Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

She nodded a little. “Then I’ll find you something else. Something better. You’ve got a special quality, Lake. You deserve a movie deal, today’s hottest director, top billing . . .”

I stopped listening, because I’d heard all this from her before, and it still didn’t excite me. Being on stage back in New York was the closest I’d come to feeling like a true actress. From auditioning to improv classes to mounds of rejection, I’d been forced to come out of my shell, grow up, and start making decisions for myself. And my decision was that I needed more than the network had to offer—and maybe even Hollywood in general. I hadn’t felt as if I’d done anything meaningful since I’d left New York. Even in high school, I’d belonged to clubs and extracurricular activities that’d given me a sense of purpose. I wasn’t sure if I was done with acting forever, but as far as Hollywood was concerned, once my contract with the show was up, I’d be grounding a career that hadn’t even launched.

I started for the parking lot again. “I’m going to take a step back from all of it,” I told June. “Not just the show.”

Her Jimmy Choos clacked along the faux cobblestones of a movie set modeled after New York. “Good. Go up to Napa Valley for a few weeks—take some time for yourself. I don’t want you to get overwhelmed. You saw what happened with Sean. Thank God you’re no longer associated with him.”

Sean and I had broken up months ago, right before he’d gotten caught wasted on camera leaving a club on his motorcycle. The American public had not taken kindly to his drinking and riding, and he’d been shipped off to Arizona for rehab.

Celebrity gossip had become an industry unto itself. Paparazzi was expected at movie premieres and outside of the clubs we frequented, but extravagant cameras had been popping up during my morning run or while doing mundane things like getting coffee. I didn’t understand the fascination but some magazines, and even a few websites, were solely dedicated to celebrity culture.

As June and I neared the edge of New York and headed toward what looked like a set for a Louisiana swamp, I looked across the lot and just like that, there he was—Manning unloading furniture from the back of a truck. He was so familiar yet so out of place that I stumbled and June had to steady me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stopping as I did.

Manning lifted what looked like a blanketed loveseat from the bed, carried it onto a soundstage, and returned with two other men, who helped him with a long wooden table.

“Lake?” June asked, craning her neck to see what I was looking at.

The morning sun shone through the buildings, creating hard lines of shade and light, a relatively cool day for mid-August. Frozen to the spot, I was unsure of what to do. Did he want to see me? Did I want to see him? My reflex was to answer yes, but the question was wrong. I needed to be asking if I should see him.

Five years after New York, eleven since I’d met him on an entirely different lot, and here we were all over again. After my conversation with Corbin on Val’s patio almost a year earlier, I’d been forced to accept that Manning and I wouldn’t happen. Since then, it’d become clear that having hope all these years had hurt rather than helped me. I’d considered him in decisions I should’ve made only for myself. He’d been on my mind as I’d boarded an airplane out of New York for good, when I’d debuted on TV, and even when I’d turned down my contract just now. He’d sat in on all my first dates, and the last ones, too, and I was exhausted. Manning was always in the way, no matter where I was or what I was doing.

I’d finally given up on destiny, on the stubborn stars, and on the idea of us, but by the way my heart raced, it was clear I still hadn’t been able to let go of Manning—not completely. Back then, I would’ve seen this random meeting as fate bringing us together. Now, all I could wonder was . . .

Did I walk toward him or away?

Manning took a bandana from his back pocket. As he wiped his temples, he paused, turned, and looked right at me. Of course he’d felt me staring, and he stared right back. June continued to try and get my attention, the men moved dining chairs around Manning, and an American flag flapped overhead, but we just stood there, neither of us making a move. Was this it, what it’d all come down to? Passing each other by, keeping a safe distance, so nobody would get hurt again?