Written in the Stars

by Alexandria Bellefleur

  She had been, just not for the reasons he might think.

  “She tattled?” Brendon had the decency to look sheepish for a whole two seconds before his expression shifted into a gloating smirk. “Come on. Tell me this won’t make for the greatest toast at your wedding one day.”

  Wedding. It was almost Pavlovian how the word inspired a visceral reaction, chills racing down her spine, a cold sweat breaking out along the nape of her neck, her molars clacking together. “Slow the fuck down, Brendon. Elle and I aren’t getting married.”

  How she managed to string together complete sentences when her throat was narrower than her coffee’s stir straw astounded her. She counted it as no small miracle that she could even say the word married at the moment.

  Brendon snagged her cup of coffee, taking a sip before his whole face screwed up at the taste. And he called her a snob.

  “You don’t know that.”

  She did. But she couldn’t say that. Not without calling her own bluff.

  “Quit trying to marry me off like I’m some Regency spinster in one of your favorite Austen novels.”

  “Your name is Darcy.”

  “And I might be a single woman in possession of a good fortune, but I’m not in want of a wife.” Once upon a time, she’d wanted that. Look how it had gone. No, thank you. “You’re putting the cart in front of the horse. Elle and I aren’t even officially together. We’re testing the waters. Getting to know each other. Don’t get your hopes up, is what I’m saying.”

  The waitress dropped off Brendon’s Arnold Palmer and took their orders—salmon salad for Brendon and steak carpaccio for Darcy.

  What with how Brendon was going around telling everyone, Elle included, that she was smitten—God, she detested that word—she’d oversold herself. This, walking it back, was all part of the plan. Make Brendon think she was trying with Elle, putting her heart out there, eradicating any and all belief on his part that she was scared to fall in love. But she had to hold back just enough to make their eventual split believable. It was a balancing act, appearing cautiously optimistic without making excessive promises.

  “I can’t believe you right now.”

  Darcy’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

  Brendon slouched in his chair. “You’ve got this great thing started with Elle, you’re in the midst of the magical time at the beginning of a relationship when you’re supposed to be on cloud nine thinking anything’s possible, and yet here you are, being a total downer.”

  “Brendon—”

  “No.” Brendon shoved his chair back, metal legs squealing, and sat up straight, leaning his elbows on the table. “You’re self-sabotaging right now, Darce. I know it isn’t always easy to break the habit, not with—with what’s happened, but you’ve got to stop seeing a dead end around every corner or else you’re going to turn it into a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the only person you’re going to have to blame is yourself.”

  Darcy traced the rim of her coffee cup with her pointer finger, pausing to rid the porcelain of her red lipstick smudge. If she was avoiding Brendon’s eyes, it was completely coincidental. “I’m not self-sabotaging. I’m getting to know Elle and she’s—she’s more than I bargained for,” Darcy conceded, letting Brendon make of that what he wanted.

  Never before had Darcy ever seen someone’s face look quite so much like the human equivalent of the heart-eyes emoji. Like drippy ice cream on a hot summer’s day, Brendon melted in his chair, shoulders slumping as his whole face screwed up, lips pressed together to no doubt keep from awing. “Darcy.”

  Darcy had to bite the tip of her tongue to maintain her glare. “I swear on all that’s holy, if you so much as make a single joke right now or butcher a playground nursery rhyme about trees and kissing and baby carriages, I’ll let myself into your apartment and use your comic book collection as kindling. Capiche?”

  He had to know she was all bark and no bite, but still, Brendon gave a full body shudder. “Got it.” Brendon thanked the waitress when she dropped off his salad. Fork poised to dig in, Brendon paused, stare going serious and sincere. “I’m happy you’re happy.”

  Her stomach twisted itself into a pretzel. “Thanks, Brendon.”

  “You know,” he said, picking the tomatoes off his salad and tossing them on her plate. “You do kind of owe me for introducing you to Elle.”

  She owed him something all right.

  “You know how you could make it up to me?”

  She arched a brow. “How?”

  Brendon dimpled. “This Saturday, eight o’clock. You, Elle, me, and Cherry. Double date. Say yes.”

