Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

“I love you too much to do that to you. You need a girl who looks at you, and . . . you’re her world, Corbin.” Her universe, her sky, her stars. Her Ursa Major. “She wasn’t me.”

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?”