Written in the Stars

by Alexandria Bellefleur

  Serving dishes were passed around the table from person to person until everyone had a plateful of Thanksgiving’s best dishes. A minute later, Marcus’s expression soured.

  Lydia was quick to rest her hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Um, I think there’s something wrong with the turkey.”

  A concerned frown quickly replaced Mom’s immediate look of startled displeasure. “What is it? Underdone?”

  His jaw shifted, tongue rolling against his cheeks. “Tastes like soap? Did you wash it?”

  Mom was a lot of things, but domestic goddess wasn’t one of them. Dad cooked 364 days of the year, but for some reason, Mom had claimed Thanksgiving as her own, ruling the kitchen with an iron fist and refusing to surrender even as much as a side dish or dessert to anyone. Her efforts were met with varying degrees of success they were all forced to grin and bear. Elle couldn’t quite wrap her head around why Mom would wash a turkey—don’t ask, don’t tell was Elle’s Turkey Day motto—but in comparison to 2008’s corn and giblet pudding, a little dish soap was mild.

  Jane took a bite and after swallowing, said, sounding surprised, “It’s cilantro, yeah?”

  “Cilantro lime.” Mom nodded. “I always go with sage and thyme, so I thought I’d try a new recipe. Brighten the meal up a bit.”

  Marcus shook his head, a contrite smile crossing his face. “Sorry. I’ve got a thing with cilantro. Tastes weird to me. No offense.”

  Mom waved him off. “You’re fine, Marcus. I’ll remember that for next time.”

  Lydia took a bite of her turkey and then hummed, eyes flaring. She finished chewing and smiled broadly. “You know, Elle, you’re a little like cilantro.”

  Elle set her fork down. She didn’t want to put the cart in front of the horse, but she had a sneaking suspicion Lydia hadn’t said that because of Elle’s ability to add flavor to a meal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  A pucker appeared between Lydia’s brows. “You know. People tend to either love cilantro or . . .” She winced. “It was supposed to be a joke because you’re . . .” She wiggled her head. “Never mind.”

  The bitter taste in the back of Elle’s mouth returned with a vengeance. “Because I’m what, Lydia?”

  “Relax, Elle,” Mom chided from the head of the table. “I think what your sister was trying to say is that your interests tend to be a tad peculiar is all.”

  “Quirky.” Lydia nodded, smiling placidly like she hadn’t just called her a fucking weirdo.

  Elle tossed her napkin beside her plate. She didn’t have much of an appetite. “What exactly is peculiar about my interests?”

  “All I was trying to say is, your interests are unique. For people who aren’t used to your . . . new age philosophy, it can take some time to get used to. Crystals and chakras and relying on advice that might as well be printed in the Farmer’s Almanac. Elle. You’re—they’re—an acquired taste. I think that’s all your sister meant.”

  An acquired taste.

  All Elle could hear was hard to swallow and unpalatable.

  She could sign all the book deals and consulting contracts with Fortune 500 companies, have all her ducks in order, but because she didn’t live her life exactly the way Mom wanted, take the right jobs, date the people Mom set her up with, settle for safe, she’d always fall short.

  “An acquired taste.” Elle sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from doing something stupid like quivering. “Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough, is it?”

  Dad’s fork clattered against his plate and Jane gasped, the final noise before a collective hush descended over the room.

  “Elizabeth,” Mom stage-whispered. “What on earth—”

  “Come on, Mom. It’s not even an elephant in the room anymore, it’s . . . it’s writing on the wall. Because I don’t have your job or Dad’s, follow in your footsteps, do everything exactly the way you want, everything according to your plan, your schedule, I’m peculiar.”

  Dad coughed into his fist. “Elle-belle, no one ever said you had to have the same job as me or your mother. Look at Jane, she’s—”

  “Perfect.” Elle nodded. “And can do no wrong. Old news. I wasn’t being literal; I meant the sort of job you have. In an office or a hospital, somewhere I report to a manager and put family photos up in a cubicle and drink tepid coffee in a breakroom and make insignificant small talk with coworkers who probably also hate their jobs. You want me to fit myself in a box and I just . . . I don’t. I’m not like that.”

