Written in the Stars

by Alexandria Bellefleur

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “It’s a romantic notion.” Darcy dropped her eyes, her expression shuttering.

  Elle frowned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It’s silly. Soul mates. Your one true pairing.” Darcy shook her head like it was ridiculous.

  The butterflies quit fluttering, Elle’s stomach souring, though that might’ve been the wine. What was Darcy even doing on this date if she wasn’t looking for love, or at least the chance of love?

  “I think it’s nice,” Elle argued. “If you don’t believe in love, what’s left to believe in?”

  Darcy’s tongue poked against the inside of her cheek. “Sweet in theory, but a bit starry-eyed, don’t you think?”

  Was that a dig and a quip about her profession? “I’d rather be starry-eyed than jaded.”

  Reaching for her wine, Elle’s fingers skimmed the stem, her grip slipping. The glass teetered, tottered, swaying back and tipping forward. Her stomach rioted, mimicking the motion. In slo-mo, the red wine sloshed over the rim of the glass as the whole thing tumbled, merlot soaking into the linen tablecloth and splashing across the table, splattering Darcy’s dress.

  “Oh fuck.” Elle scrambled for a napkin and stood, knees knocking into the table and—

  Fifty-six dollars of wine toppled right over into Darcy’s lap.

  Elle froze, white cloth napkin poised to—what? Blot? Fuck, she’d better start waving it in surrender.

  “I am so sorry.” Heat crept up her throat, making her uncomfortably warm.

  “It’s—it’s fine.” Darcy shoved her chair back, legs squealing against the wood. The wine not soaked into her dress dribbled down her legs when she stood. “Excuse me.”

  Darcy shuffled off toward the back of the restaurant, where there was a sign pointing to the restroom.

  Elle’s pulse lurched in her throat and her eyes went damp as she set the now-empty glasses to rights. Fuck her life. She had not meant for that to happen. She wasn’t usually clumsy, nowhere close, but Darcy had put her on the defensive.

  Astrology was one thing—granted, an important thing—but not believing in love? How in the hell was she related to adorkable Brendon, creator of OTP? Brendon who rambled about Harry Potter and spoke with his hands and made “May the 4th Be With You” an official companywide holiday. Brendon who, in her two in-person meetings with OTP Inc., several lunches, and countless DMs, had displayed more verve for life in his pinkie than Darcy possessed in her whole, admittedly gorgeous, body. Elle had felt sparks, she absolutely had, but had Darcy? Apparently not if she could so easily scoff at the idea of true love.

  Elle stuck her hand in the air and flagged down the waiter.

  He frowned at the table. “Let me grab something to clean this up.”

  “Just . . . could you . . . I’m ready to leave.” She handed him her card, forcing her fingers to release the plastic when he tugged.

  One swipe of her Visa later, he returned, handing her the receipt folded around her card. Good. She didn’t want to look at the bill right now, anyway. “Have a nice night.”

  Nice night, her butt. That ship had sailed and sunk and was now nothing but wreckage on the bottom of the ocean.

  Time to cut her losses. As soon as Darcy came back, Elle would make her exit.

  She crossed her legs and tried to ignore the twinge in her bladder. What was taking Darcy so long? Maybe she would hit the restroom first. If she ran into Darcy, she could kill two birds with one stone, making her good-bye brief before more damage could be done. Literally.

  Decided, Elle stood and tossed her napkin on the table before heading to the restroom.

  “—didn’t even want to go on this date in the first place and now my dress is ruined, Annie.”

  Darcy faced the end of the hall, her back to Elle. Phone pressed to her ear, she paced slowly in front of the door to the ladies’, one spindly stiletto placed perfectly in front of the toe of her other foot as if she were walking on a balance beam as she held her phone to her ear.

  Elle’s legs locked, trapped in the evolutionarily stupid choice between fight and flight. Freeze.

  Darcy gave a dry laugh. “I don’t see how that’s relevant but, yes, she’s pretty. I’m sure she’s loads of fun, too. She’s also a mess.”

  All she wanted to do was pee, but Darcy was right there, right in front of the restroom, blocking the hall, roasting her to this Annie person.

