Move the Stars

by Jessica Hawkins

  He scrubbed his hands through his golden hair. “Yeah. I guess now you’re going to tell me you did me a favor rejecting me all those times.”

  I couldn’t help laughing a little. “I’ll save that piece of wisdom for when you meet ‘the one.’”

  “And what about you?” he asked.

  I smiled sadly. “I already met him.”

  “Your sister’s been divorced for like, over three years or something.” He picked up his cup from the table. “Have you seen him?”

  I lifted my hair off my neck, warm under the patio light. “No,” I said, mustering as much nonchalance as I could. “It’s dumb. I thought, back then, you know, that Manning was . . . that we were . . .” Destined. I couldn’t even get through the sentence without my throat thickening. What was wrong with me? It’d been years and years of heartbreak and bad timing. How many times did the universe have to tell us this wasn’t right? “And I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if he and I were ever . . .”

  “Ah, fuck,” Corbin said, wrinkling his eyebrows. I must’ve looked about to burst into tears, because he started to fidget. “This might be out of my league. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  I inhaled back the urge, shaking my head. “You didn’t.”

  “It’s not dumb, Lake.” He put his ankle over his knee, resting his drink on his sneaker. “But would you take some advice from a reformed love-sick puppy?”

  I failed to suppress a smile. “Sure.”

  “Move on. I know it sounds obvious, but if you’re still pining for him years later, you’re not going to magically get over it. No matter how much you accomplish, a small part of you is holding back, don’t you think?”

  I thought of what Corbin had said earlier this year about losing some of my fire after graduation. It was only now becoming clear to me that instead of accessing my pain over Manning as my professor had coached me to do, I’d buried it, and that’d hurt my ability to tune into my emotions. Maybe reality TV really was the best I could do, because Manning hadn’t just taken part of me with him when he’d left New York—he’d changed my DNA. He’d changed the dynamic of the city for me. His destruction had seeped into my career, my home, my heart, and even my innocence he’d been so hell-bent on preserving. I’d had to take the morning-after pill the same day he’d left. Flushing myself of him was a distinct kind of heartache I’d never forget.

  “It’s like you’re waiting for him until you can be happy,” Corbin said. “But what’re you waiting for? It’s been years. Get closure if you need to, but then move yourself on.”

  Move on. My hope for Manning and me had been holding strong for a decade, through the worst of it. What about his hope? Had he ever had it? If he hadn’t come for me by now, then maybe not. “I don’t think I wanted to get over him,” I said. “I really thought one day . . .”

  “I know the feeling. It’s like—how could it not happen? But for most of us, it doesn’t.” He sipped his drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I don’t believe he’s the only person who can make you happy. You can fall in love with someone else if you’re willing to try.”

  Corbin was right—my love for Manning wasn’t dumb, but since the day I’d met him, it’d been getting in the way of everything else. It was time to give up and move myself on. I hated to cry in front of Corbin because he was so protective, but I never thought I’d have to admit I’d been wrong about Manning. I never thought I’d lose hope.

  “I guess this is why you and I don’t talk about girl stuff.” Corbin reached out to thumb away some tears. “Hey, Val,” he yelled, beckoning for her through the kitchen window.

  Val had held me through too many nights of crying over Manning, so for her sake, I pulled myself together. When she poked her head out a minute later, I practiced moving on, like Corbin had told me, and forced a smile with all my might. “We miss you,” I said.

  She came onto the patio with a bottle of wine and some stacked plastic Solo cups. “I’m not going to toast you again,” she said to me. “I know you wanted to strangle me for it.”

  “Completely true,” I teased.

  “I thought I was helping you out when I recommended you for this project,” she said, separating the cups. “It seemed like a good opportunity. Was I wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I have a lot of thinking to do about . . .” I glanced at Corbin. “Everything.”

  Val nodded and filled up three drinks, placing one in front of each of us. When she took the chair Tiffany had vacated, I crossed my feet in her lap.

