Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

“You’re lonely?” I whispered.

“Every hour of every day. I miss the girl who meticulously makes monster sandwiches and who’s afraid of Ferris wheels and horses but not of moving across the country by herself. I miss not being able to touch and kiss you as I please, the way I did for five . . . fucking . . . days of my life. It was the best time I ever had, and if I die tomorrow, at least I had that time with you.” Manning moved his thumb over my quivering chin. “Don’t cry, Birdy.”

I put my arms around his neck to meet his mouth and kiss him. I’d been lonely, too. I’d had the world within reach, but strangely, in the middle of nowhere, in a town that held some of my worst and most cherished memories, I was finally home.

8

Lake

Night fell around us. I didn’t want to leave Big Bear. I was a little tipsy from the wine, heady from Manning, and after years of meaningless human contact, I just wanted to be held. “Was it always your plan to end the tour in the bedroom?” I teased.

“It’s not over yet.” He smiled down at me. “You didn’t say anything about the bed. Did you see?”

“My great bear.”

He turned me back to the footboard, then switched on the overhead light. “Look closer.”

Because the carvings were subtle in the warm wood, it took me a moment of squinting to notice the tiny bird perched on the bear’s back. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder at a tree. He was always watching, always protective of his . . . “Birdy.”

“And where’s she looking?” he asked.

“Up,” I said. “At the stars.”

I tilted my head back, half-expecting to see the universe right there on his ceiling the color of blueberries, but there was nothing.

“It’s on the headboard,” he said.

I wrinkled my nose at him, then went around the bed and moved one pillow. And then another and another. What I saw took my breath away—the night sky carved into his headboard. The constellations, the Summer Triangle, and both Ursas, Major and Minor—the great and little bears.

I’d been wrong earlier. The house wasn’t Manning in every way. It was us.

I put my face in my hands and released a torrent of tears.

“Lake.”

I shook my head. It was too much. “I can’t.”

“Is it too much?” he asked, reading my thoughts. “You know how I feel about you, don’t you?” I continued shaking my head. “If you don’t like Big Bear,” he said, “we can go somewhere else. We can go back to New York. You said you wanted to travel—we can do that, too.”

No, no, no. I wanted to be here. Right here. Home. For good. I couldn’t say it, though. It was too good to be true.

“Lake?”

When Manning got no response, he sighed and picked me up, lifting me into his arms like a new bride. “What would I do with top-of-the-line appliances?” he asked, carrying me through the house. At least I assumed that’s what we were doing—I couldn’t see for all my crying. “I thought for sure you’d figure it out as soon as you walked in the kitchen,” he added. “Did you see that cabinet in the corner? It’s for your special guest dishes. We can leave it there or put it in the dining area. That’s just one thing we can decorate and fill together.”

I’d never felt so overwhelmed, not even when I’d received my acceptance packet to USC, and even then, part of my tears were the doubts I couldn’t express with words. Tonight, I had no more doubts. Everything felt huge, but with Manning by my side again, and a career change in order, things also seemed as they should be.

I peeked through my fingers and wet lashes. Outside now, we headed for the small warehouse I’d noticed earlier. My cowboy boots swung as he carried me, and his heart beat near my cheek as I rested on his chest. There wasn’t much to the backyard, just a clearing before the forest, the pine trees making dark triangles in the moonlight. “What . . . what goes back here?” I asked.

“You tell me, Dr. Dolittle,” he said.

Finally, a smile broke through. “Animals?”

“If that’s what you call those rescue mutts.” He winked before he set me down to open the shed’s sliding barn door. “Here’s where I kept my sanity all these years.”

Manning’s workshop could’ve housed a small army. I stepped onto an unfinished concrete floor, sawdust under my boots. From sanders to circular saws to vises, the equipment alone intimidated me. Between the work benches, lumber, and planks and slabs piled in corners and against walls, it smelled woodsier inside than the forest behind it. “Where’s all the furniture?” I asked.

“I sold it.” He pointed to a few half-finished pieces, clustered in the center. “These are my current commissions, due next month.”