32
“Luna Aldridge Beams like the Moon in Pearlescent Moonlit Dress”
—Nesh
WITH THE FIRST week of August coming to a close, the Madrid and US Opens were fast approaching.
Two more major Grand Slams and then I returned to my regularly scheduled wallpapering, team dinners, neighborhood jogs, and Christmas pajamas covered in (overly) salted popcorn while watching romance movies.
No more fake relationship. No more preparing for the US Open.
Usually with the US Open closing in, anxiety became a nagging friend, pulling at me like a thorn snagged on my clothes.
Usually, I’d be walking around with my stomach twisted in a thick knot, avoiding every pair of my mother’s flats that gave me blisters out of fear they’d affect my footwork.
Knocking on wood every time someone said, “You’re going to win the US Open!
” and pretending I was tired at eight P.M. when Amir and Cecilia were trying to drag me out of my hotel room, when in reality, I was dying to practice our ridiculous choreography to club versions of ABBA music in the wild.
Practice would last longer, my ability to talk while doing drills would scratch my throat, and my clothes would stick to my body with stickier stubbornness.
All because of the daunting fact that I had yet to win a US Open.
Five years pro, five Wimbledon wins, three Roland-Garros wins, two Madrid wins, one Australian Open, and no US Open.
That should’ve been the reason I was picking at the skin around my nails.
Stupid dark hair, stupid blue eyes, stupid soft lips, stupid attentive gaze, and stupid protective grip on my waist and stupid stupid stupid Kieran Alexander were the real reasons. And there was nothing stupid about him at all.
The fact that the US Open was creeping out from the trap I routinely set under my bed, and it felt like nothing more than a tea stain on my sheets, was wrong.
No blinking red font that spelled You’re Going to Fail at the US Open AGAIN was stinging my eyes in a taunting manner like a hypnotist with a pendulum.
The only words that triggered that pendulum were—God, no I couldn’t say it.
I wanted to claw out the anxious knot in my chest. It was getting in the way of the strategies for my first four matches in Madrid.
The knot felt physical enough that it could have been seen right through my dress.
I looked down at the shimmery fountain blue silk to confirm it was mental. At this point, I was mental.
“What’s up with you?” Deidra asked across from me in the car, her eyes wide.
“What?”
“You’re picking at your nails. You never pick at your nails,” Willow interjected, the light of her phone screen illuminating her face as she followed the live stream for the French premiere of Saving September.
“That’s not true.”
“I’m pretty sure it was you who said you couldn’t have bad nails since you already had calloused toes,” Mary pointed out.
“I said that?”
“You weren’t wrong,” she responded as if she had seen my toes.
Cecilia parted her lips. “Don’t tell me this is about K—”
I cut her off with a deadly stare.
All of the girls whipped their heads from Cecilia to me with a disturbing amount of focus.
“Kieran?” Mary’s dark bob bobbled. “What about Kieran?”
Willow gasped, coming to a conclusion. “Is this about this weekend’s photos from the boat?” Her words were muffled under her fingers. “I’ve been scrolling through the Lieran hashtags all night. I knew they looked different.”
“Different? Different how!” Mary interjected.
“Yes, exactly. Nothing’s different.” I nodded at Mary.
Cecilia whispered something in Mary’s ear, and then her eyes became cartoonish circles. “You kissed?!” she shouted.
Like possessed porcelain dolls, their heads twisted in my direction.
Willow turned to me. “Based on those photos, half the world knows you kissed him, so…”
“There was an instance before that…” I reluctantly shared.
They gasped.
“Do you want to do it again?” Mary asked.
“Don’t you lie! I saw the photos!” Willow argued.
I pressed my forehead to the warm car window. “Is the car going too fast for me to jump out?”
“Answer the question!” Cecilia demanded.
“Why does it matter!”
“That was an automatic yes,” Willow noted.
“Do you… have a crush on him?” Mary whispered.
“Guys!” I covered my face. “I’m not fifteen.”
“You should kiss him again,” Willow decided.
“And then tell us about it,” Mary added.
“I am not kissing him again,” I scoffed. “And it’s not like that anyway. We’re pretending—he’s an actor, for God’s sake!”
“If he called me months ago asking about your favorite flower, then I doubt he’s pretending now,” Mary said to herself.
“What did you just say?” Cecilia asked, grabbing onto Mary’s knee.
Mary looked up, not expecting any response. “Kieran called me before your tennis date together—he was at the florist and wanted to know your favorite flower…”
The peonies.
“And why did he call you?” Cecilia questioned, baffled.
Mary smiled timidly. “I think he thought he was calling you, her assistant.”
“You didn’t think to share this information two months ago?” Willow shouted.
“It doesn’t matter!” I cut in. “I need to focus. Madrid is next week, and then New York right after. There isn’t room for all of these… these… things.”
“Oh, gosh, you really are delusional,” Cecilia observed.
“You’re supposed to be on my side! Tennis comes first,” I reminded her.
“Yes, yes—sleep, breathe, pray, tennis. But look where that got you earlier this year. You’ve been crushing matches ever since you let loose a bit—don’t cut me off, not done! Go out with him again tonight, have fun.”
“I let loose all the time,” I argued. Or I at least used to let loose all the time.
“Maybe after two brandies…” Willow commented. I tossed my purse at her.
Deidra touched my knee, catching my attention. There was a sad look in the corner of her eyes. We had never spoken about our fight after my Wimbledon loss. She had been giving me space, and it showed. Our friendship could be chaotic because of the work. But it forced us to dip and pivot together.
I needed to distance myself from the public sphere. From publicity in general. I didn’t need to know about the headlines or who was winning which match. I was tired of making myself suffer for someone else’s wins.
She was acknowledging that. And in a space that suppressed my wants, that mattered the most.
She spoke up. “Luna, you’ve never let anything, or anyone get in the way of your relationship with tennis, except Jeremiah. But don’t let his past mistakes, or mine, make decisions for you. Go, have fun after the premiere.”
My mouth was dry. My friends were staring at me with the same look, as if they all witnessed the same crime. Empathetic lines were drawn around their worried smiles.
“Humor me.” She squeezed my hand.