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

Desperate for comfort, I clutched the mug between my fingers.

“All right. I’ll join you in a few.” He flashed a smile and turned to open the refrigerator. My legs trembled like a nervous schoolgirl’s as I walked away from the kitchen.

 

.    .    .    .    .

 

The faint light of Jackie’s living room reminded me of my favorite room, which played a huge part in my life. I sat there every evening, book in hand. Theo and I had brought each of the kids home to that living room, where we’d put up a pack-n-play and a temporary changing table. It was the room in which Theo first shared he had PTSD, both of us clutching each other’s hand as we leaned toward one another.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Andrew placed a coaster on the coffee table and set his mug upon it. He folded himself onto the chair next to the sofa, which left a space of several feet between us. Grateful for the room, I sipped from my mug, more at peace than I had been in the last few minutes.

“My thoughts would bore you.” The drama my life had become might scare the poor guy away and make my life easier, but instead of speaking, I lifted myself from the couch and connected my phone to Jackie’s Bluetooth speaker, finding my favorite pop station and setting the volume to low. The music’s beat would help reel in my cartwheeling emotions while the two of us chatted.

“I doubt it. We’re both parents and could swap a few outlandish stories, I’m sure. Some of the things my kids have done, well, those stories are almost begging to be shared.” He laughed out loud, probably at one of those precious memories, and each time he smiled, his dimples seemed to deepen. He cleared his throat as I sat back against the couch again, gripping my mug. “Well, if we’re gonna sit here all night, and we don’t have a baby to distract us right now, I’ll go ahead and tell you a bit about myself if you don’t mind.”

His no-nonsense approach amused me. I sipped my tea and peeked at him over the edge of my cup.

“So here it goes...let’s see...Andrew MacKinnon.”

I know this already.

“Lifelong Bloom Market shopper...”

Boring.

“Not allergic to pop music...”

But has a sense of humor.

I smiled in acknowledgment, then looked around the room as he spoke. How long would it be until the room showed hints of a new baby? The single change in the Mills’ front room was the hot pink bouncy chair tucked into the corner.

“And friend of Pete Mills...”

Normal, good guy.

“Coffee drinker, any time of the day or night.”

Nothing to see here, ladies.

“Love my work and my dog, but I can’t live without my kids.”

Oh no...

We stared at one another. Don’t say anything else, I willed him. Don’t say anything else to draw me in.

“And I’m divorced.”

Crap. Crap. Crappity-crap-crap.

 

Chapter 6: Theo

 

Staying home alone with my kids on a night when Sadie went out wasn’t a luxury I was afforded. It had taken one mistake for Sadie to put her foot down and make her new rule. “When I go out for long periods of time, we either call Brooke to come over, or you all go with me.”

The night the rule went into place still haunted me. Charlie’s wide eyes, Delia’s quivering lips. My shaking hands. When the kids had ripped through the house playing chase, they tore past the coffee table in the living room, causing a pile of books to fall, one after the other. In my world, the books became mortar shells, and the noises turned into the thud of shells landing. To this day, the details of what had happened were blurry, but images still flashed at times: scattered pages, hunched shoulders, frantic movements. And knowing my behavior scared the kids? Shame filled me. Maybe even regret.

But it was hard to come to terms with the idea the mother of your children didn’t trust you to keep them safe. Brooke might be a wonderful babysitter—the kids loved her, and frankly, no one better existed—but having someone in my home on a night when I wanted to be with the kids? Difficult. No other word for it.

After dinner, we all helped clean the dishes and the counters and then made our way into the living room. Lexie toddled to her play space and brought out the ocean floor puzzle. Charlie and Delia knew the drill: no television until after Lexie went to bed, so they each got behind that puzzle with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

“What about building something?” Charlie asked Lexie as she slipped the last piece of the puzzle into place. In his world, not a day went by he didn’t craft something, and he had spoken before about his goal to turn Lexie into the “second best builder in the house.”

“I’m game if everyone else is,” I said.

“And I’ll go check to see if any clothes need folding,” Brooke said. “It’s the least we can do for your mom.”

All three kids knew better than to groan at Brooke’s announcement.

Once all clothes had been folded and put away, tickles had been doled out, and buildings had been constructed, Delia glanced at the clock, then at Lexie, then up at me with a smile. “Popcorn?” she said.

Her way of reminding me it would soon be movie time made me laugh. Six months ago, making popcorn wasn’t on the list of things easily accomplished. The heat of the air popper and the noise of the popping kernels; everything had been too much at first. But the machine’s concreteness—something tangible in front me, touch it if I had to—helped. My mind could be convinced danger didn’t exist.

“Extra butter?” I called out to the kids, already knowing their answer.

A quick “Yes, please!” from Delia followed an “Of course!” from Charlie. Sadie allowed extra butter on the weekends—her attempt to stave off clogged arteries and high cholesterol—but even if it hadn’t been a weekend, I’d have given in. Too