  We sat that way, just the three of us, talking until the party died down.

  Every once in a while, I’d catch myself looking up. The moon was full, but I wondered how long until I’d take in the night sky and feel anything other than empty.

  4

  Manning

  2004

  “Inquiring minds want to know,” I heard from behind me as I approached the end of aisle nine. “What does a mysterious man like Manning Sutter put in his shopping basket?”

  I didn’t need to turn to see whose mind was inquiring. “A poor attempt at dinner,” I responded.

  Martina Klausen was the town’s blonde beauty, recently divorced and swimming in money. Because of her straightforward German sensibility and appreciation for a good, strong piece of furniture, I’d indulged her flirting in the beginning. She was the only woman I knew here who didn’t beat around the bush too much or need her hand held, and for that reason, she made for a decent distraction from my thoughts.

  She caught up with me, craning her neck to inspect the contents of my basket. “Meat, potatoes . . . and lots of beer. Could you be any more of a man? Are you going home to watch the fight or what?”

  “I might be if I had a TV.”

  “But how do you keep entertained in the evenings?” She winked, pushing her cart alongside me. “How about I come make you dinner?”

  With my basket in one hand, I took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of my shirt and shook one free. I slid it out with my lips. “Not tonight,” I muttered.

  “You need vegetables. I can make ’em just right so they don’t even taste healthy.”

  I stuck the cigarette behind my ear until I could light it on the drive home. That simple gesture reminded me of Lake, how I used to wait to smoke until she was out of breathing distance. That wasn’t anything new. Lots reminded me of Lake, especially around Big Bear. Some days, all I felt was the sting of loss and of those memories.

  Tiffany and I had gotten divorced almost four years ago and even though Charles had offered to keep me on at Ainsley-Bushner, I’d left my job and moved to Big Bear as soon as I was able. It’d been the last place I’d felt at peace. Up here, there was tons of space for a workshop, and when I shut down the house at night, I could see the stars, every one of them, just miles and miles of endless universe and me.

  I fell back to Earth when I recognized Pearl Jam on the grocery store’s loudspeakers. The song wasn’t “Black,” which made me think of Lake every time, but the opening line of “Last Kiss” reminded me of her nonetheless. Was there no escaping her?

  Grumbling to myself, I got in line at the cashier while Martina followed, talking about the benefits of cutting out carbs, the latest fad. I likely would’ve missed the glossy tabloid covers if I hadn’t been trying to avoid Martina, but as soon as my eyes hit Us Weekly, I felt like I’d been sucker punched. In the lower left-hand corner, the picture was small, but there was no mistaking it—Lake, smiling at something in the distance with a man’s arm around her shoulders. A circle with a question mark blocked his face, but I knew the answer. It was Corbin. The headline underneath just rubbed salt in the wound.

  Who will win Lake’s heart? Our predictions on pg. 28

  I’d followed Lake’s career enough to know she was on a hit reality show. I hadn’t seen it. Once the commercials had started to air, and it became clear Corbin would be a regular in Lake’s love life, I’d gotten rid of my TV. It was hard enough
that so much in this town reminded me of her, but now there she was, beaming at me in checkout lane three. Like old times, my neck and chest heated with Corbin’s possessive embrace on her. What did Corbin have to do with this anyway? He was a big shot in New York last I’d heard, and had no business in Hollywood.

  Martina touched my elbow. “Manning?”

  I startled. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” she asked as the cashier snapped her gum at me.

  I unpacked my groceries onto the conveyor belt, glancing at the rag. At Lake. Her smile leapt off the page. She looked happy and that was the thing that both soothed and killed me. She was in a better place like I’d wanted. Maybe all along, she could’ve been happy with Corbin.

  “Last chance to sit back and relax while I whip you up something tasty,” Martina said as I paid for the groceries.

  I jammed my wallet in my back pocket and the cigarette in my mouth. With another glance at the magazine, I said around the butt, “Fine, yeah. I’ll meet you at the house.”

