Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

Revealing the whole story needed to occur before Jackie’s overactive imagination thrashed out of control, so I recounted my grocery store interlude and the elevator episode. Jackie’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as she blew on her still-hot coffee. The smell of the beverage wafted over to me and wrapped me in comfort I wanted to keep with me forever.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me. But this is a serious issue if you’re checking out other men. Are you ready to move on? That’s a conversation for another time, of course. In the meantime, you should write this up and send it to Love Stories Today or one of those other magazines. Don’t they publish short stories? Who knows? If you have the time, you might be able to expand it into a real romance novel. I’d read it.” She beat her fingers on the outside of her mug and stared off behind me, lost in thought.

Leaving Jackie’s office took top priority—otherwise, she might grab me as her next pet project, something she was well known for around the office.

“I doubt I’ll be writing the piece up anytime soon, but now I need to run.” I rose from my chair and turned toward the door.

“That’s it? That can’t be it. Wait!” Jackie stood and stumbled over the breast pump bag at her feet. Next, she would try to drag me back into the office.

“Is that spit up?” I pointed to a nonexistent stain on her lapel. She glanced down, taking her eyes off me for only a moment, leaving me just enough time to sprint out the door.

Chapter 5: Sadie

Most of the time I considered my past choices sound. The decision to buy the house, the decision to have children, even the decision to marry Theo—they were all right. But so was the decision to serve him divorce papers.

The first seven years or so of our marriage had been filled with much love, laughter, and joy. Theo made a point to come home for dinner even when he had a big project, and the love notes I had placed into his lunches each day fulfilled a much-needed connection. When the marriage was good, it was good: we’d find time every two weeks for a date night, even after Charlie and Delia had come along.

“It’s important to remember who we are. You and me,” he’d say to me as he pulled me in for a hug and lingering kiss. “You. Me. Forever.”

And of course, even though we’d gotten busier and spent less time with one another, we had a beautiful family with three adorable kids. Theo’s job kept us more than comfortable, and my place in publishing would allow the kids to go to college and beyond. We had a spacious house, two cars, and organic food on the table.

But the last tour and his PTSD diagnosis had changed everything.

Sure, Theo was alive, but he wasn’t really living. And despite everything I’d tried to do for him—practice patience with him, listen attentively, create routines, minimize his stress and possible triggers, give him his space—as difficult as it was to serve him those papers, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, wouldn’t I?

Those thoughts drifted through my head as I checked in on the kids before heading to the office, then over to Jackie’s the following Friday afternoon.

Lexie was still napping. “Sleep well, sweetie.” Lexie’s cheek warmed my lips as my kiss landed there. The light from the functioning monitor winked at me, and I adjusted the blinds to keep out the bright toxic light. I extended a gentle hand over the crib rail onto Lexie’s quietly breathing form, feeling her stomach rise and fall, a soft snore escaping her parted lips. The preciousness of that child amazed me. Our miracle. The one who came after Theo turned inward but before life turned too complicated.

And Delia. After a busy week, she’d fallen into a rare afternoon nap. She lay tangled among the flowered sheets of her bed. Pulling the blanket up to protect her from the conditioned air would be futile—the edge of the cotton fabric twisted around her ankle such that the blanket wouldn’t budge. Delia slept like Theo did, in one enormous, chaotic mess. “You are just like your father,” I whispered. I made my way down the carpeted hallway to Charlie’s room. A light peeked out from beneath the door, a sure sign my oldest child would be perched on his bed, graphic novels spread before him, eyeglasses on the tip of his tiny nose. With the edge of my fingernail, I tapped and then opened the door. Charlie looked up with a gleeful expression of genuine love. He was still young enough to want me to tuck him in at night, and this night, I wouldn’t be there. Saying goodbye now would have to do.

“I’ve got to go now.” I moved toward the bed and sat on the mattress.

Charlie shut his book and adjusted his glasses. “Where are you going?”

“To work for a few hours, and I promised Mrs. Mills I’d help her out tonight. Clara is only ten weeks old, and they’re having a rough time.”

“Lots of crying?” Charlie stacked his books on the nightstand, making sure each one lined up with the one above and below it.

“Yes. And little sleeping. Remember how it was with Lexie?” I leaned over to fluff his pillows—a ritual I’d started when Charlie first began sleeping in a big bed. It wasn’t time for bed yet, but his pillows would be ready.

“Oh yeah. I never thought a baby would be so loud. Thank goodness she’s out of that stage.”

His words sounded so mature. It had to do with everything he’d experienced over the last couple years, but at eleven years old, Charlie was still too young to be shouldering the burden. He was such a good kid: good brother, good son, and good person in general. Aside from the clutter in his room and his