Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

“That’s on purpose,” I said. My heartrate kicked up, leaving me flustered. All the emotions of the night of the wedding rushed over me. My world shattering as Manning had said “I do.” My eyes leaking while Val and Corbin hid me in their arms. My shame when wedding guests had rubbed my back, commenting on how sweet it was that I was so emotional over my sister’s big day. Inconsolable was the word they’d been looking for. Embarrassed would’ve worked, too. I’d had to deliver a maid of honor speech, a passage I’d plagiarized from Chicken Soup for the Soul, the only way I could manage wishing my sister and her new husband “all the happiness in the world.”

“I didn’t say you could come here,” I said. What gave him the right to ruin what had been a perfectly good morning? To stir memories I’d fought hard to bury? My jaw ached; I’d been clenching my teeth. “You can’t just show up like this.”

“I’ve been worried, Lake.”

Worried. He was worried. Good. I hoped it kept him up at night, his worrying. That he replayed over and over in his head my silent sobs as I’d stood by the altar and kept my mouth shut.

Manning and I stared at each other, the sky gray, snowflakes falling between us. Val would say it was the perfect setting to film a New York romance.

Manning shifted on his feet, loosening his tie a little. He looked so very out of place, and so uncomfortable. Different. But with his eyes on mine, we were us again, an unlikely pair—the Young Girl smitten with the Worst Possible Man.

He glanced up at the building again and then down the street. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth. A layer of pretty white innocence couldn’t hide the trash lining the curb, graffitied steel doors, or the sleeping homeless man bundled in a storefront.

“This neighborhood isn’t safe,” he said.

The old me might’ve blushed at his concern or teased him for his overprotectiveness, but I’d changed that night I’d lost him for good. This neighborhood was all I could afford, but aside from a couple break-ins on the block and a mugging one street over, I’d never personally had a problem. In fact, Frank, the man in the sleeping bag, acted as a sort of lookout for us. I brought him coffee, food, and warm clothes on occasion. But Manning hadn’t earned the right for me to put him at ease. I’d suffered, and I wanted the same for him. I lifted a shoulder. “It’s not exactly Park Avenue, I admit, but that’s not your concern.”

“If your dad knew—”

“Stop.” I refused to go down that path. Seeing Manning again was enough to reopen wounds for who knew how long. I didn’t need him to remind me my dad couldn’t be bothered to look out for me anymore. “I can take care of myself, as you can see.”

Manning put his hands in his pockets and broke our gaze to look at my seemingly fascinating fifth-floor window. How he knew it was mine, I wasn’t sure. “You just . . . disappeared,” he said with what sounded like a mix of pain and confusion, maybe even wonder. Well, four years was a long time to wonder. I’d left before he’d even returned from his honeymoon. It’d been the only way forward. I couldn’t live in the same state as them a moment longer, much less see them together one last time.

“I had to.”

“But why New York?” He scanned the area, shaking his head. “Why this city, with the highest crime rate in the nation, with its pushy people and cold, ugly skyscrapers?”

That was Manning’s problem. He couldn’t recognize beauty where it wasn’t obvious. He didn’t feel the energy that propelled this city. He’d turned down real love because others would judge it. He refused to accept what he deserved unless it was bad. “Actually, crime has fallen off significantly since Mayor Giuliani took office. You don’t know anything about this city or me so maybe you should . . .” Go. I needed to say it. I owed it to myself to kick him to the curb. How many times had I imagined seeing him again? Envisioned him falling to his knees, as broken as I was, telling me he’d made a mistake? It was the only thing I wanted to hear, and for that reason, I didn’t trust myself.

“I do know about this city,” he said, his eyes drifting back to mine. “This avenue in particular is known for drugs and prostitution.”

Taken aback that Manning had even heard of my tiny corner of the East Village, my guard dropped a little. “How do you know that?”

“Because I looked it up. Does that surprise you?” He ran a hand through his neat hair, his forehead wrinkling. “I’ve tried to picture you here,” he said. “I can’t. Not knowing where you live, how you are—it makes me . . .”