Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

“For fuck’s sake.” He sighed, and now what I focused on was the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. “Guess I’ll have to add that to my to-do list.”

“There’s nothing you can do. We get them now and then. Val and I just try to be vigilant about leaving out food and keeping the lid on the trash.”

“I’ll pick up some mousetraps.”

“To kill them?” I sat up, leaning my elbow on his chest. “I don’t want that.”

“These aren’t strays we’re talking about.” He yawned. “You got off easy with the scar that feral kitten gave you. Mice carry disease.”

“Do you know what happens if you trap them? They starve to death—they’re poisoned. Sometimes they chew off their own legs to get free.”

“Then I’ll get a top-of-the-line trap,” he said. “Death,” he sliced his hand across his throat, “in a snap.”

“That’s murder,” I screamed.

He laughed. “Murder? I love that you’re sensitive and humane, but it’s a fucking rodent, Lake. Where there’s one, there’re others.”

I stuck out my bottom lip. “But—”

“Gotta wipe ’em out, Birdy.”

I exhaled, tracing a circle over his chest with my fingertip. “If you do, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to see or hear about it. I’ll cry, I really will.”

“Say no more.” He moved some of my hair behind my ear. “What time did you say it was?”

“Late. We slept all day.” I checked the nightstand. “After seven.”

“I missed a meeting.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll have to reschedule it for tomorrow.”

My spirits fell a little. Nothing sounded more perfect than spending every minute of Manning’s trip right here in my bed, basking in six years’ worth of afterglow. I was supposed to work at the diner tomorrow afternoon, but it was a short shift. I put my face back in the crook of his neck. “Do you have to?”

“I’d skip it, but if I’m leaving my job soon, I need to make as much commission as possible before I go.”

Sleepy Manning had turned into Serious Manning, the version of him I was probably most familiar with. I caught the tension in his voice and wondered if money worried him. It didn’t need to. I had two jobs and had been taking care of myself for a while, and by the looks of his suit and cell phone and long-distance taxi rides, he did all right for himself.

“But after my meetings, I thought you could show me your New York. Give me something to look forward to. I’m moving from the glorious beach after all.”

All my warm and fuzzies returned. I tried to wiggle even closer, but every inch of me was already pressed to him. “My New York?” I asked.

“All I’m getting is that there’s a lot of garbage and pushy people. Questionable smells. But if you tell me it’s great, then I want to see it through your eyes. Can you show me tomorrow?”

I tried to think of what Manning might like about the city, but I came up short. There were buildings he’d surely appreciate with his eye for structure and carpentry, but was that enough? I loved the energy that coursed through the streets, especially around the theater district and Times Square, but I had to admit I wasn’t sure he’d feel the same.

“Lake?” he asked when I didn’t answer.

Was it fair to ask him to move here, a place that surely didn’t fit him? Wasn’t that what was bothering me about his suit and tie, his golf game, the cell phone . . . the fact that Tiffany and my dad were trying to force him in a box? I angled my face from his neck to look up at him, and instantly my skin cooled.

“Nose,” I said.

He stopped massaging my back and put his hand over my nose, but his palm was so big that it engulfed my entire face.

I laughed. “I can’t see.”

“Tell me what’s the matter.”

“How can I ask you to move? I can’t picture you here, but I don’t know what the answer is. I want to do stage acting, and Broadway is here, so I need to be.” I blinked a few times, and my lashes fluttered against his fingers. “If I hadn’t just spent four years taking out loans and working overtime trying to graduate, maybe we could talk about somewhere else, but not right now.”

He spread his fingers, creating slats so we could see each other. “None of that matters. Isn’t that what you tried to tell me that night on the beach?”

I flashed back to standing in front of Manning, pouring my heart out while my friends partied around the bonfire yards away. “They’re just dumb details,” I’d told him, to which he’d responded, “They’re life, Lake. Relationships, marriage, they don’t run on love alone.”

I hadn’t understood back then—I hadn’t wanted to. That was because I’d never had the real, pressing worry I’d be unable to pay a bill. I’d never sustained myself on dollar noodles four nights in a row or reused takeout cartons as dishes to save money or spent an entire winter day outside waiting for a five-minute audition. After a while of living without familial or financial support, I understood that those details didn’t just take care of themselves.