Rewrite the Stars Christina Consolino (classic novels to read TXT) 📖

“We might not be officially divorced yet, but I’m not dead.”

“I know.”

Kate’s simple words had touched on something poignant. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Distracted by a handsome man in one moment. Was I ready to move on? Was Theo? We hadn’t talked recently about moving on, or moving out, for that matter, but the topic seemed to follow in the natural progression of things.

“If we aren’t into each other any longer, why can’t we be into someone else?” I said.

“I never said you couldn’t...”

What a daunting thought, to start over again, hoping to find love when you weren’t confident in your abilities to do so. If I had trouble finding it the first time, what made me think I’d find it this time? Would I repeat the same mistakes?

“I’ll chalk up the rise in blood pressure to the heat, okay?” I fanned my face with my steamy April Wilson novel and kicked off the blanket, heated from the thought of Grocery Store Man. Crap. “This has been a warm June, right? And it won’t matter. I won’t be seeing him anytime soon. Coincidences happen here all the time, but Kettering isn’t that small of a city.”

Kate and I said goodbye, and I sat there, thoughts tumbling in my head. Over the years, young children, a full-time job for me, a job and military service for Theo, and the daily grind of chores had taken up most or all our time. We had embodied the two proverbial ships in the night. He’d get home, and I’d swoosh out the door, usually with a child in hand. Or, I’d be ready for bed, eyelids drooping shut, and he’d be coming home to eat dinner. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted to spend time with Theo, but I was too tired to do so. During those times when I had so much to do with the kids and with work and when I tried to get everything done at home, too, we’d grown apart. And then we’d been hit by Theo’s PTSD.

Was I a different person now? Could I balance everything, including a new relationship, not comprehending what that might entail? Gah, jumping ahead of myself again. A simple flirtation with a stranger at the grocery store meant nothing. What didn’t mean nothing, and what I needed to answer was, what did I want?

Even though Kate and I had known each other for years, I hadn’t been ready for the conversation she and I should have: the one where we discussed what might be going on with me. This flirtation, while new, was the last of a series of new behaviors indicating my dissatisfaction with my current life. Behaviors like having highlights traced into my hair, buying knee-high leather boots, and wearing leggings at work instead of traditional slacks. Doing something radical with my look—such as getting a nose ring—had appeared on my radar, and I passed my evenings after the kids went to bed sipping wine and reading romance novels. Deserted beaches, margaritas, and olive-skinned fan boys dominated my thoughts while driving into work. And I noticed men at the grocery store and stalked them in the parking lot.

The Sadie I’d always been was missing, it seemed. But instead of owning up to those behaviors, I’d convinced myself they were mere whims—at worst, a midlife crisis. On that overstuffed chair, thinking of Grocery Store Man and everything else, I understood something bigger, more profound, loomed at the root of those behaviors. Maybe I wasn’t happy. Maybe this situation—mine and Theo’s—wasn’t working for me.

Tired of my thoughts, I folded up the afghan, then padded into the kitchen to get myself ice cream—a habit I’d started before the kids were born any time my stress level increased. The frosty air from the depths of the freezer rushed at my face as I searched for the quart of ice cream living there, beneath the bags of frozen vegetables, toaster waffles, and ice packs. My favorite mug sat on the top rack of the full dishwasher, waiting to be cleaned. Shaking my head about my inability to get everything done, I reached for a glass bowl that belonged to Charlie.

A simple bowl, made of thick, clear glass, it sported a hint of blue tint, much like the color of Charlie’s eyes. The bottom of the bowl fit into Charlie’s hand, and a blazing sun—a perfect symbol for the child—embossed the side. As I scooped the raspberry cheesecake ice cream into it, the day eight years before, when Theo gave Charlie the bowl, came to mind. Charlie, three years old at the time, hadn’t adjusted well to Theo’s time away from home. One day, on a visit home during his first deployment to Afghanistan, Theo brought the bowl, nestled between his strong fingers. He explained to Charlie he wouldn’t always be there, but the bowl would be—all Charlie had to do was use it, and Theo would be with him. From that day forward, nothing separated Charlie and the bowl, at least when it came to his morning cereal.

Despite the importance of the glass bowl to Charlie, he wouldn’t mind sharing. After finishing the ice cream, I washed and dried it. As I reached to put it back on its shelf, the still-damp bowl slipped from my fingers and tumbled toward the quartz countertop. It landed in the crook of my elbow, which saved it from destruction. Inside my chest a storm brewed and sweat beaded on my brow; had I broken the bowl, Charlie would have never forgiven me. I turned out the lights, placed a hand to my beating heart, and thanked the universe for lucky saves.

Tiptoeing across the wood floor of the hall, I glanced at Theo, sound asleep on the recliner, the flicker of the television in the background, and my thoughts turned to my conversation with Kate. Those thoughts accompanied me to the bedroom, where cool sheets welcomed me into their embrace; sleep could not come too soon.

That