Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (books for 8th graders .txt) 📕

your time, and I’ll be back soonish. You have to visit this place to understand how hard it is to leave.”

“Ah, yes, so I’ve heard.” The smirk in her voice stood out to me; she’d listened to me sing the praises of Walloon Lake too many times. “But you need to remember your health is top priority. The longer you stay there, the more you’re running away, which will be detrimental in the long run. Plus, it will keep you away from the kids. Those kids make you happy.”

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Those three made my heart grow bigger, something I rarely held onto these days. Sadie would say I’d become a huge softy when it came to them, but no matter. Placing the three of them at the front of my mind would be a good thing for me.

.    .    .    .    .

As much as I often hated to admit it, talking to Doc helped clarify my station in life. Even though I could be in a better place, I had made progress, right? Anger and depression had always been my go-tos in the past, deliberating about what might have been but wasn’t, and this time, I felt healthier somehow. Maybe the lifeline to Doc helped just by existing—who knew? What we hadn’t talked about was confronting Andrew, and I wondered about taking that route and busting open that can of worms. Did he know about Sadie and me? He didn’t seem the type to mess with lives. Maybe Charlie had witnessed one solitary, weak moment for Sadie. Maybe they didn’t have a relationship. But all the maybes in the world wouldn’t give me Sadie back. If that’s what I wanted, I had to make it happen.

What did I want?

I sat back against the chair in my room and contemplated the fringe attached to the blanket draped over the arm. It reminded me of the fringe on Sadie’s snow hat, the one her aunt made for her when she was in college. The hat, long packed into a box or given away, held fond memories for us both. It had made an appearance on each winter date Sadie and I shared until it disappeared: I had hidden it from her in my garage, hoping she’d forget about it. Sadie hadn’t, and in true Sadie form, she’d gotten back at me—she convinced her aunt to knit a matching one for me. Sadie made me wear it, and she sent a Christmas card out that year with a photo of us in striped hats. I hadn’t thought of that hat in years; taking it to Afghanistan would have been a mistake. No sense wearing a winter hat in the heat, and I’d have stood out too much from the crowd.

That hat had also seen bad days, though. The winter after my first deployment, the hat played a starring role in giving Sadie a reason to doubt my health and happiness. It had been missing for days, and Sadie wanted to wear it. Tired of hearing the incessant, “Where is that hat?” I snapped at her. In a big way. (Doc would call it a major tantrum.) The fear in Sadie’s eyes still showed up in my nightmares sometimes. I had started to question my abilities, my love, and my life that night.

Thoughts about Sadie now caused an avalanche of emotions. What gave her the damn right to walk away from us? What about talking to me about new feelings for someone else? And why would she allow me to live in the same house if she didn’t want to repair the marriage? An itch began in the bottom of my feet and worked its way up my entire body. Pacing would help, so I pushed up from the chair and wore my usual treads on the carpet floor. My fists clenched at my sides, and soon, a deep anger surged within me, and a thumping in my forehead took on a life of its own. Increased breathing calmed the storm: in, out, in, out. Progress? What progress?

My phone rang: a call from Sadie, which meant it was probably the kids. In this agitated state, I didn’t have the heart to speak with them, so I let it go to voicemail. Another indescribable jitteriness overtook my entire body, now full of the need to do something, be more active in this situation. Even in this state, senses overwhelmed, I considered what Doc would say: “Be an active participant. Keep your anger in check and talk to the other party.”

I’d easily found where the librarian lived—a quick search had popped up her information. I hoped Andrew was home.

It didn’t take long to get there, and the walk did nothing to dampen my rage. With each step, my thoughts swam: Whose fault was it? Was Andrew a friend or not? What would I say to him? How could he do this?

He opened the door, an unassuming smile on his face. “Theo? What are you doing here?”

“Coming to see you.”

Andrew stepped back, opening the door wider, as he furrowed his brow. “Are you okay? Do you want to come in?”

Rational and irrational at the same time. A downward spiral of control. I did everything wrong. My anger was so raw, so electric, the first punch to his face had him falling backward, onto the floor of his small foyer, his head landing with a gigantic thud against the tile floor.

“That’s for messing around with my wife.” My fist connected again with his jaw. “That’s for not being a true friend.” Despite the blood, I went in for a third time, right for the eye. “And that’s just because, you son of a bitch.”

I left Andrew there, unmoving on the tile, blood dripping out of his nose, and walked back to the cottage, nerves still frayed and all cylinders firing. Sweat poured off my skin, and I was grateful for the empty house. After a quick splash of cold