Written in the Stars(93)

Brendon bit his knuckle and nodded.

Elle’s head ached, her eyes burning with tears unshed. She stood, arms dropping to her side. “And no offense, but next time, if Darcy has something to say to me, she can say it herself. I . . . I deserve that.”

Margot would be so proud. But Elle would celebrate that tiny victory later. Right now, she felt like she was going to either cry or be sick and doing either in the middle of Starbucks sounded like a recipe for humiliation.

Brendon covered his mouth with his hand and nodded, eyes full of despair yet nowhere close to what Elle felt. “Yeah. That’s . . . you’re right.”

She was. She didn’t need Brendon to keep acting as Darcy’s emotional intermediary, constantly translating.

Elle clenched her back teeth until her jaw creaked. She needed to get out of here. “I’m gonna . . . I’ll see you around, okay?”

She didn’t wait for Brendon to reply. Turning on her heel, Elle booked it out of the coffee shop, stepping out into the cool, gloomy afternoon light. Gray skies and low-hanging clouds promised rain.

Elle stopped at the crosswalk and stared hard at the red light until she saw spots, the glow burned into her glassy eyes.

I deserve that.

Maybe if she kept saying it, she’d start to believe it. Not in her head, but in her heart, where for her, it mattered most.





Chapter Twenty-One


Darcy’s apartment was quiet in a way that had nothing to do with noise.

She’d always appreciated that her neighbors were considerate and the noises from traffic never penetrated the serene little neighborhood pocketed in downtown. This was different. Never before had the loudest sound inside her apartment been the ever-persistent thud of her heart.

Darcy cradled her coffee cup against her chest and spun in a slow circle. Perhaps the loudest sound wasn’t the thud of her heart, but the echoes of Elle that lingered in the kitchen and on the couch, the floor, the shelves, the Christmas tree beside the window. The curious hum Elle had made when running her fingers down the spines of Darcy’s books. The sweet chime of her laughter in the kitchen when she’d dunked her finger in the pancake batter and dotted a dollop on Darcy’s cheek. How that laughter had evolved into the prettiest moan that had resulted in burned pancakes and a blaring smoke alarm and sheepish smiles and Darcy whispering the words fuck it against Elle’s neck.

The longer she stood studying her apartment, the less quiet it seemed.

How the hell was Darcy supposed to get rid of an echo? A sage smudge stick? Even that sounded like something Elle would say, and she would’ve gotten a kick out of the look on Darcy’s face when she suggested it.

Darcy glared at her bookshelf and chewed on the inside of her cheek. No, she’d do things her way. Erasing all traces of Elle would be her first step, a sound one. She’d scrub her apartment from top to bottom, bust out the Ajax, then she’d spackle over the void with all new furnishings if that’s what it took.

Erase all traces.

Darcy inhaled deeply and set her coffee cup on the table. She could do this.

She’d alphabetized the shelves by author’s last name. An hour later, they were now alphabetized by title, books lined neatly in a row, nary a one sticking out farther than the rest. Darcy had double-checked, taken a goddamn ruler to the shelves to make sure. Elle might’ve touched those spines, but not in that order. And she’d never touch them again. Darcy bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.

Don’t think about it.

Next, Darcy hauled the box of rosé over to the sink and twisted the nozzle, pink wine swirling down the drain. The wine bladder went into the trash and the box into recycling. Kitchen back to normal, Darcy moved back to the living room, checking off items from her mental to-do list, spring cleaning in the middle of winter.

She got down on her hands and knees and fished out the gel pen that had rolled beneath her television stand. Indigo Sky. Darcy frowned at the pen. It was a close match to the shade of Elle’s eyes.

Don’t think about it.

Darcy stared at the tree, chest burning. She couldn’t bring herself to tear it down, not yet. She’d just try not to look at it. Christmas was tomorrow, anyway. She’d take it down right after.

Don’t think about it.

Darcy moved into her bedroom. Stark white sheets and a matching duvet covered her bed. Nothing was remiss save for the speckled composition notebook full of facts about Elle lying on the nightstand. Her birth date. Her favorite gummy bear flavor. All her planets . . . placements . . . houses . . . something like that. Elle in a nutshell. Darcy smoothed her hand across the cover, thumb brushing the pages at the bottom.

Not true. Elle couldn’t be contained in pages, constrained to paper. She was larger than life, but these pages held an imprint, the closest Darcy would ever again get.

Recycle, it belonged in the recycle. All she had to do was chuck it and her apartment would be an Elle-free zone once more. Neat, tidy, everything where it belonged. Quiet.

Darcy clutched the notebook to her chest and left the room. She opened the cabinet beneath her sink where the trash and recycling resided, and paused. Drop it. It was only a notebook, only paper. It wasn’t Elle. So would it really matter if she kept it? She’d only used a few of the pages, it would be a waste to toss it. She could rip out the front pages and repurpose the rest. And she’d do that later. But for now, she’d tuck it in the back of her closet behind her shoeboxes. Out of sight, out of mind. She’d ignore it, just like the tree.