Rewrite the Stars Read online

  Rewrite the Stars

  Christina Consolino

  © Copyright Christina Consolino 2021

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2021 by Christina Consolino

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-650-0

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Praise for Rewrite the Stars

  “Rewrite the Stars offers a touching exploration of thecomplex and divided nature of the human heart.”–Jenny Jaeckel, author of House of Rougeaux

  “A fabulous read that will keep you intrigued until the very end.”

  –J.E. Irvin, author of The Strange Disappearance of Rose Stone

  “The story, told expertly by Consolino through the voices of Sadie and Theo, is emotionally gripping and touching, creating deep connection and sympathy for the reader with both characters.”

  –Elena Mikalsen, author of Wrapped In The Stars

  “Rewrite the Stars gives the reader an insider’s view of a marriage in the midst of falling apart.”

  –Karri L. Moser, author of A Home for The Windswept

  “An absorbing read, from start to finish.”

  –Anne Valente, author of The Desert Sky Before Us

  “A slow burn of a novel, with flames licking higher page by page. This beautiful and eloquent novel explores…depth, grace, empathy, and intimacy.”

  –Erin Flanagan, author of It’s Not Going to Kill You and Other Stories

  Thank you so much for reading one of our Women’s Fiction novels.

  If you enjoyed the experience, please check out our recommendation

  for your next great read!

  The Apple of My Eye by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  "A mature love story with an intense plot.

  This book has something important to say."

  –William O. Shakespeare, Professor of English,

  Brigham Young University

  For my mom,

  Mary Ann Serafini Consolino,

  who always wanted to rewrite the stars

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Sadie

  Chapter 2: Sadie

  Chapter 3: Theo

  Chapter 4: Sadie

  Chapter 5: Sadie

  Chapter 6: Theo

  Chapter 7: Sadie

  Chapter 8: Theo

  Chapter 9: Sadie

  Chapter 10: Theo

  Chapter 11: Sadie

  Chapter 12: Sadie

  Chapter 13: Sadie

  Chapter 14: Theo

  Chapter 15: Sadie

  Chapter 16: Theo

  Chapter 17: Sadie

  Chapter 18: Theo

  Chapter 19: Sadie

  Chapter 20: Sadie

  Chapter 21: Theo

  Chapter 22: Sadie

  Chapter 23: Sadie

  Chapter 24: Sadie

  Chapter 25: Theo

  Chapter 26: Sadie

  Chapter 27: Theo

  Chapter 28: Sadie

  Chapter 29: Theo

  Chapter 30: Sadie

  Chapter 31: Sadie

  Chapter 32: Theo

  Chapter 33: Sadie

  Chapter 34: Sadie

  Chapter 35: Theo

  Chapter 36: Sadie

  Chapter 37: Theo

  Chapter 38: Sadie

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  BRW Info

  I want to see you.

  Know your voice.

  Recognize you when you

  first come ’round the corner.

  Sense your scent when I come

  into a room you’ve just left.

  Know the lift of your heel,

  the glide of your foot.

  Become familiar with the way

  you purse your lips

  then let them part,

  just the slightest bit,

  when I lean in to your space

  and kiss you.

  I want to know the joy

  of how you whisper

  “more”

  ― Rumi

  Chapter 1: Sadie

  On the morning my life began to unravel like the hem of my worn-out sweater, I found an old love letter from my almost ex-husband in the bottom drawer of my home office desk. The paper, at least fifteen years old, felt thin to my fingertips, like the lace on the bodice of my wedding dress. Inside the folds of the sheet, Theo had printed a few lines of text in his block scrawl—some words he’d written on his own, some he’d borrowed from our favorite poet, Rumi. You have disturbed my sleep, the text read. You have wrecked my image. You have set me apart.

  Times had changed.

  Without you, I can’t cope.

  And yet, they hadn’t.

  The letter’s edges scraped my fingertips one last time before I placed the paper into a file folder near my computer. The summer humidity made the drawer stick, and I pushed it closed, upsetting the small pile of bills balanced on the desk. Water sloshed from the tall glass near the computer—Theo had probably left it out all night—reminding me dishes still needed to be washed and put away. Moving toward the door, I kicked a toy car with a missing wheel. The vehicle crashed against the wall and came to rest near a singing-alphabet snail that had been waiting for new batteries for two weeks. From sweet love letters to dirty glasses and broken toys.

