Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(64)

“What thing?”

“It’s not something I can really put into words . . .” He looked over my head and around. “Let’s say it’s because she makes me laugh. If I break up with her, then I’d miss laughing. You know?”

I frowned. “No. Surely she isn’t the only person who makes you laugh.”

“But let’s say she was. Let’s say, me laughing while Tiffany wasn’t around would be . . . people wouldn’t understand it.”

“So you wouldn’t laugh at all? Because of what other people thought?”

“Part of me doesn’t think it’s appropriate to laugh, either, Lake.”

Appropriate—I’d heard that word from him before. Laughing wasn’t appropriate the way our friendship wasn’t. “I think I understand.”

“I didn’t tell you about my sister because I won’t ever lie to you.”

“What do you mean?”

He stopped walking when we reached a wooden fence running the perimeter of the camp pool. We weren’t really by the cabins anymore, which made me wonder if he’d brought me here on purpose. He looked up, his feet apart, hands in his jean pockets, forearms tense. I could tell he was thinking, his eyes distant, but about what, I wasn’t sure. Maybe I’d asked too many questions, and he was about to send me back to my cabin.

“Can you hop it?” he asked.

I realized he wasn’t staring into the distance but at the pool. There were only two ways in—the gate on the other side, and through the locker room and showers. Both were locked at the end of each day. I had no idea if I could get over the enclosure, but I said, “Yes.”

Leaves crunched under Manning’s feet as he surveyed the area. He motioned me over to the fence and picked me up the way he’d hoisted me onto the wall the day we’d met. I straddled it, jumping over the side. Manning followed right after, landing heavily on the concrete deck. He brushed off his jeans. “No trees in here,” he said. “It’s one of the best places to see the stars.”

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked at the stars, really looked. There were too many to count, a paint-splatter of silver on indigo. At home, I barely noticed them anymore, but as kids, Mom had taught Tiffany and me the constellations. I pointed, drawing in the sky. “Little Dipper.”

“That’s the big one,” he said, moving closer to me. He stenciled out his own square. “It’s part of Ursa Major, which means Great Bear.”

I looked over at Manning, a bear of a man. My great bear. “Ursa Major,” I repeated.

He shifted his index finger over. “There’s the little one. You can tell by the North Star. My sister used to make the same mistake. Until she knew more than I did, that is.”

I could feel her there, a presence between us, and I understood that the reason we were here had to do with her. She was part of the side of him that lived in shadows—a secret, but not just any secret. One that belonged to Manning, one I wanted to keep for him. “You did this with her?”

“When our parents fought, I’d take Maddy—” He tripped on her name. As he recovered, I tried it out in my head. Maddy. “I’d take her out to the front lawn and make up stories about the constellations. I didn’t know shit, but she started reading books about them.” He swallowed. The emotion in his voice was new for me, and he’d cursed, which he never did in my presence. “Soon enough,” he continued, “she was the one telling me stories.”

“How old was she?”

“Only nine. When she died.”

I audibly sucked in air. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected him to say, but nine just sounded so young. It was the age of the girls in my cabin. I’d been nine seven years ago. Aside from a great aunt, I’d never known anyone who’d died. I couldn’t imagine my life without my sister. My childhood would’ve been completely different without Tiffany, especially if she’d disappeared in the middle of it. Poof. I tried to think of some way to express my sympathy, to make this moment easier on him. I couldn’t touch him, not that I’d know where or how. I’m sorry for your loss just felt like the worst thing I could possibly say.

Maybe talking about her life, instead of death, would help. “Will you tell me about the stars?” I asked.

I could feel his hurt from where I stood. I tugged on his arm and sat right there on the concrete. There was no grass in sight, just this and the pool. It seemed like a big deal for someone his size to sit on the ground, but he did. We both lay back, some distance between us.

“I don’t remember them all.” His voice was hushed. It could’ve been his grief, but I was pretty sure he kept his tone low in case anybody passed by. They wouldn’t know we were here unless they heard us. “It’s been a long time since I looked very hard at the sky,” he said.

I could feel my elbows and shoulder blades on the concrete. I wanted to hear about the stars, but I couldn’t stop trying to picture her. “What did she look like?”

“The opposite of you.”

“You told me once I remind you of her.”

“You do. She was smart and kind. Saw the best in people, always. She’s the only person who loved me as I am.”

Despite the balmy night, I got the chills. Not the only one, I wanted to say. I love you. But the thought of saying that aloud made my heart pound and shriveled my tongue. I wondered if I’d ever be able to admit it. Maybe he knew, though. Maybe that’s how he thought I was like her.