  Truth was, unless it was grilling, I didn’t like to cook. The few times Martina had come for dinner, the food had been all right, and the sex, too. She never overstayed her welcome, and that was exactly what I needed.

  Fifteen minutes later, I turned into my long, winding driveway. The house was private, just how I liked it. It looked as if it belonged in the woods, an extension of the forest rather than an obstruction. My closest neighbor was about a quarter mile away. No grumbly trucks would be pulling up in the middle of the night like the one I’d driven around a nearby neighborhood. No young and dumb twenty-three-year-old would hop my fence with the girl of his dreams. No cops would come knocking on my front door without their tires on the gravel warning me first.

  I turned on the porch light as Martina parked behind my truck. She walked up the steps cradling two paper grocery bags. “I know how hard you work,” she said. “Doesn’t hurt to let someone come over and take care of you once in a while.”

  I took the bags from her and carried them inside. “You know once in a while is all that works for me, Martina.”

  “Oh, believe me, darling—that’s as much as I can handle, too.”

  I sat at the kitchen table, smoking while she started prepping the food. “What’s that mean, all you can handle?”

  “Just that you’re one of those guys. How do you say . . . ‘emotionally unavailable.’” She rifled through a bag and pulled out seasoning for the steak. “I went through that with my ex-husband and I’d rather be alone than do it again. No offense.”

  “Why do you come over then?” I asked, genuinely curious. Not that Martina had been beating down my door, but I sort of figured all women were secretly hoping for something more permanent, and that was something I couldn’t give.

  “Because you’re impossibly handsome, and you’re a decent man, even if you try to hide it. Doesn’t hurt that you have the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.” She looked over her shoulder and winked. “Plus, you’re a good lay.”

  I took a drag. “Just good?”

  “You could be the best sex I ever had,” she said, “but it wouldn’t matter. Your heart’s not in it, and that makes a difference for a woman. How about you?” she asked, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. “When do you think you’ll settle down?”

  I looked around my state-of-the-art kitchen. I’d picked the best of the best, installed each appliance with my bare hands, sanded down every cabinet door, chosen high-end finishes to complete the look. I put out my cigarette. “What makes you think I will?”

  “A castle like this, just for a lonesome king?” she asked, gesturing around the room. “I don’t think so. You must be planning for a queen.”

  Planning for a queen. I didn’t want to think too hard about what that meant. There was only one queen, and to have built all this for her, without knowing if or when I’d see her again? I couldn’t face that. And anyway, it was hardly a castle. I still had tons of work to do on the back of the house, not to mention the attic and the yard, and—

  “I bought you a present. Keep you entertained since you don’t have a TV and all.” Martina looked into a grocery bag, then tossed Us Weekly in front of me.

  “What is this?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “You stared at it for a full minute at the store. I figured you were just too embarrassed to buy it. Doesn’t go with your steak-and-potatoes image.”

  I ran my thumb over Lake’s face. I’d done a good job of ignoring her sudden fame, but sometimes it found me anyway. I opened the magazine. Page twenty-eight asked, “Who will she choose?”

  Lake had an entire panel along the length of the page. The top image showed her on the street walking some dogs in a t-shirt from a Los Angeles rescue shelter. Below were three different photos of her with three different men. The title read, “Fresh on the scene, reality star Lake Kaplan has her pick of the pack.”

  My heart beat painfully in my chest as I forced myself to look at each photo. A guy with tattoos and a leather jacket kissed Lake’s temple. Another stood with his arm around her waist on the red carpet. The last, the image from the cover, was Corbin, “A wealthy hedge fund manager who’s moved across the country in hopes of getting Lake to settle down.”

  There it was—the nightmare I’d fought so hard to construct for myself. Was it finally enough to see her happy with other men? Was getting what I deserved enough to absolve me for the sins of my father and myself? Of the ways I’d disappointed Maddy, Tiffany, Lake, and the child I’d lost?