  Insane giggles from the next room interrupted my progress, and the scene unfolded before me: Theo on hands and knees, three rambunctious children scattered across his back. Make that hand and knees—he possessed enough strength to balance on one hand. His arm muscles rippled against his favorite blue T-shirt as he tickled the children’s bellies. One tumbled off Theo and onto the carpet, while the second attempted to pull his shirt. The youngest, a pile of curls and drool, peered up at her father, joy radiating from her eyes as her pudgy fingers gripped his waistband. She clenched her teeth and yanked with a linebacker’s strength such that in one fell swoop, a portion of Theo’s shorts sprang away from his body. The kids rocked onto their heels, clapping their h
ands and howling, pointing at their father’s underwear. In return, Theo growled, his voice echoing across the great room rafters. The guttural noise sent the children to scatter from one toy-filled corner to the other and then back to him again.

  I pinched my lips, stifling the laughter, before my gaze met Theo’s. It had been a long time since I’d witnessed such life in his eyes and in his actions. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d played with the kids so effortlessly. On many days, an ordinary day’s struggles wore him out long before he had a chance to interact with the children. Wiping away a tear from my cheek, I smiled—breathing in the happy moment, reveling in the charming family image, hoping to hold on to the contentment enveloping me as I went about the rest of my full day.

  “I’ve got this.” Theo craned his neck to look at me as the children began another round of assaults on his back. “You’re overworked and underpaid. Go do what you need to do.”

  “But it’s Father’s Day. I can’t do that to you.”

  “Do what? Leave me with my children? I’m right where I want to be.” Theo—in one swift move—flipped his body over, grabbed the children, and clutched them to his chest. The move surprised me and gave me hope that Theo still existed. He did have this.

  A mental check of my to-do list: most of the day consisted of tasks to be accomplished at home—doing laundry, decluttering the mud room, sorting old toys for the Vietnam Vets pickup scheduled for the next week—except for grocery shopping. “Okay, but at least let me take Lexie to the store. She loves to see her grocery store friends. Plus, Charlie and Delia have been complaining about their lack of Daddy time.”

  A year ago, when Lexie turned six months old and Theo had been struggling with PTSD for eleven months, we called it quits. Somewhat. Theo and I as a unit didn’t work, mainly due to his symptoms. He’d turned inward, and nothing I had tried brought him back. At that time, we stopped sharing our day, stopped touching one another, and eventually stopped sleeping together. Theo refused to see a therapist with me on a routine basis, claiming we’d be “better off with different expectations of our future together.”

  After much thought and debate, and because we still both respected one another, we decided to be frank and tell the kids of our separation. The PTSD made sure Theo needed our help, so he still lived in an addition at the back of the house. But with the older kids at all-day summer camps and school the rest of the year, Charlie’s and Delia’s time spent with Dad was at a premium.

  He didn’t hesitate. “All right. Take Lexie and go get the grub. It’s Father’s Day, and I’m not doing the cooking!” He convulsed with laughter as the kids’ fingers found their way into his armpits.

  “Ha! Like you ever do.” I winked at him.

  Not wanting to waste a moment, I pried Lexie from Theo’s legs and nuzzled her belly with my nose, drunk on the scent of my eighteen-month-old daughter. She giggled and squirmed and, like an inch worm, wriggled to the floor, then caught my hand in hers. With a quick swipe of the car keys and diaper bag and a check that a snack was accessible in the refrigerator, we wound our way through the back hallway to the garage.

  “Do we know what we’re getting?” I asked Lexie, who held the paper between her thumb and forefinger. She lifted the list in the air and waved it like a flag before crumpling it in her tight, gooey grip. When I pried the list from her hands, her grin stretched as wide as her face.

  Once I’d buckled Lexie into her car seat, I grabbed my favorite cotton sweater from the seat beside her. “Okay, sweetie, to the store we go!” I tugged my sweater onto my arms and adjusted the buttons across my chest. It wasn’t until later, as I hung the sweater on the drying rack in the laundry room, I noticed the loose thread at the bottom hem.

  . . . . .

  “Lexie, please. Sit still. We’re almost finished here.” I handed my stack of coupons to the cashier, then rummaged in my purse for my shopper’s card.

  A sharp squeak of a cart’s wheels fought for attention with the piped-in music streaming from the store’s speakers, and I threw a quick side-glance to the offender behind me. Too concerned my grocery order was holding up the line, I noticed nothing about him.

  The cashier took her time scanning my coupons. Swipe. Bing! Swish. Swipe. Bing! Swish. Thankful we’d saved a good deal of cash on this trip, I turned again toward the man behind the cart, hoping my face held a silent apology for the delay. This time, I saw all of him: warm brown eyes sparkling under the fluorescent store lights, perfect bow lips curving upward, and a dimple flickering on his right cheek.