  “What am I going to tell Brendon?” Darcy asked. “The truth, that we’re total opposites. And I’m putting my foot down. This was the last date he’s ever setting me up on.”

  Elle pressed her lips together and swallowed past the lump in her throat.

  On second thought, she could hold it.

  * * *

  The air in the apartment was sticky with humidity and honeysuckle sweet. Thin wisps of steam floated out from beneath the bathroom door, filling the hall as Stevie Nicks’s rasping voice flooded into the living room.

  Elle flipped the lock and fell to her knees beside where Jon Bone Jovi hung from a double-knotted strand of monofilament tacked into the drywall. She crawled across the room, face-planting into the sofa with a groan. The blue afghan draped against the cushions smelled faintly like patchouli, and the little gold coins affixed to the fringes were cool against her cheek as she burrowed deeper, rubbing her nose into the well-loved fabric. Home sweet home.

  The scent of honeysuckle grew stronger, more pungent as the whirl of the fan cut off, the bathroom door opened, steam spilling out like sweet smoke as the music cut off midverse.

  Margot padded into the living room, leopard-print robe knotted around her waist and a towel wrapped around her head. Her footsteps faltered, her dark brown eyes turning into saucers behind her thick, black-rimmed glasses. Her mouth opened before she paused, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. “How’d it go?”

  “You know the public restrooms down by the market?” Elle kicked her shoes across the room, wincing when they left a dusty brown smudge against the baseboard by the breakfast nook slash Oh My Stars headquarters. Whoops.

  “The one with doors so short you’re forced to make awkward eye contact with the person in the next stall over?” Margot crossed the room and crouched beside her.

  Elle nodded. “I lost my underwear inside.”

  Margot’s jet-black brows rocketed to her hairline, disappearing into her turby-towel. “Explain, because my mind is going to some funky, debauched places.”

  “Gross, no. I had to pee.” Her underwear—those impractical but pretty boy shorts—had been an unfortunate casualty, touching the grimy floor when she had squatted. “My underwear slipped and landed in a puddle of”—she wrinkled her nose—“something sticky.”

  There would be no coming back from that, the memory of them falling past her ankles onto the tile impossible to scrub away.

  Margot’s face screwed up, twisting in disgust. “The pair you just bought? The ones with the little bows on the side?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those were cute.”

  “Just not meant to be, I guess.” Elle sniffed hard and buried her toes in the thick shag pile of the carpet. “They chafed like a bitch, anyway.”

  Margot’s mouth opened only to shut, her lips tucking between her teeth. She cleared her throat. “I’m getting the sense your date didn’t go well?”

  A weak, watery laugh spilled from between Elle’s lips, but she wasn’t going to cry. No way, no how. Darcy Lowell did not deserve her tears. “What possibly gave you that idea?”

  Without saying anything, Margot grabbed her hand and laced their fingers together, squeezing until the ache in Elle’s joints surpassed the pressure in her chest.

  “I’ve never met someone so gorgeous and yet so condescending in my life.” Elle swallowed before her voice did something pathetic like crack. “Worst part was, I could’ve sworn we had . . . something. I felt a spark, you know?” She sighed, shoulders slumping. “Not that it matters. I didn’t sta
nd a chance, no matter the chemistry.”

  There were opposites and then there were opposites. Darcy didn’t believe in astrology or soul mates and—what was it she had called her? A mess? Pretty, too, but a mess nonetheless. And fun. She couldn’t forget that part.

  This is fun, but . . .

  You’re so fun, Elle, but . . .

  I had fun with you, but . . .

  If Elle had a dollar for every time someone had used the word fun to reject her, she’d—no, it’d still suck no matter how many dollars she had.

  Not that there was anything inherently wrong with being fun—Elle wanted to be fun. But to be reduced to a good time was something else.

  Couldn’t she be fun and more? Couldn’t a relationship? For that matter, shouldn’t it?

  Margot clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Fuck her, then. It’s her loss, babe.”

  “You always say that.”

  “I always mean it.”

  Elle snorted. Sure. There were only so many times Margot could use that excuse before it lost its charm. Tonight, it rang hollow.