  Darcy shut her eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say Cherry?”

  When she opened her eyes, the corner of Brendon’s mouth twitched. “She’s sweet.”

  She was choosing to ignore the innuendo wrapped up in that statement because gross. “Brendon, I don’t know if that’s—”

  “Please, Darce,” he begged. “Say yes. Please say yes. Please, please, please with a cherry on—”

  “Jesus, all right!” She lifted her hands in concession. Anything to make him stop before he finished that sentence.

  Brendon’s entire countenance shifted, posture relaxing into his usual laissez-faire, long-limbed slouch. He grinned, looking pleased at having pushed the right buttons to get his way. “Thank you. You and Elle, me and Cherry. We’re gonna have a blast.”

  Chapter Six

  DARCY (4:57 P.M.): I think we need to discuss the details of this arrangement sooner as opposed to later.

  ELLE (5:08 P.M.): how come?

  ELLE (5:09 P.M.): i mean that’s fine

  ELLE (5:09 P.M.): jw if there was a reason

  ELLE (5:09 P.M.): something i should know

  Elle wasn’t keen on being kept out of the loop again anytime soon.

  DARCY (5:16 P.M.): My brother has invited us on a double date this Saturday. And by invite, I mean strong-armed me into agreeing. In the interest of selling this, I believe it would be best to have our ducks in a row ahead of time.

  Elle had already had several stress dreams about Brendon finding out this was all a ruse and hating her for it. In her last dream, she had been on a trashy tabloid talk show. Brendon had forced her to undergo a lie-detector test and after she’d failed, he’d torn up the contract negotiations between OTP and Oh My Stars before storming off the set. In the audience, her entire family had booed. Darcy had been conspicuously absent.

  It was just a dream—Elle didn’t really believe the deal with OTP was predicated or somehow tied to the success of her relationship with Darcy—but Darcy had a point. She didn’t know Darcy’s birth date or . . . well, anything about her beside the fact that she was an actuary and workaholic. They needed to get to know each other better before this double date or else it’d look like the sham it was.

  ELLE (5:20 P.M.): what are we doing?

  ELLE (5:20 P.M.): on the double date i mean

  DARCY (5:24 P.M.): I didn’t ask. Is it relevant?

  Elle rolled her eyes. Looks like she’d have to ask Brendon.

  ELLE (5:25 P.M.): okay np

  ELLE (5:26 P.M.): you free tonight?

  ELLE (5:26 P.M.): say 7?

  ELLE (5:26 P.M.): we can rendezvous at your place since i know where you live

  DARCY (5:33 P.M.): That’s fine.

  Elle tucked her phone inside her messenger bag and slipped the strap over her shoulder. It was—she peeked at the Kit-Cat clock that hung crooked on the wall beside the microwave—ten to six. Just enough time to stop by Safeway before darting over to Darcy’s posh Queen Anne apartment.

  Hopping off the barstool, Elle glanced at Margot who continued to click away at her keyboard, pausing every now and again to glare menacingly at the screen. “I’m headed out. I guess I’ll see you later if you’re still awake.”

  She made it halfway to the front door—the whole two steps it took—when Margot sighed. “Elle, wait.”

  Elle bit the inside of her cheek and braced hersel
f for another dig at what she was doing with Darcy. “Yeah?”

  Margot set her computer aside and rested her elbows on her knees, fingers laced loosely together in front of her. “When I said you were making an epic mistake the other night, I was out of line. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

  Elle shut her mouth. Apologies from Margot were rare. Just as rare as the arguments between them. “You don’t have to—”

  “No, I do.” Margot blew out a breath, the thick fringe of her bangs parting like a curtain. “I’m pissed off, okay? On your behalf. And I know you think because Darcy apologized that it’s fine now, but sometimes sorry isn’t good enough, Elle. The last thing I want to do is harsh your vibe or rain on your parade, but I take no shit on your behalf. I haven’t since the day we moved into the dorms freshman year and you demanded we stay up all night bonding over burnt microwave popcorn because you, and I quote, have a feeling we’re supposed to be best friends. I’m not going to start now.”

