Somebody Else's Sky (Something in the Way 2)

Mom hummed. “It’s a wonder you stayed so . . . healthy.”

Healthy was one way of putting it. I couldn’t remember Manning having any fat on him before, but somehow he looked more angular, hardened, his jawline sharper and his arms carved from stone.

“Wasn’t much to do in there worthy of a mention, except hard labor and education,” he said.

“Like school?” Mom asked.

“They had a guy come in for some classes, but I did a lot of reading myself.” Manning swallowed, as if talking this much was hard for him. “I’d like to go back and finish my degree at some point.”

Tiffany perked up. “Really?” she asked, smiling. “For criminal justice?”

The room got quiet—Tiffany didn’t even realize her blunder.

Manning scratched above his eyebrow. “No.”

“He’s not able to be an officer anymore,” Mom said quietly. “You knew that, honey.”

“Of course I know.” Tiffany sniffed. “I just meant, like, the other things he can do besides being a policeman . . .”

“Yes,” Mom said, “but you have to be more aware of what you say . . .”

While they argued, Manning’s gaze returned to me. His pain showed, the absolute depth of his hurt, right there in his eyes. It only surfaced when he looked at me. I did that. I caused him pain. His behavior began to make sense. His silence since the day he’d gone inside. My unanswered letters. His curled fists and quiet plea earlier.

Manning blamed me for this. The way he looked at me, like he couldn’t bear it. The way he wouldn’t speak to me. He’d probably done nothing for the last year-and-a-half but sit and wish I’d never forced my way into his truck or into his life.

“Sorry,” Tiffany said, exasperated with Mom.

Manning turned to her. “Don’t be. That wasn’t the path for me. I took a business course offered by the prison and did other stuff, like helping manage the construction of a new wing of the facility. Taught me a lot.”

“But you already knew how to build a house,” Tiffany said.

“I did, but I was self-taught or I learned on various jobs. Inside, I was forced to be involved in everything—planning, electrical, framing, roofing, welding, woodworking. When I got out of SHU, I spent a few months manufacturing furniture. It was a good education.”

“You can do more now,” I said. “You could be in charge on a site.”

Manning cleared his throat but didn’t look at me. “I could use some water if you don’t mind,” he said to nobody in particular.

I went and filled up a glass from the fridge while Mom took the steaks out to the grill. As soon as I gave him the water, he tilted back his head and drank. His throat worked, strong and veiny, his Adam’s apple bobbing. When he’d downed half of it, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Was it bad in there?” I asked. I sought out his chocolate-brown eyes, but he stared into his drink. Do you hate me for what I did to you?

Tiffany set down her wineglass with a clink that echoed through the kitchen. “Don’t be rude, Lake.”

I wasn’t sure how that was rude, it seemed worse not to ask.

We ate on the patio. January nights called for it. But even outdoors, tension thickened the air. Dad wasn’t happy. Tiffany stole glances at him and then Manning. Manning barely let an emotion surface. Mom had chosen a safe topic—décor for Tiffany’s apartment—that didn’t include me because I’d never decorated anything other than a wall in my room. But to be fair, it was a good wall that I was pretty sure Manning would appreciate. I’d cut up the inside flaps off some of my favorite albums, and hopefully my favorites were Manning’s, too. Pearl Jam, Jeff Buckley, Pink Floyd. I’d posted the album cover for The Dark Side of the Moon above the one of The Wall. The irony of that was lost on everyone in my family, or they just had no sense of humor was more like it.

“What are your plans, Manning?” Dad asked finally, cutting Tiffany off in the middle of a story about mispriced picture frames at Nordstrom. Sometimes I felt as if I worked there, too, I knew so much about that place.

“Maybe we can talk about that another time, Charles,” Mom said. “Let Manning just enjoy his meal.”

“It’s okay.” Manning swallowed his food, clearing his throat, the only sound except for crickets chirping on the other side of the pool. “I won’t lie. I don’t know yet.”

“No?” Dad cut aggressively into his meat, and I jumped when his knife scraped the plate. “But you’ll be living with Tiffany.”

“Yes, sir. At least, as long as she wants me there.”

Tiffany tried to throw an arm over Manning’s broad shoulders, but could only clasp as far as his neck. “I want you there, babe.”