  Mom stared from the head of the table, hands clenched around her cutlery. One deep breath later, she said, “Only because you don’t try. Six years of college and grad school and you threw it all away—all that effort, all that money, all that time—so you could have fun becoming a social media sensation? What’s going to happen to you when the next big thing comes along, Elle? When Instagram and Twitter are obsolete and people have moved on from this pseudoscientific astrology fad to something else? You could’ve been a chemical engineer or a climatologist or worked for NASA had you wanted, but—”

  “But I didn’t!” Elle’s eyelids were hot and a sour knot had formed inside her throat, bile and bitter indignation creeping up her esophagus, the resentment she’d buried for years beneath layers of defensive humor and nonchalance clawing its way to the surface. “That’s my point. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t happy.”

  Mom pressed her fingers to the space between her eyes and gave a weary sigh. “It’s Thanksgiving. The whole family is together. Your sister just announced her engagement. Could we not make a scene?” Her gaze darted to Darcy who was looking at Elle, eyes wide and jaw clenched.

  Inside her head, Elle’s pulse beat too loud.

  A scene. Of course. Adding insult to injury, she was also a train wreck. A mess. Darcy wasn’t looking for a relationship, but if she were? What did Elle even have to offer? Not even her own family thought she was good enough.

  Her face was hot and her legs weak and her thoughts went disjointed, a scattershot inside her brain of colors and isolated words, desires and aches. She swallowed twice, her tongue thick, curling strangely around her words as she stood, arms hanging limply at her sides, fingertips tingling as the fight drained from her, replaced with bone-deep lethargy. “I’m going to get another drink and take a minute. So I don’t, you know, make another scene.”

  “Elle,” Darcy called out, but Elle kept moving.

  Left foot. Right foot. One foot in front of the other until she escaped down the hall to the kitchen with its clean counters and bright white cabinets. Elle ducked her chin and ran her fingers over the jingle bells affixed to her sweater. Blues and reds and greens. Orange and pink planets set against a starry sky. It looked like a box of crayons threw up on her and she loved this sweater but no one else did. She’d discovered it in the bottom of a half-off bin at a thrift store in the middle of April, someone having cleared out their closet and tossed it. Deemed it unworthy.

  But Elle had loved it enough to take it home.

  Elle loved herself, but what a feeling it must be, being loved by someone else exactly as you are, quirks and warts and all. She wouldn’t know.

  Santa’s knit face blurred before her eyes. Over the ringing in her ears, footsteps approached down the hall, getting closer, the loose floorboard near the kitchen door squeaking. Shoot. Elle swiped a hand over her face, mopping her tears with her sleeve.

  Darcy ducked her head around the corner, eyes flaring when she spotted Elle. Elle who undoubtedly looked like a wreck, face streaked with salty tears and . . . she looked at the sleeve of her sweater. Plum-colored eyeliner smeared the wool. What else was new. Elle was the definition of an ugly crier, her complexion going splotchy and her eyes swelling like she was having an allergic reaction, her body trying to shove her emotions out violently through her tear ducts. Of course, Darcy was there to bear witness to another shade of Elle in all her messy glory.

  “So. Your family kind of sucks,�
�� Darcy said, plainly.

  Elle snorted, but her nose was stuffed so it came out like an awkward honk.

  “It’s no big deal.” She forced a laugh. “If you think about it, it’s stupid. I don’t know why I’m so upset. Cilantro, I mean . . . shit. Saying I taste like soap to a vocal minority of the population, that’s— It’s ridiculous.”

  It didn’t feel ridiculous.

  Darcy’s shoulders rose as she stared hard at Elle. Elle crossed her arms, hugging herself tight, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, briefly lifting one leg to scratch the back of her knee with her opposite toe.

  Darcy took a careful step toward her, then another and another until she was close enough that Elle could count the freckles on her nose. Only there were too many, countless others spreading out along Darcy’s cheeks, spilling down her jaw. Of course, there was that special freckle shaped like the moon beside Darcy’s mouth, the one bracketed by her dimple.