  So Corbin was back on the west coast with Lake. He’d gone after her like I’d known he would. Maybe Lake had her pick of the mutts but Corbin wasn’t just another dog sniffing around. He’d been there for all of it, all the milestones I’d missed, all the tears I’d caused, and a love I’d barely touched before it was taken from me.

  “Any good Hollywood gossip?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I know her.”

  Martina leaned over to glance at the spread. “Oh, my. Beautiful girl.”

  “Beautiful, yes. Because she looks happy,” I muttered to myself. It should’ve elated me to see that. It was the one thing I’d always wanted for her. Soar, Birdy. After the miscarriage, I’d been in no shape to be a good partner to anyone, but eventually, I’d pulled myself together. For all the times over the years I’d pushed Lake to be the best version of herself, she deserved to have the best version of me, too. She’d wanted me to follow my passions, and once I’d had nothing left to lose, that was the only thing that’d made sense. I’d started making furniture and running a business that was now off the ground. I’d built this house from the ground up, and it would be finished by the end of this year. I earned a decent living and had saved a lot over the years—I had a good life to offer her. But as I stared at the magazine, I had to admit I hadn’t accounted for the fact that Lake might’ve found a way to be sincerely happy without me.

  “You never know with these celebrities,” Martina said, picking up the magazine to see better. “It’s their job to put on a performance, after all.”

  I glanced up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “She does look happy.” Martina’s eyes sparkled, as if she could read every last thought in my head. “But what if she’s not?”

  I looked at the ground, shuffling my feet. I’d put Lake through so much heartache already. If she’d found a way to move on, would trying to pull her back in be the right thing to do? But if Martina was right, and Lake wasn’t happy—then I had no choice. I’d have to put my own insecurities aside. If I could give Lake everything she wanted and deserved, I had to. It would be the most important thing I’d ever do.

  Martina held out the magazine for me, but I shook my head, my palms sweaty. I’d seen enough of Corbin’s ugly mug for a lifetime. “You can toss it.”

  Martina raised an eyebrow at me, but she just put it in a drawer.

  I had a beer, and then another one with my dinner, and then I had Martina. After she left, I m
oved on to whiskey, and when I was sufficiently intoxicated, I went into my office closet and took down a shoebox of important papers. I stuck my cigarette in the corner of my mouth and sat at my desk.

  On top was a folder with my divorce papers. The last year of my marriage had been the worst by far. Pregnancy should’ve been a happy time, but Tiffany had resented me for what she suspected happened in New York and took it out on me any chance she got, threatening to leave once the baby was born. I took it without protest, guilty over my inability to stop thinking of Lake and how I’d wanted it to be her. It was unfair to my unborn child and to Tiffany, but Lake had made too strong an imprint on me in the week we’d spent together. When Tiffany lost the baby at nineteen weeks, we stopped speaking. I drank more than I ever had, trying to drown the what-ifs that hammered me on a daily basis. What if it’d been Lake who’d carried and lost my child? What if I’d been a better husband, and Tiffany hadn’t been so stressed the entire pregnancy? What if I had just kissed Lake that night on the pool deck and never stopped?

  After we’d lost the baby, and Tiffany had withdrawn from everything and everyone except her mom, she’d started spending nights at her parents’ house. At the end of it, there was no other path but separation. Even Charles had shaken my hand, told me I’d been good to Tiffany, and supported the divorce.

  I shuffled aside the past in front of me. Underneath the papers were the stacks of letters Lake had sent me in prison. Some of them were open, not by me, but by Tiffany. I’d only read a couple, while she’d read many. It was one of the last things we’d fought about. The letters were harmless, but that was exactly the issue. According to Tiffany they were stupid and childish and boring, and if I’d kept Lake’s nonsense all these years, what did that mean?

  I picked up a random one and read about a day in her life back then. It’d all been so simple—calculus, running, report cards, friends, animals, the start and end of summer. The letter was upbeat, and I realized in retrospect, she’d hidden her suffering to make my time inside a little easier. One part caught my attention.