  “You know what you need?” Margot grunted softly as she rolled to her knees and stood, plucking green carpet lint off her bare skin. “Tequila.”

  Margot made the best margaritas, tangy tequila-y perfection with a cheery rainbow salted rim. As much as Elle wanted to say yes, she couldn’t. “I have to get up early. Breakfast with my mom tomorrow, remember?”

  Waking up at the butt-crack of dawn and hauling herself over to the Eastside for their monthly mother-daughter breakfast was difficult enough without the added hangover.

  Margot’s lips twisted. “I’m guessing you still haven’t told her about the deal with OTP?”

  Elle snagged the bowl of dry cereal she’d left on the table this morning and sorted the minimarshmallows from the boring bits, placing them into groups of rainbows, moons, and balloons. She shrugged, avoiding Margot’s hawklike stare.

  “Elle.” Margot pursed her lips.

  Elle poured a handful of rainbow marshmallows into her mouth and munched. “The timing hasn’t been right.”

  “I know the book deal announcement didn’t go the way you’d hoped, but that doesn’t mean your family won’t be excited about this.” Margot’s grin was almost convincing, but it didn’t quite reach the corners of her eyes. “Come on. This deal is big. If your family can’t see that . . .”

  Margot was right that the deal with OTP, the coolest dating app ever—for nerds, by nerds—was a BFD. The passion-project side hustle Margot and Elle had been working themselves to the bone over for years was about to become a full-time venture.

  Elle should’ve been bursting at the seams to scream her good news at anyone who’d listen, but if history was anything to go by, telling Mom could go one of two ways. She would either have a million questions about what an OTP was and whether Elle had someone reliable checking over her contract and was she sure she didn’t want to just get a nice, normal job with a steady paycheck and retirement benefits? Or she would smile blandly, her eyes glazing over as soon as Elle mentioned the words dating app and astrological compatibility. Then Mom would respond with that’s nice, Elle.

  She’d managed to earn a that’s really great, honey when she’d told her family about the book deal. Only, her older sister, Jane, had followed with her own happy news that after a year of IVF, she and her husband were expecting twins. Obviously a bigger deal than Elle’s news, but she was pretty sure her family had forgotten all about her book in the hubbub of Jane’s announcement.

  Playing second fiddle to her older sibling’s achievements was the story of her life, but that didn’t mean she was keen on suffering through another instance of hoping her family would finally take an interest in her life beyond polite tolerance of her eccentricities.

  I’m sure she’s loads of fun, too. She’s also a mess.

  Not just her family.

  So what if Elle took her advice from the stars instead of the self-help section? Conventional was boring, but why was it impossible to find someone who liked the beat of her drum as much as she did?

  Margot waved a hand in front of Elle’s face. “Earth to Elle.”

  Elle forced a smile. “Sorry. I just had a bad night. It churned up some less than awesome feelings.”

  “Buck up, Buttercup.” Margot stole one of Elle’s marshmallow balloons. “Forget about Brendon’s sister. She wasn’t right for you, so just shake it off. You’ll have better luck next time, okay?”

  Elle opened her mouth but as soon her lips parted, a hazy, damp film clouded her vision. She had to swallow before she could speak. “How many more next times are there going to be, Mar? How many more first dates am I going to have to go on? How many times am I going to get my hopes up? I know I shouldn’t . . . give up, but is it awful that I kind of want to . . . take a step back?”

  Margot’s dark eyes widened, probably because Elle was the optimist in their duo. She’d been called Pollyannaish a time or two, and whatever, she didn’t care if people thought she was naively optimistic, but—maybe she was delusional. Maybe the beat of her own drum was best danced to alone.

  “I think . . . I think you should do what feels right.” Margot gave a definitive nod. “If you’re feeling burned out and you want to take a hiatus from the dating scene? I say go for it. Your perfect person is out there somewhere, completely oblivious to the fact that their dream girl is sitting on the floor of her apartment right now, chowing down on Lucky Charms, commando. They can wait.”

  Elle tried to smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off, not when the sting of rejection was so fresh. Not when she’d had such high hopes and had, for just a moment, felt a connection, the kind that couldn’t be faked.

