step back and found him across the hall, without a jacket, talking to someone.
His hair was dry now, curling at the nape of his neck.
The dim light cast a shadow across his face in a romantic manner as he spoke, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t pinpoint.
I’d been in New York so long now; it seemed like everyone had an accent.
But as words left his mouth, it felt like a spotlight struck my face.
“You’re sure she’s like that?” a male stranger across from Kieran asked.
Kieran responded, “You don’t see it? She’s nothing but calculated and stuck-up. She may be beautiful, but there’s nothing else there than a narcissistic athlete. She plays tennis, for God’s sake—it’s the most pretentious, expensive sport you could pick.”
My nails curled into my palm, and my heart pounded so ferociously.
It’s trying to escape from my chest, I thought.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Worst of all, it made me feel small.
Organs had been pushed aside to make room for the intense gloom flooding in.
I didn’t go to many premiere parties, and I was beginning to regret it until now.
I stayed for a moment, hoping it was a mistake, but he continued on.
It was like he was listing off headlines my PR team tried to bury.
“What an excuse for a tennis player; paying more attention to her appearance than her job. All she cares about is herself. You could never love someone like that.”
You could never love someone like that.
I tore my gaze away as the stranger laughed at his words, like my life was a punchline. I gripped my purse.
Tears flooded my eyes the way rain filled up potholes in side streets. I shoved the bathroom door inward and found solace in a stall.
In and out, in and out. Out out out out.
I couldn’t control my breath; it was impossible after hearing that.
Tears were choking me, and Kieran’s voice in my head kept the tears flowing.
My fingers itched to scrub the makeup off my eyes, and my mouth urged to open up and wail.
Instead, I only pressed my eyelids shut and let the tears fall through the cracks.
Uptight princess, narcissistic, excuse, calculated, stuck-up.
Over and over. It was one thing to read it online, but it was another to hear it in person. Not from someone who was a stranger, but someone who existed in a space as scrutinized as yours. People who you thought would relate to you.
I immediately called Cecilia before grabbing a cab, too embarrassed to be seen waiting for my car with puffy eyes. By the time I got into the car, we were going back and forth guessing Kieran Alexander’s red flags to make me feel better.
“He wears outside clothes on the bed,” I guessed.
“You’re so lame, that’s nothing. He… gets pedicures,” Cecilia countered.
“Walt gets pedicures!” I said, defending my brother.
“Fine, fine. Kieran Alexander… makes you park the car when it’s street parking.”
“Kieran Alexander… calls every woman he dates doll because he can’t remember their names,” I followed up.
She hollered with laughter. “That’s good.”
I hadn’t expected the cab driver to be listening so intently.
That week, it was in the press.
“Undisclosed Source Reveals that Kieran Alexander Can’t Remember the Names of the Women He Dates”
Sympathy should have nuzzled its way into my chest. Especially since he was in the middle of promoting a romantic comedy as the lead… (That’d be difficult now.) But he had made me feel so small.
Uptight princess, narcissistic, excuse, calculated, stuck-up.
Of course, Kieran’s team sought out this “undisclosed source.”
Two days later, a bouquet of flowers was sitting on my stoop, along with a scalloped notecard that read: It was lovely meeting someone so self-absorbed. No name, but I knew who it was. It wasn’t very clever, but I guess that wasn’t the purpose.
That note passed through enough hands—or at least one pair of gossipy ones—to start a tabloid story.
“Luna Aldridge Called Self-Absorbed”
“Tennis’s Princess Toxic Behind the Scenes?”
“Sources Say Tennis Star Luna Aldridge Is Arrogant”
A picture of the notecard on my doorstep was shared like a piece of family gossip on Christmas Eve.
I suffocated in an overheated room in a tightly zipped dress with too many cousins asking the same questions and aunts giving the same judgmental glares (the cousins being my group of friends, and the aunts, the press).
Looking back on it, it was nothing compared to the scandal. But that didn’t make it any less annoying. Like a gnat that kept coming back. After one too many bites, I wanted it gone.
Seeing Kieran now, at this table, was the reemergence of every suppressed memory. It was something I preferred to push to the back of my mind.
