Written in the Stars(71)
“Wait, Darcy, don’t—”
Darcy pressed end and let her phone fall against the floor, her head knocking against the door with a muted thud.
Ears ringing, Darcy played over everything she’d said, her memory unfortunately practically perfect. Mortification set in, her skin itching and stomach churning.
Perhaps Elle would pretend this hadn’t happened. Perhaps they could act like Darcy hadn’t called and gone all soppy, spilling her guts all over the place. Perhaps Darcy could change her name and number and move to a small village in the south of France. She could eat enough butter and wine that the humiliation wouldn’t matter.
Changing her identity might take some time, but she could get a jump start on the wine. Rolling to her knees, Darcy stood and filled a fresh glass with the cheap, cloyingly sweet boxed rosé because it made her think of Elle and apparently, unbeknownst to her until nearly her thirtieth year on this planet, Darcy was a masochist. The more you know.
*
Sitting in the middle of her kitchen, pencil skirt hiked up around her waist for comfort, Darcy polished off her second glass and was reaching for her third when someone knocked on her front door.
Brendon. Darcy shut her eyes. Mom had probably blabbed to him about how poorly Darcy had taken the news. Now she was going to have to do damage control, smoothing over her emotions, sweeping them under the rug. Prove to Brendon that she was fine, that while she wished Mom wasn’t selling the house, it hadn’t affected her in whatever way Mom claimed.
Ready as she’d ever be, Darcy adjusted her skirt and reached for the knob. As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with a face-full of plastic pine needles.
“Sorry! Shit, it’s slipping. Let me just . . .” The branches pressed against Darcy’s face moved, revealing a harried-looking Elle. Blond hair fell free from the messy bun at her nape, and sweat glistened at her temples, her breath coming out in haggard little puffs. “You mind if I . . . ?”
Darcy clutched the—tree? bush?—and let Elle step past. Arms wrapped around a bursting cardboard box, the flaps flipped up and bent to the sides because the contents were brimming over the top, Elle waddled in the direction of the windowed wall where she bent and set the box down with a grunt. “Fuck, that was heavy.”
Darcy kicked the door shut, plastic pine needles biting into the skin of her biceps. “What is all this?”
Elle’s eyes bounced between the box at her feet and Darcy. “It’s a good thing you called me when you did. One Man’s Trash is only open until eight on weekdays. I managed to slip in right before they closed.” She nudged the misshapen box with the toe of her boot. “It was kind of slim pickings this far in the season, so the ornaments are . . . eclectic.”
Darcy set the tree down beside the box and stared blankly at Elle’s haul, trying and failing to make sense of what this was.
“As for the tree.” Elle winced. “There were only two, but the other was ginormous. Like, couldn’t fit my arms around it even if I tried . . . which, okay I did try. It didn’t work. I could actually carry this one and fit it in the back of the Uber I took here. It’s a little”—Elle shut one eye and stared at the pile of disassembled branches—“like a shrub. But I think it has a certain charm. A je ne sais quoi, you know?”
Darcy pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “But . . . why?”
Elle scuffed her toe against the floor, then seemed to think better of it, quickly toeing her way out of her boots, hobbling when she nearly toppled over. Her pajama bottoms—Christ, she was wearing PJs—were too long, tucked halfway under her fuzzy-socked feet. Darcy’s stomach swooped and then disappeared altogether.
“You said your mom got rid of your grandma’s holiday decorations, so I just thought . . .” Elle shrugged. “I guess I didn’t do much actual thinking. You could’ve already had a tree and ornaments, or Brendon might’ve, but I wanted to make sure you had something. I know the tree is kind of ugly, and none of the ornaments match but if—”
“It’s perfect,” Darcy whispered. Her eyes stung, her sinuses burning with each rapid, tear-stifling blink. “It’s really perfect.”
Too perfect. Scary perfect because nothing this good could last forever. It never did.
Elle’s smile didn’t just light up her face, it lit up the whole room. “Yeah?”
Darcy stepped over the tree and grabbed both of Elle’s hands in hers. Elle’s fingers were frozen, so Darcy laced them with hers and drew her closer. Elle slid forward, her pajamas gliding against the hardwood, their toes bumping. Darcy used Elle’s forward momentum to her advantage, ducking her chin and stealing a kiss, lingering. Just a little more, for a little while longer.
Chapter Sixteen
I think it looks . . . nice.”
Elle cocked her head, studying the tree, not that there was much tree to study. The branches were twiggy and the needles sparse. None of the ornaments matched—a glittery Barbie-pink Jeep hung beside a camouflage snowflake, and several branches down a cranberry-filled snow globe bumped up against a felt stocking and a hideous papier-maché elf. But at least the tree had come prestrung with lights, none of which were burned out.
Darcy must’ve pressed a button on the switch because the amber-colored lights flickered, and suddenly, the room was bathed in a rainbow of colors. Pink and teal and orange and violet bulbs winked from the branches like little colorful pinpricks of light.