Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

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 moved 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?