  Elle wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to laugh or cry. Caught in a state of flux, she did both at the same time. She swiped at her face, no doubt smearing eyeliner all over the place. But the pressure inside her chest that had taken up residence during her sort-of tiff with Margot deflated, leaving room for her heart to swell. “Margot. That was nine years ago.”

  “Stop crying.” Margot sniffed, her expression shifting into a put-off frown. “You’re going to make me cry. I hate crying. Don’t hate me, but please hear me out?”

  It would take an utterly uncharacteristic move on Margot’s part, like murdering someone, to make Elle hate her. Even then, Elle would at least ask why before passing judgment.

  “You were really upset the other night. I know you were trying to put on a brave face, but it was obvious Darcy hurt you. Worse than you let on. Now you’re agreeing to fake a relationship with her? Because of your family? Elle, if they can’t see how amazing you are . . . this isn’t worth it.”

  Elle ground the toe of her boot into the rug, tracing the singe mark in the paisley pattern from the Birthday Sparkler Incident of 2017.

  “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” she admitted. The lump inside her throat grew, forcing her to swallow to keep her voice from cracking. “I’m just tired of falling short, Mar.”

  Margot’s face crumpled. “Elle—”

  She jerked her chin and sniffed hard, blinking away the film of tears blurring her vision. She smiled and shrugged. “If I can get my family to take me seriously about one thing, see that I have my life together in a way that makes sense to them, maybe they’ll come around to the rest.”

  Margot shook her head. “So you’re throwing in the towel? You’re going to be like Lydia now? Dating the sorts of people your parents want and shrinking yourself down to be palatable to people who don’t get you? Who don’t even try?”

  No. God no. Elle wasn’t going to actually compromise who she was or how she lived her life. No, this was a blip on Elle’s radar, a pit stop, a means to an end. Elle wasn’t settling. She just wanted her parents to be proud of her for who she was. If she had to speak their language for a brief bit of time, what was the harm? “No way. This is fake. I just want them to understand I’m not the letdown they think I am. Maybe hearing how awesome I am from someone else, someone like Darcy who’s the sort of person who satisfies their whole nine-to-five I’m a serious adult vibe, will help.”

  Margot stuck out her tongue, eyes rolling. “Boring, you mean?”

  Elle shrugged. “Besides, it’s cuffing season and Lydia’s got a boyfriend. Jane’s got Gabe and Daniel has Mike and I’m just—Elle. I’m not exactly jazzed about spending another holiday alone as the black sheep of the family.”

  “Just Elle is pretty great.” Margot smiled. “But I get it. I mean, I might not be in your shoes, but I understand where you’re coming from. I just want you to remember that you deserve someone you don’t have to fake it with.” Both her brows rose. “And I mean that in all ways.”

  Elle cracked a smile. “Thanks.”

  “But seriously, have you thought about what you’re going to do when your two months are up? How are you going to spin your breakup that doesn’t make you look like you can’t hold down a relationship?”

  Elle grimaced. That would be counterintuitive. “I’m thinking we’ll split because of some crucial but faultless incompatibility like . . . I don’t know, I want kids but she doesn’t.”

  Breakups happened all the time. There didn’t need to be culpability. It could be a mature split that in no way served as a blight on Elle’s character.

  “Does she want kids?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Margot frowned. “Don’t you think that’s something you should probably discuss before you start making plans? Kids might be excessive, but things? Her favorite color. Food allergies. I don’t know.”

  She nodded. “I’m headed to her place now, actually. We’re going to get to know each other so we can make this whole thing a little more believable.”

  Margot worried her lip. She wasn’t entirely sold, Elle could tell, but something was better than nothing.

  Elle gave one last shrug. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, I guess? It’s like hiring an escort but better because it’s beneficial for the both of us and on the bright side, I don’t have to pay.”

  “You getting some other perks out of this you failed to mention?” Margot waggled her brows.

  Her face warmed. “I don’t think it’s like that.”

  “Something else you might want to hammer out, yeah?” Margot’s smile flattened into something tense. “Just watch your back. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “It’s not like Darcy can hurt my feelings any worse than she already has. I know she doesn’t like me, so what’s the worst that could happen?”