  Maybe Margot was right. Maybe her perfect person was out there, but one thing was certain.

  It wasn’t Darcy.

  Chapter Two

  —and that’s when I said to my grandson, ‘Johnathon, you’re too talented to be working yourself to the bone for that chef. You should start your own restaurant.’ And you know what? He did. Owns three food trucks. A real entrepreneur. Can you believe it?”

  Mrs. Clarence’s knobby, arthritic fingers trembled around the strap of her reusable grocery bag. Darcy had already snagged two of Mrs. Clarence’s bags on the way into the elevator, but she went ahead and reached for the third, accepting a pat on the arm when her neighbor let her shoulder the weight of all three.

  “That’s nice, Mrs. Clarence.” She tried not to wince when the strap of the heaviest bag bit into the thin skin of her inner elbow. “You must be very proud.”

  The older woman sighed. “Oh, I am. Now if only he could find a girl, a nice girl.” Her shrewd eyes roved over Darcy from her head down to her feet. “Say, you’re not seeing anyone, are you, Darcy dear?”

  She gave Mrs. Clarence what hopefully came across as an appropriately apologetic smile instead of a grimace. “Sorry. Work has me busy.”

  Her elderly neighbor tutted, lips pursing in disapproval, silent disapproval. If only it were that easy to put her brother off.

  Saved by the bell, the elevator dinged, spitting them out on the ninth floor. Mercifully, Mrs. Clarence was in apartment 901, the unit closest to the elevators.

  Darcy lugged the bags the brief distance to the doorway, arms trembling under their weight as Mrs. Clarence took her time unlocking her door before ushering Darcy inside. She unloaded the bags into the kitchen, setting them down on the dining table beside Mrs. Clarence’s Persian longhair, Princess. “You want me to unpack these?”

  Stroking the purring cat between the ears, the older woman shook her head. “No, no. Just leave them here. I always appreciate your help, Darcy. You’re a peach.”

  With a wave, Darcy departed down the hall, unlocking the door to her own apartment. As soon as she stepped inside, she placed her keys in the wooden bowl on the entry table and slumped against the door.

  What a night.

  Her favorite dress—vintage Oscar de la Ren
ta that had once belonged to her late grandmother—was possibly ruined, the stomach-churning headache that had taken up residence smack between her eyes in the afternoon had only gotten worse as the day progressed, and for all that she loved Brendon, wrapping her hands around his neck and strangling him until his eyes bulged sounded like a fantastic idea right about now.

  What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking? An astrologer? So what if Elle had been unbelievably pretty? They had nothing in common save for their mutual inability to keep their eyes off each other. Which could’ve been promising had Elle not been looking for her soul mate.

  Darcy rolled her eyes.

  She should’ve never agreed to Brendon’s matchmaking in the first place, but he’d been so earnest and eager to see her get back up on the horse when she’d been ready to put the damn thing out to pasture. Saying yes had been easier than explaining why not . . . especially when Brendon had mentioned the reservation was at a restaurant she’d been dying to try ever since seeing the chef featured on Food Network. And so she’d reluctantly agreed. One date, a drink, some amazing food, and a bit of surface-level chitchat. She’d have put herself out there and Brendon would be appeased. What was the worst that could happen?

  Come on, Darcy. You’ll really like Clarissa.

  Susanna’s absolutely your type.

  I think you’ll hit it off with Veronica. I swear.

  Really, Darce. I think Arden might be the one.

  He hadn’t stopped at just one date. Oh, no. One date had snowballed into weekly setups—how in God’s name did he know so many single queer women?—and after three months of blind dates Darcy had officially reached her limit. Honestly, she’d reached her limit last month, but when she’d fessed up and told Brendon she didn’t have the time or desire to pursue a serious relationship and he could cool it, he’d balked. A few lackluster dates and you’re throwing in the towel? Come on, she’s perfect.

  No one was perfect.

  Next time, she wasn’t going to cave, wasn’t going to simply roll her eyes and agree to some date just to get Brendon off her back. Not even if he pouted and played the baby brother card. Darcy was putting her foot down. She’d had enough of him projecting his own romantic notions of true love onto her. She wasn’t looking for the one. Not anymore.