  She was so busy trying in vain to count Darcy’s freckles, to remember what the freckle at the corner of her mouth had tasted like when they’d kissed, that it wasn’t until Darcy’s thumb brushed the skin beneath Elle’s right eye that Elle even realized Darcy had reached out to touch her.

  “For what it’s worth,” Darcy said, her right hand joining the left to wipe away the tears and liner from beneath Elle’s eyes. “I like cilantro.”

  Elle blinked, thoughts jamming because there were too many of them competing for space inside her brain. Overriding everything was the fact that Darcy was cradling Elle’s face in her hands and staring into Elle’s eyes, her perfect teeth sunk into the swell of her lower lip, so sharp her lip had turned white from the pressure.

  When Darcy released her lip, the flesh plumped, turning red. Her hands slipped lower, thumbs no longer grazing the thin, delicate skin beneath Elle’s eyes, but the side of her jaw, her fingers curling around the back of Elle’s neck. “And when we kissed? I really liked how you taste.”

  Warmth seeped from Elle’s chest down into her stomach like she’d taken a shot of tequila. It spread lower, heat settling between her thighs. Her thoughts turned syrupy slow and candy sweet as Darcy leaned in, erasing the distance between them inch by torturous inch.

  This was really happening and it couldn’t be for show because it was just the two of them inside the kitchen, their faces growing closer together. Elle could taste the sharp, fruity, warmth of Darcy’s breath and her chest started to ache, arms and legs and the muscles in her stomach quivering, all but vibrating from keeping still. Waiting . . . waiting . . . Anticipation was the sweetest torture as Darcy exhaled, lips curling in delight at the whimper that clawed its way up Elle’s throat when Darcy’s nose brushed hers, Darcy’s nails—

  “There you two— Whoops.”

  Elle stepped back, hip knocking into the counter, sending a frisson of pain radiating from her hip bone all the way up her side. A pink flush crept up Darcy’s jaw as she stepped away, ducking her chin and staring at the floor.

  Frozen in the doorway, Dad smiled sheepishly. “Right. Just coming to make sure you were okay, Elle-belle.”

  “Fine, Dad.” At least her voice had barely shook. “We’ll be out in a minute.”

  He coughed lightly, feet already carrying him backward through the door.

  A moment passed, Elle weighing words that would do her feelings justice. She wanted to chase after the moment, snatch it back, crawl inside that bubble where she and Darcy breathed the same air, but she didn’t know how to revive it.

  Darcy opened her mouth and a sudden pulse of panic clawed its way up Elle’s throat not knowing what Darcy was going to say but terrified it would erase the progress they’d made.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” Elle blurted.

  Darcy shut her mouth, lashes fluttering. “Why?”

  Elle swallowed and took a leap of faith. “Do you want to do something? With me?”

  That moment was gone. But they could make a new moment. Several moments. If Darcy wanted. If this, Darcy following her into the kitchen, and saying what she had, meant what Elle hoped it did.

  Darcy’s lips drew to the side. “Not with your family, right?”

  “Definitely not.” Elle laughed, relieved beyond belief that Darcy hadn’t immediately said no.

  “And not with my brother?”

  Darcy was flirting and there was no one around for her to fool, no one to convince that this was anything but exactly what it was. Something real.

  Elle shook her head and boldly reached out, brushing a strand of hair out of Darcy’s face before it could fall into her eyes. “Just me.”

  Hopefully just Elle would be enough.

  The smirk on Darcy’s face grew, spreading, transforming into a genuine smile, the sight of which made Elle’s stomach explode in a spray of butterfly wings. “I’d like that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” Darcy whispered, following Elle up a long, narrow flight of stairs sandwiched between two stone walls.

  The step beneath Elle’s right foot creaked when she turned, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching her phone, which served as their flashlight, illuminating the otherwise pitch-black stairway.

  “No.” A scant amount of light rebounded off the stone wall casting shadows across Elle’s face. Darcy couldn’t see her mouth, but the lilt to Elle’s voice hinted at a smile. “We’re actually not allowed to be here.”

  “Elle.”

