Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

We climbed the stairs to the porch, and by the door was a swing for two. “Did you make that?” I asked.

“Yep.”

It was charming and unexpected—and it could’ve probably used a cushion, but I kept that to myself and followed him inside. The entryway’s wood floors creaked under my boots. He hung my purse on a hook over a credenza.

“That’s the dining room,” he said, pointing into a large open space off the entry. A solid oak table with a live edge centered the room, while the iron chandelier overhead lit the swirl of the grain, the marbling of light and dark wood. Large windows showcased the front yard. Each piece looked perfectly placed, exhibiting an attention to detail Manning only gave the things he cared about. At the same time, the table wasn’t set, and between the bare walls and floor, he was missing a rug or some art to warm up the area.

I stepped in for a better look, but he called me away. “In here’s the kitchen,” he said, leading us in the opposite direction and bypassing the entrance to a hall.

I stopped in the doorway—I had to in order to take it all in. The kitchen had high ceilings, a sprawling center island, restaurant-style ranges flanked by prep and clean-up stations, and a farmhouse sink. Amber wood cabinets puzzled together, different shapes and sizes, as if they’d been crafted for certain things. I supposed maybe they had, since Manning had built this kitchen himself.

“Wow,” I said. “You really went all out.”

“I asked for the best.”

“But you don’t even cook.” Next to a French-door, stainless steel refrigerator was a small cooler just for wine. “And you don’t drink wine,” I added as my eyes landed on some steaks marinating in a dish on the counter. Then again, I didn’t know as much about him as I used to. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Then why all this?” I asked, opening the refrigerator. He’d stocked it with all kinds of things—most notably, a telling combination of deli meats, sauces, and cheeses. “Oh, Manning. You’re so busted.”

“Am I?” he asked, and I turned at the hopefulness in his voice. “Bust me, Lake.”

“You’ve been making the Lake Special.”

“Ah. Right.” He glanced away, scratching under his chin. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t. Not without you.”

I closed the refrigerator. “Why are there four steaks?” I asked. Maybe this kitchen wasn’t for him, because someone else had made her stamp here. Maybe she’d done the food shopping, made his sandwiches, picked out place settings. Was that who he’d installed the wine cooler for? And why he seemed nervous, because he had to tell me about her? “Is someone else coming tonight?”

“Someone else?” he asked. “Are you fucking kidding? It’s just you and me, Lake. I wanted to make sure we had enough to eat and steak is the only dinner I really know how to make all that well.”

I smiled to myself. I should’ve known. Always overly cautious. Always thinking of me. Well, I’d thought of him, too. “I brought a bottle of this really nice bourbon. I forget the name. It’s a housewarming gift, but I left it in the car.”

“I’ve got a fully stocked bar in the next room.” He went to a pantry and took out a bottle of red. “What’ve I told you? Don’t worry about me, Lake. Tonight is about you.” He passed me the wine. “The woman at the market said you might like Cabernet Sauvignon with the meal, but I bought others in case you don’t.”

I held the wine like a trophy. It was a stupid thing to get teary-eyed over, so I pretended to read the label. He’d bought me wine. Why should I be surprised? I’d brought him something special, too, after all. And I realized what he’d meant when he’d said tonight was about me. This was, in a way, a celebration of who we’d become. I was twenty-seven now, but it wasn’t just about numbers. Manning had clearly made a wonderful life for himself, and I was on my own path to the same. Tomorrow we’d go back to our lives, but tonight was about me, and him, too.

“Don’t cry, Birdy,” he said. “It’s just wine.”

I inhaled back the threat of tears, took a deep breath, and was about to ask for a corkscrew when my stomach grumbled. I put a hand over it. “Sorry. Is it too early to eat?”

“Depends on if you’re trying to rush things.” He took back the bottle. “I still have to give you the tour, but we can do that after dinner . . . long as you’re not planning to dine and dash on me.”

“You heard my stomach just now,” I said. “Let’s do the tour after.”

He got an opener from a drawer and worked the cork out while I tried not to stare at his flexing biceps. Eleven years after I’d met him, at thirty-four years old, Manning was stronger and more at ease with himself than I’d ever seen him. He’d obviously shaved for tonight, but this morning, he’d had enough scruff to make me wonder if he ever grew out his beard, which then made me wonder if he went and chopped the wood for his furniture himself. I could see my bear in the woods, an axe over his shoulder.