Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(91)

“Why would she say that?”

Margot gave an awkward laugh. “Because I kind of do?”

Elle continued to look confused, the furrow between her brows deepening. “You? Afraid of something? I’m sorry. I’m just . . . having a little difficulty processing that. You’re the bravest person I know. In my experience, nothing scares you. You’re the one who charges in headfirst.” Elle smiled, lopsided. “You always killed the spiders when I was too chicken.”

Spiders weren’t shit compared to opening up, making herself vulnerable.

Margot laughed. “Things scare me. I just don’t love talking about them, especially not this. And I haven’t exactly had a reason or a need to talk about it. But I guess a lot of old feelings and fears I didn’t realize I was still holding on to have sort of . . . floated to the surface. Fears about how I spent the last eleven years believing Olivia chose Brad over me and abandoned all of our plans when, apparently, there was more to it I didn’t know about.” Margot ducked her head and sniffled. “It’s just . . . everything is changing. Brendon and Annie are getting married tomorrow and you and Darcy are engaged and everyone is going to couples’ yoga and—I’m so happy for you guys. You have no idea how happy. But there’s a part of me that’s worried you all have each other and you won’t need me.” Like how Olivia hadn’t needed her because she’d had Brad. “That, slowly, you’re going to forget about me and move on with your lives because I’m just me and—”

“What did you tell me once? Just Elle is pretty great?” Elle gathered both of Margot’s hands in hers. “Well, just Margot is amazing. You’re my favorite person.”

Margot bit down on the tip of her tongue so she wouldn’t cry. “Darcy’s your favorite person. She’s your person. Your perfect person.”

“You also told me we can have lots of perfect people. You told me I was one of your perfect people and you’re one of mine, Mar. I mean, look.” Elle scooted closer until their knees bumped. “You care about me and you care about Olivia, and I’d never ask you who you care about more because you care about us differently and I believe love is one of those things that doesn’t run out.”

One of her favorite things about Olivia was her endless capacity to care.

“I’m not going anywhere, Margot. None of us are, okay? Change is inevitable, you know that, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Okay, so we might not see each other every day, but I feel confident speaking for everyone when I say we wouldn’t know what to do without you. You’re Margot. You could never be a fifth wheel. If you’re worried we’re going to stop wanting to spend time with you, don’t. We don’t need you to change who you are or be sunshine and roses for us. You are the glue.”

Margot sputtered out a weak laugh. “Glue?”

“Gorilla Glue.” Elle pinched her lips together, the very picture of sincerity save for the twinkle in her eyes. “And don’t forget it.”

Being called glue wasn’t something she’d soon forget, and neither was the sentiment behind it. The next time she worked herself up with irrational worries about her friends ditching her as they entered a new chapter in their lives, she’d remind herself that they were just that—irrational. She was Margot Cooper, damn it, one of a kind. The glue. “Thanks, Elle.”

She nudged Margot with a knee. “You’re still worried about Olivia, aren’t you?”

Margot sucked in a shuddering breath and dipped her chin. “What if what I said went too far? I said what I did because I care and because I didn’t want to lose her and—what if I pushed her away?”

“If she said she’s going to be here, I think you have to trust her. Do you think you can do that?”

What other choice did she have?





Chapter Twenty-Three




“It could be your mass air flow sensor.”

Olivia wrung her hands together and stared over Mr. Miller’s shoulder as he poked around under the open hood of her car. Mr. Miller, Dad’s next-door neighbor, was a recently retired HVAC repairman, not a mechanic, but his brother apparently owned a garage and—Olivia hadn’t known who else to ask for help. “Is that bad?”

Mr. Miller huffed. “Well, it’s not good.”

Her stomach sank. “Oh.”

“But there could also be a problem with your fuel pump. A leak.”

She stepped closer. Beyond knowing where to check the oil and where the battery was located on the off chance she needed a jump, the guts of her car were a mystery. Everything under the hood looked confusing, coils and wires and metal all covered in a sheen of grease. Mr. Miller could’ve told her that her thingamabob needed a new thingamajig, and it would have made as much sense as mass air flow sensor and fuel pump. “Is that bad?”

Mr. Miller grunted and craned his neck, staring at her over his shoulder with a grimace that knotted her stomach. “That’s even worse.”

“Fuck.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Miller. I just—whatever it is, can you fix it?”

Or did she need to call someone who could?

“In my experience”—Mr. Miller ducked back under the hood, did something she couldn’t see, and a low groan came from the belly of her car, making her wince harder—“you can fix just about anything.”