Written in the Stars(86)

Darcy scrunched her eyes shut and gave a violent shiver, limbs going cold, colder than she thought was possible. It was Seattle for crying out loud, why was she so cold?

Arms wrapped around her, pulling her close until her forehead rested against Brendon’s chest. His bow tie dug into her temple but she didn’t care. She lifted her hands and fisted them in the front of his shirt.

“This doesn’t look fake,” he whispered, one hand stroking down the back of her head over her hair.

Too choked up to speak, Darcy hiccuped and burrowed deeper into Brendon’s shoulder.

Something cold and wet landed on her bare back. Again, and again, until Darcy lifted her head and tilted back, glaring up at the black night sky.

Soft, fat snowflakes fell from the sky, dancing on the wind and landing on Darcy’s arms, her exposed back, irritating her bare skin like tiny pinpricks. She shut her eyes and dropped her forehead back to Brendon’s chest, muffling a sob with a bite of her lip.

Fucking snow.





Chapter Twenty


The front door banged against the wall, followed by the sound of several heavy thuds. Margot’s creative cursing punctuated the ruckus, further interrupting Pat Benatar telling Elle that love was a battlefield and that she was strong.

“Motherfucking duck fucker,” Margot shouted. “Ben can go fuck himself. Jerry, too. Chunky Monkey for goddamn sure. Christ on a shingle that fucking hurt.” A pause. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Harrison. No, I’m good. No, no, no one’s doing anything unseemly to any ducks. Nope. Monkeys, neither. Sorry. Yep, I’ll get right on that. Wash my mouth out really well.”

Oh, Margot. Their landlord was going to love getting a call from Mrs. Harrison complaining about them, again.

Margot stuck her head around the corner, peering into the living room. Elle waved weakly from her spot on the couch and Margot’s face brightened. “Hey. You brushed your hair. Go, Elle.”

Rude.

Elle rolled over and assumed the position she’d been in before Margot had loudly interrupted her sulk fest. Face buried in the arm of the sofa, afghan pulled halfway over her head, one eye open so she could watch the television, which was currently on mute. Beside her, her phone was turned screen side down, Bluetooth connected to the speakers on the kitchen bar.

“Mrs. Harrison sends her love.” Margot stepped farther into the living room, nose wrinkling as she stared at the coffee table.

There were a few takeout containers. Three. Okay, five. And some tissues. A lot of tissues. Elle was going to clean up after herself as soon as she scraped together the willpower to get off the couch for longer than a trip to the bathroom.

“What was with all that noise?” Elle mumbled.

Margot kicked a small pile of crumpled notebook paper with her toe. “You know, casually breaking my foot in the doorway. Speaking of, I’m going to unload the groceries I bought and then we can talk about . . . this.”

She frowned pointedly at the clutter before leaving.

Elle pulled the afghan the rest of the way over her head and mouthed the words to “Love Is a Battlefield.”

Strong was the last thing she felt at the moment. Her chest felt like someone had punched a hole through it, ripping out her heart and shredding it into bleeding bits of confetti before stuffing it back inside her body and duct-taping the hole shut.

“I have soup,” Margot shouted from the kitchen. “Your favorite. Pho Rau Cai from What the Pho.”

Elle stuck her nose out from the blanket. “I’m not sick, Margot.”

“You’re not sick yet.” A cabinet slammed followed by the sound of the freezer opening. “You walked all the way to Starbucks in the snow, Elle.”

Big deal. “It wasn’t even a mile.”

“Wearing spaghetti straps in twenty-eight-degree weather. Snow.” Margot huffed loudly.

She sounded like—

Elle scrunched her eyes shut as another hot wave of tears flooded her ducts. Fuck.

“I mean, as far as dramatic exits go, that was a good one,” Margot prattled on, oblivious.

A dramatic exit hadn’t been Elle’s intention. She hadn’t meant to storm off without cash, her keys, or her phone. She hadn’t meant to walk all the way from the hotel to the twenty-four-hour Starbucks several blocks over, but the need to get as far away from Darcy and her painful inability to speak had carried Elle across town on autopilot, snow and strappy heels be damned.

At least the baristas on shift had taken mercy on her, letting her use the store’s phone. Then they’d gone above and beyond, embodying the real spirit of the holiday season by pouring free peppermint tea in her until she’d thawed and Margot showed up with her car, Elle thankfully having left her keys and phone in the pocket of the jacket she’d checked at the hotel.

“I don’t want soup,” Elle mumbled.

For a moment, Margot was quiet. The song switched from “Love Is a Battlefield” to “I Fall Apart” by Post Malone and Elle’s chin wobbled.

“All right.” The freezer opened again. “I bought Chunky Monkey, Half Baked, Phish Food and”—there was rustling, followed by the sound of something wet hitting the floor, then more of Margot’s colorful swearing—“we’ve still got half a pint of Chocolate Therapy, but it’s been tucked behind the frozen peas so I think it might be freezer burned.”