Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

I took Manning along Central Park South, by the Plaza Hotel, FAO Schwartz, and down Fifth Avenue to see the holiday displays. The windows were decked with wrapped presents, shiny tinsel, and ornamented Christmas trees. Some featured toy trains and Barbie dolls, and others exquisitely beaded gowns, multi-colored sequined heels, and lush crimson velvet.

Everything behind the glass exuded warmth, even the fake snow. “What will our holidays be like?” I asked Manning as we wandered.

“However you want. We can spend it with your friends, or we can stay home on the couch watching A Christmas Story.”

I smiled a little. “The one with the boy who pokes his eye out?”

“Well, technically he doesn’t, but yeah, that’s the one. I used to watch it every Christmas with my family before Madison passed.”

My heart deflated. “Then we can watch it, too,” I said, squeezing his hand, “or we can start our own traditions. There’s lots of New York Christmas movies to choose from. Like Home Alone.”

He nodded gravely. “A classic in its own right.”

“What were your holidays like growing up? With Madison?”

“My parents always made a big deal of them. It wasn’t all bad all the time, not at all. We were a pretty normal family for the most part. Lots of presents, at least what they could afford, mostly for Maddy.” He surveyed the shops without giving much away. “She cared more about decorating the tree and wrapping presents for us, though. Usually things she’d made, like jewelry for my mom, or found.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, hoping to offer even the smallest bit of comfort. Losing a family member wasn’t just about their absence. The DNA of his existence had been altered. My sister was still alive, and yet my life had changed dramatically without her in it. It was especially hard around holidays, so I held Manning a little closer. “What was your favorite part?”

“The food, I guess. My mom would cook more than I could eat and that’s saying something.”

“I’ll cook for you.” After we walked a few blocks, I asked, “What’s Christmas like now?”

He cleared his throat. “Good.”

“I mean, I know what it’s like at the house. Mom puts on Christmas music twenty-four-seven and it always smells like cookies.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s right. Tiff and I go over in the morning and spend the day there. It took awhile for things to feel normal after you left.”

I was lucky to have made enough friends here that now I always had somewhere to spend the holidays, but that didn’t replace the warm, cozy family den where I’d grown up opening metallic-ribboned presents and drinking eggnog with nutmeg. Tiffany’s gifts to us were always wrapped sloppily, but she’d bounce up and down while we opened them, unable to contain herself.

“What kinds of things did you buy her?” I asked.

“What’s it matter?”

“You wanted me to know about your life,” I said.

“The usual. Jewelry, clothes. Things for the house or kitchen.”

“The kitchen?” I asked, remembering his comment about dessert after dinner. “Does she cook now?”

“Some nights. And she’s not half bad.”

I scowled. She couldn’t be a good chef. She didn’t have a culinary bone in her body, not like me or my mom. But she’d had years of feeding Manning, learning about what he liked or didn’t. That was time I’d never get back. My mind automatically drifted to the bedroom, where she’d also had time. “How was it with her?”

He kept his arm around me, his eyes forward as we navigated the crowded sidewalk. For a moment, I understood what he’d meant earlier about feeling as if people were looking at us. We were doing something wrong, and it seemed they could tell. “I didn’t mean you should ask about this stuff,” he said. “Things that’ll make you jealous.”

“It’s just food,” I said.

“You’re not asking about cooking anymore, but I know you don’t like to hear about that, either. You think I like imagining you feeding another man?”

“I didn’t, though . . . not on a regular basis, anyway.” My palm began to sweat in his, and I took my hand from his pocket. I could feel myself veering down a dangerously steep hill, but now that I’d started, I couldn’t apply the brakes. I’d been thinking—and trying not to think—about this since he’d shown up on my doorstep. “So you can ask me all you want about cooking for other men, and I told you about Corbin, too, so now I want to know what it was like for you and Tiffany, and I don’t mean in the kitchen.”

He blew out a sigh and shrugged. “It was fine.”

“Fine? That’s it?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I can’t tell you it was the worst thing in the world unless you want me to lie.”

I didn’t want him to lie, but I wouldn’t have minded hearing it was the worst thing in the world. “What was good about it? Is it because she’s experienced?”