Written in the Stars(15)

What the hell? Darcy sat up, swiping at the screen.

DARCY (11:31 A.M.): Who is this?

She stared, watching those three little dots dance. In the meantime, she performed a quick mental inventory of who it could possibly be.

Brendon was saved into her phone alongside a truly awful photo of his sixteen-year-old self, crashed out on the couch, drooling, pizza sauce smeared on his chin. Her parents were saved, filed under their respective first names. She had Annie’s number, and her boss never texted. Never. Then there was . . . well, that was it. Mostly. Aside from acquaintances who may or may not have had her number. Her texting sphere was small, selective. Curated. Darcy’s lips tightened at the edges. Of course, there was always the chance it was— No. She’d blocked Natasha’s number a long time ago.

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:36 A.M.): your worst nightmare

Her grip tightened, fingers accidentally smashing the volume button on the side of her phone making the thing beep loudly in her fist. Darcy’s pulse mimicked the surge, leaping in her throat. What the actual fuck?

Thumb trembling as it hovered over the keyboard, Darcy spared an instinctive glance at the front door, double-checking that it was locked. The dead bolt was bolted, the chain was latched, and she was apparently testing the limits of her ability to overreact. Between last night’s door-pounding debacle with Brendon and this, she needed to get a grip, even if that text was creepy as hell.

Primed to block the number and move on with her life, another message appeared before she could pull the trigger.

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:39 A.M.): ok that sounded kinda serial killer-ish

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:39 A.M.): which im not

Because that’s not exactly what some psycho with a butcher’s knife would say.

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:40 A.M.): which is totally what a serial killer would say

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:40 A.M.): oops

At least they were a self-aware psycho.

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:41 A.M.): it was supposed to be like im pissed at you and demand answers but not like im mouth breathing over your shoulder and wearing a hickey mask

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:41 A.M.): *hockey

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:42 A.M.): none of this is helping huh?

UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:42 A.M.): nvm

Darcy lifted her hand, resting her fingers along the notch at the base of her throat. Never mind? No, not never mind. This stranger thought Darcy had some explaining to do?

Staring blankly at the absurd conversation, it took the preinstalled wind chime ringtone to snap her out of her daze. Unknown Number was calling. Darcy’s pulse sped. Should she answer or let it go to voice mail? She hated talking on the phone, even to Brendon. But could she really settle for a voice mail? What if they didn’t leave one? On the third ring, the burn of curiosity bested her nerves. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” A spike of irritation made Darcy sit up straighter, her spine steeling. “Who is this?”

Hopefully, the cut to the chase was implied.

“Right. Hi. It’s Elle. Jones. Elle Jones. We had drinks last night—”

“I know who you are.” Darcy shut her eyes, and an image of Elle’s pretty face appeared behind Darcy’s lids. She wasn’t easily forgotten.

Elle chuckled, but it lacked spirit, sounded stilted. “Right. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling. Aside from, you know, wanting to make sure you didn’t think I was actually a serial killer.”

Worst nightmare wasn’t farfetched. Brendon truly knew how to pick them.

“Look, can you spare me the runaround and tell me what you want? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

Her coffee was getting cold and microwaving it would be a cardinal sin. The sooner they wrapped this up, the sooner Darcy’s life could return to business as usual.

A pause, followed by rustling loud enough for Darcy to yank the phone from her ear followed. “—because you’ll never guess who I ran into this morning.”

Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Who?”

Elle chuckled dryly. “Your brother, and boy did he have some interesting things to say to me.”

Elle had run into Brendon, big deal. It wasn’t like—

The dots connected, the implication of this run-in clear. Disastrously clear.

“Fuck,” she muttered.

“And this”—Elle gave a dramatic pause—“is where you have some explaining to do.”

*

Darcy twisted the simple, platinum band around the middle finger of her right hand and stared at the front door.

What was supposed to be a peaceful, productive, bra-off morning was now inching its way into a stressful, inefficacious, bra-on afternoon. Any minute now, Elle would arrive, all because Brendon couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.

Granted, somewhere buried in there, Darcy owned a bit of culpability in this, but it was Brendon who’d messed with her otherwise perfect plan for at least a month without meddling. She’d told him not to say anything to Elle, to not screw this up for her, but he’d outplayed her. Now, she’d have to explain this entire convoluted situation to Elle. Worst part was, she had no road map for this conversation, no game plan; what she’d say depended on what Brendon had said, how much Brendon had said, and how Elle had reacted.

All Darcy had going in her favor was that Brendon had yet to blow up her phone or come pounding down her door. Best-case scenario, this would be a brief, relatively painless conversation after which she and Elle could, once again, go their separate ways. With the caveat that Elle couldn’t say anything to Brendon. Not yet, anyway. Worst-case scenario . . .