Written in the Stars(73)

“What’s wrong with ‘White Christmas’? Everyone loves that song. It means you wrap your Christmas presents with the precision of one of Santa’s elves. Or Martha Stewart. And you probably buy into charming, old-fashioned traditions like mailing handwritten Christmas cards and roasting chestnuts or something. Whereas Margot and I hide a pickle in a plastic tree and I take the fairy lights off my wall and repurpose them for a month.”

“Well. Not everyone loves that song. I don’t.”

“How? It’s about snow.”

“Exactly.” Darcy nodded. “And I hate snow.”

Elle covered her mouth. “What? How? Why? Darcy, who hurt you?”

Darcy wrinkled her nose. “Have you ever spent thirty minutes scraping ice off your windshield?”

“That’s ice, not snow. Snow is pretty.”

She stuck out her tongue. “Oh please. For all of ten minutes before it turns into gray sludge that refreezes into black ice that’s responsible for twenty-four percent of weather-related vehicle crashes, injuring over seventy-five thousand and killing nearly nine hundred annually.”

That was depressing and yet, something about Darcy’s ability to rattle off random statistics—morbid as they were—was oddly hot. Disconcerting competence porn. “Bah fucking humbug. I’ll change your song.” Elle snatched her phone back. “How do you feel about ‘You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch’?”

“Funny.” Darcy’s face didn’t so much as twitch, but her eyes had a bright twinkle that belied her deadpan expression. “I’m not a grinch because I don’t like snow. San Francisco never gets snow, or at least it hasn’t in my lifetime, and the weather’s rather temperate. The year I moved to Philadelphia, we had four snowstorms in the span of one month. And it was freezing.” Darcy shivered as if just thinking about it gave her a chill. “I hate being cold.”

Elle leaned into her side. “Is that why you’re always trying to get me to wear a jacket?”

“Not that I don’t like seeing your bare skin, but it makes me cold just looking at you.” Darcy smiled, looking at Elle from the corner of her eye. “You can keep ‘White Christmas.’ I do like traditions, especially holiday traditions.” She stared at the tree with its oddly colored lights, her throat jerking on a hard swallow. “I know ornaments are just . . . things. Twine and felt and glass and—it feels a little ridiculous to be upset about Mom getting rid of them, but I am.”

Elle’s attachment to material items had always been more fleeting, her most precious keepsakes few and far between and more likely to be photos than anything else. But that didn’t mean she didn’t understand. “They were . . . physical embodiments of memories. It’s not ridiculous to be upset, Darcy. Whatever you feel is justified, okay?”

Darcy nodded. “That’s exactly it. It’s the memories. Those ornaments were all one of a kind and priceless and we even had these fragile glass balls with each of our names written on them in gold paint. It’s a wonder they never broke.” She huffed. “Came close, though.”

“Climbing the tree?”

Darcy shook her head. “No, it’s silly.”

So far, all of Darcy’s most silly secrets and stories had been revelations. “Tell me.”

Darcy licked her lips. “I was . . . twelve? I think I was twelve, or maybe I was about to be. Brendon was either seven or eight. We had this tradition where we’d bake cookies with Grandma. Always thumbprint cookies and we used homemade jam. Strictly strawberry.” Darcy’s lips curled in a smile. “We’d set out the cookies and a glass of milk beside the fireplace for Santa. Dad would slip downstairs and drink the milk and eat a few cookies. Until that year, when I was twelve, Dad was gone on business. He was flying in that night, Christmas Eve. I didn’t believe in Santa anymore, but Brendon still did, so I lay in bed waiting for Dad to come home so he could drink the milk and eat the cookies but eleven o’clock became midnight became one then two then three and he still wasn’t home. I guess his flight got delayed.”

“Did he make it in time? For Christmas?”

Darcy shook her head, a forlorn smile on her face like she was remembering the disappointment. “For Christmas, but not to be Santa.” She choked out a laugh. “I was Santa that year. After three o’clock, I snuck down the stairs, extracareful to not make any noise since I swear to God, every step creaked. I inhaled six cookies and then I reached for the milk only to remember we put dairy milk out because Dad’s not lactose intolerant, but I am.”

Her eyes widened, seeing where this was going. “No.”

Darcy grimaced. “I didn’t know what to do. I was twelve and trying to be sneaky. I grabbed the glass and was going to head into the kitchen and pour it down the drain when I thought I heard someone on the stairs. I panicked, chugged the milk, and ducked behind the tree. One of those glass ornaments fell, but in the best twist of fate, it hit my slipper, which cushioned the landing. I hid there for at least twenty minutes before sneaking back upstairs. Brendon was fast asleep and none the wiser. And I lay in bed with stomach cramps for the rest of the night.” Darcy’s smile went fond and her voice dropped to a whisper. “But Brendon believed in Santa for another year, which was all I cared about.”