The most unbearable part of it all: As much as I couldn’t forget the look on his face when he said those words, I also couldn’t rid myself of the interaction we had prior.
His hand brushing mine.
My eyes glued to his face.
I know.
My mother had always said, You never forget a handsome man. She’d look right at my father when she said it. Kieran Alexander was most definitely one of those men.
But you also never forgot a man who called you a narcissist.
This was the first time I’d seen him in almost a year. The last time was at a morning show doing an interview. We didn’t spare each other more than a passing glance. Our most civil exchange.
Today, his hair was disheveled under a baseball cap, paired with a T-shirt and jeans. He looked like a guy you’d pass on the street, not a Hollywood actor. His blue eyes weighed on me heavily.
As I sat across the room-length table, PR and management teams around us, I decided I’d pretend this arrangement didn’t bother me. Something about being emotionless sounded comical—
Deidra spoke up. “Shake hands. The two of you.”
We met in the middle. I stuck my hand out first like it was a competition. He met mine instantly. I squeezed his knuckle with every muscle in my palm.
“That’s enough,” another woman intervened. We pulled away from each other.
I sat as Deidra granted me a Scary Mother Look, usually designated for her daughter Emma. I’d been reduced to the level of a ten-year-old. At least I was being compared to a fun ten-year-old.
Emma was like one of those snow globes that sparkled when you shook them.
She loved sparkles. The whole team loved her.
She always made everyone colorful drawings for our monthly dinners.
Last month she crafted paper crowns, ranging from chartreuse to lavender.
I had never seen such rich construction paper.
I bought some for Deidra to give her in case she wanted to make more for tonight.
“Based on the calendar you gave us and the one we currently have, we’ve curated a four-month plan of every instance in which you two will be seen together,” Deidra explained.
She slid a printed copy to me, and Kieran’s PR manager, Nari, passed one to him.
As if on cue, everyone opened the packet with us.
“Mr. Alexander, you’ll go to one match this month, then one per tournament moving forward once you’re in Europe together,” Deidra explained.
Europe. That word was melted provolone on French bread.
Traveling to Europe was my favorite part of the tennis season.
I got to spend weekends drinking wine in generation-old family restaurants; walking cobblestones at night accompanied by the laughs of locals; breathing in ocean air that powered sails.
Even the courts in Europe were better. We didn’t play professionally on clay courts in the US, but they were as popular as pasta in Italy when you crossed the ocean.
They weren’t everyone’s favorite due to the bounce resistance of the ball, but my knees worked better on a softer surface.
Trying to place Kieran in these blissful plans was like putting your drunkard uncle in a Christmas card.
“The goal is to make this as believable as possible, and it won’t be believable if the two of you are seen together too often, too soon,” Deidra finished.
Nari nodded in agreement. “You’ll be seen together just a select number of times. We want it to appear like you’re hiding a summer fling. Then, when you head to Europe, your relationship will grow more serious, and you’ll be seen together at most events, like Kieran’s premieres.”
“Kieran’s premieres?” I asked. The idea of standing in heels after a week of tournaments for four consecutive months was not what I was planning for.
“Yes,” Deidra confirmed Nari’s statement.
“They’ll align with your matches: Spain, Italy, and France.
You’ll have a break beforehand with Wimbledon,” she said, trying to appease me.
(Didn’t work, especially since the words “break” and “Wimbledon” were incompatible.) The irritation bubbling under my tongue must have been apparent because she picked her words back up.
“The only premiere in Europe that isn’t for Saving September is the Cannes Film Festival, which is for a separate indie film of Kieran’s that you’ll attend as well.
There will still be enough time between your tournaments and the outings for you to practice and rest. It’s all in your calendar. ”
Nari looked empathetic. “We want to use both of your commitments this summer to our advantage. Americans love a European romance, and we need this movie to perform best with the American demographic. And, Ms. Aldridge, this will help strengthen your sponsorship, as well as convincing spectators that you’re easygoing. People love love.”
My eyes darted to Kieran for his reaction, ready for him to make some lewd comment on my present media image. It was difficult not to tense up on the topic. But nothing. He looked… confused, actually. Did he not know?
“When does this start?” I asked before he could jump in.
“Tomorrow morning.”