  “Come on.” Fingers caressed the inside of Darcy’s wrist making her shiver. “Break the rules with me, Darcy.”

  Little did she know Darcy was already breaking all sorts of rules. Rules of Darcy’s own making.

  Darcy should’ve known Elle had a reason for refusing to answer any of her questions about where they were going and what Elle had planned for their . . . date? It felt like a date, had all the trappings of one. Darcy’s stomach had been in tangles all day, thinking about it. Her focus had been shot, her ability to get work done dismal. Rather than accomplish any studying, Darcy had performed an unreliable risk assessment of her own. Answer? If she had to ask whether it was a date, her risk was too high. Even knowing that, all she could think about was Elle, seeing Elle, what it meant and how it terrified her and how, despite the risk, she’d been unable to bring herself to cancel.

  Dress warm and be ready by eleven was all Elle had said. At first Darcy had thought Elle meant eleven in the morning because what reasonable person planned a date for eleven at night? But according to Elle, the best adventures happened after dark.

  Elle jiggled the knob on the door, hips and ass shaking in the cutest victory dance when the door opened revealing a round, moonlit room. “Ta-da! Welcome to the Jacobsen Observatory, the second-oldest building on campus.” Arms outstretched above her, fingers lifted toward the domed ceiling, Elle spun in a dizzying circle, her black skirt flouncing out around her tight-covered thighs. She was wearing the jacket Darcy had bought her.

  Feigning interest in the building’s architecture, Darcy turned, pressing her fingers to one of the stones in front of her, hiding her smile in the shadows. “How’d you find this place?”

  As covertly as possible, she peeked over her shoulder, watching as Elle dropped her arms, her smile dimming. Subtle, but Darcy noticed. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but she noticed everything about Elle. How she tugged on her ear when she was anxious. Her bad habit of biting her bottom lip, a bad habit Darcy liked very much. Too much. She’d never been jealous of someone else’s teeth before, but Elle could bite that lip whenever, and there was something patently unfair that Darcy wasn’t allowed the privilege of doing the same.

  Losing it. Darcy was absolutely losing it, losing her head, losing her grip, losing it all over Elle. She had sneaked up on Darcy and now here she was, jealous of Elle’s fucking teeth. God help her.

  “Come on.” Elle tilted her head toward one of the arched French windows.

  Darcy breathed deep,
lungs swelling, burning before she exhaled and followed where Elle led.

  Like the door, the window wasn’t locked, opening with ease when Elle pressed against the latch. She threw her right leg over the sill, straddling the ledge, then shimmied out the window, dropping onto the balcony that wrapped around half of the turret-shaped building. Elle held out a hand. Resting her fingers in Elle’s warm palm, Darcy stepped over the edge and into the cool, night air, her hair whipping in the breeze.

  Above them, bright, winking stars twinkled against an inky blue canvas, the view expansive and impressive and it made Darcy’s breath catch in her throat. “Oh.”

  Elle tugged, dragging Darcy eagerly over to the stone railing. “Life would be a lot better if we all spent a little more time staring at the stars.” Loose strands of blond hair caught the moonlight, creating a haloed glow around her when she turned her face up to the sky. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Darcy wasn’t looking at the sky.

  “You see that cluster of stars right there?” Elle pointed, drawing Darcy’s attention to a grouping to the right. “Right”—she grabbed Darcy’s hand and lifted it toward the sky, tracing a pattern in the stars—“there. That’s the Big Dipper. If you follow those stars—the vertical ones on the end—straight up, you reach Polaris, also known as the North Star. It’s a constant, never moves. If you’re ever lost, you can always find true north, as long as you can spot that star.”

  Elle let go of Darcy’s hand and placed her palms flat against the railing. Hyperaware of where her limbs existed in space now that Elle was near but no longer touching her, Darcy’s hand hovered awkwardly at her side, her fingers tingling as she flexed them.

  “I know about this place because I was an astronomy major.” Elle’s lips quirked. “The last person I told that to assumed I was some ditz who confused astronomy with astrology and was in for a rude awakening.” She huffed out a laugh. “Shockingly, not true.”

  Darcy hadn’t thought it was. “People are assholes.”