  “Hey, no worries,” he said. “It’s Sunday, and I don’t have anywhere else to be.” A slight drawl clung to his words—a simple protraction that drew me in and made me want to hear more. Butterflies collected in my stomach as I stared at him.

  Lexie’s babbling helped me focus on the task at hand: squaring myself in front of the cashier and sliding my credit card through the reader. With a single, piercing gaze of his eyes, this man had rattled me. What was that all about?

  “Happy Father’s Day to you!” the cashier said to him, interrupting the spinning inside my head. She gestured to the belt that he should empty the cart of its items. “You should take the day off and spend time with that sweet daughter of yours.”

  The man nodded and moved his squirmy child away from the edge of the almost-full grocery cart before looking at me.

  “When you have kids, there is no day off, is there?” The words escaped before I could think better of it, and a current of heat ran through my body, from my stomach to my heart, then to my neck. I averted my eyes: partly to mask the blush, partly to look at the credit card reader as the need to ground myself overwhelmed me.

  “So true, so true,” the man replied. “How many do you have?”

  “Three. She’s the youngest.” Lexie reached for the receipt, which I gave her. Much to my chagrin, words continued to flow. “The others are eight and eleven. What about you?”

  “This little bug is three, and I have a son who’s seven. I’d have liked more but...”

  “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset?” My ears warmed, a not-so-subtle indication another blush had spread throughout my face, and I moved Lexie and strapped her into the front of the cart.

  “Said like a true mom.” Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes as his mouth turned upward.

  Something in his tone—a hint of admiration or respect—hit me out of the blue, reeling me forward, making me want to hear more. “Do you have plans for Father’s Day?” I asked.

  “Not a whole lot, which is exactly the way I’d have it. And you?” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket with his right hand—no chance to see if he wore a ring or not.

  “Dinner with the family.”

  Family. Not alluring man at the grocery store.

  The conversation needed to end, and I had to be the one who ended it. Walk away, I willed myself. Walk away. “Hope you enjoy the afternoon,” I said and added a quick “Thank you!” to the cashier and the bagger, nodding my head in the man’s direction. My short heels clicked on the blue and white tiles like old-fashioned typewriter keys, so desperate was I to flee before I said or did something regrettable.

  Disbelief at my reaction washed over me. Noticing strangers at the grocery store. Flirting, stammering, and blushing at the view of a handsome man. Sadie Rollins-Lancaster—a woman with three children at home, a woman who still lived with a man she once loved? These behaviors weren’t normal.

  Our cart bumped over the crevices of the parking lot, and my world moved in slow motion. One half of my attention on the purchases, the other trained on the sliding doors of the store, I loaded my groceries into the rear of the minivan and babbled with the baby. After securing Lexie in her car
seat, I pulled the seat belt strap over my midsection, clicked it into place, and checked my mirrors before putting the vehicle into reverse. “Be real, lady,” I said to myself. “You’re stalling.”

  At that moment, the man exited the store, and like a stalker, I followed his movements as he ambled toward his car. He performed the same mundane motions I just had as he chattered to his child. My heart skipped at his deep voice, carried by the wind to my open car window, and my pulse quickened at the sight of arms that would hold his daughter with ease.

  “I can’t believe this.” Muttering to myself, I slammed my hands against the steering wheel and then jerked on it, pulling out of the parking space. “Really!”

  “Wha?” Lexie asked. A glance in the rearview mirror showed my personal cherub, a beautiful example of how well Theo and I blended. A tear of regret sprang to my eye.

  “Nothing, honey...I...I love you.”

  Pretending the high-noon sun blinded me, I hoped the man didn’t catch me taking one last, longing look in his direction before I turned right out of the parking lot and onto the road. My entire body hummed, and I drove home on autopilot, my mind numb, the warm June wind whipping my hair through the open window.

  Chapter 2: Sadie

  Monday morning, at the beep of my alarm, I rose, padded down the stairs, and brewed the coffee. Charlie would remember to make his lunch if I placed his containers on the counter. At eleven years old, he was self-sufficient but still required daily reminders. Once everyone was awake, we’d review the day’s schedule, and then I’d drop Charlie and Delia off at day camp. As I opened the cabinet to pull down the kids’ vitamins, my eyes landed on the store receipt from the day before. I stopped, palms against the counter, to steady myself.