  * * *

  Elle shifted the bags from her left arm to the right and tried—subsequently failing—to smother her smile when Darcy opened the door, this time wearing a camel-colored pencil skirt that hugged her hips, and a polka-dotted pussy-bow blouse in off-white that Darcy would probably dub something fancy like eggshell or mascarpone. On anyone else it would’ve been very blah, but the fall of Darcy’s copper hair over one shoulder and her curves made it less boring and more librarian chic. Never before had Elle met someone so pretty that it pissed her off.

  Darcy shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hips cocking, emphasizing the crescent curve of her waist. She side-eyed the bags looped over Elle’s arm, looking equal parts intrigued and distrustful. “Hello.”

  Elle lifted the bags. “I come bearing libations and craft supplies.”

  Darcy’s brows rocketed to her hairline. “Craft supplies?”

  Sliding past Darcy into the apartment, Elle bit back a grin. Score one for her for managing to knock Darcy off-kilter. “Mm-hmm. I figured we could hammer out the details of this arrangement and share some facts about ourselves.”

  Elle set the bags on the floor beside the coffee table. From the first bag she withdrew two notebooks, one black and the other white, and a twelve pack of gel pens. “Facts we can write down in these handy notebooks. I brought gel pens in case you want to color code anything. Because if there’s one thing you should know about me—okay, there are a lot of things you should know about me. But right now, it’s important to know I don’t have much Virgo in my chart. I mean, there’s Jupiter and it’s retrograde and my seventh house is in Virgo, but that’s a whole other story.” And too much to unpack in one night. “However, I aspire to Virgo-level detail orientation and I do it through color-coordinated crafts. Got it?”

  That was an ultrasimplification, but it was doubtful Darcy wanted details. Elle believed in astrology, believed the cosmos controlled more than met the eye and that was what Darcy needed to know if this was going to work, if this fake relationship of theirs would ever fool a single soul. She needed to know it, and inside it might make her roll her eyes and despair at how silly Elle was, but outwardly
Darcy needed to not scoff at it. Even if this entire charade was pretend, Darcy needed to respect Elle’s beliefs. Respect Elle, or no dice.

  Elle held her breath as Darcy frowned thoughtfully. “Okay, got it. May I ask a question?”

  “Absolutely.” Elle gestured for Darcy to go on. “There’s no such thing as a stupid question. There’s a definite learning curve to this.”

  Darcy nodded. “All right. If your Jupiter is . . . in Virgo?” Elle nodded. “Where’s your Uranus?”

  “My Uranus is in Capri—” Elle froze. “Wow.”

  Darcy’s dimples deepened as she smiled impishly. “Sorry, it was just right there. You probably get that a lot.”

  “From frat boys and five-year-olds, not . . .” She trailed off, gesturing up and down in Darcy’s general direction with her free hand. “People like you.”

  “People like me?” Darcy’s brows rose and fell. “Like me how?”

  People who drank fifty-six-dollar glasses of wine and wore tight little pencil skirts and Christian Louboutin heels and worked as actuaries. Insufferable know-it-alls with cunning sensibilities and kissable little moon-shaped freckles. People with eyes like burnt caramel and full lips that looked candy-apple sweet. People who . . . who . . .

  Elle waved the notebooks in the air. “I don’t know. Which is why I’m here. I figured, we’d drink a little wine, play twenty questions, jot down our notes, and get to know each other a little. Make this charade a little more believable, if not truthful. Or close enough to assuage my conscience.”

  Darcy did that thing where she stared, brown eyes studying Elle from across the living room. It was only a look and yet it made Elle feel weirdly naked.

  “If you think it’s silly, we can—”

  “No.” Darcy shook her head and stepped closer, nudging the remaining bag with a stocking-covered toe. Stockings. Fuck. Elle sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. Pantyhose were the bane of her existence—if she so much as tried to put on a pair, she’d immediately get a run—but on Darcy . . . Elle tore her eyes away and feigned interest in ripping open the cardboard pen packaging. Darcy went on, “It’s not silly. No doubt Brendon will dig for details. It’s important for us to be on the same page. Good idea.”