Two impulses warred within her, churning her stomach, turning her gut into a battlefield. There was the desire to tell Elle that she hadn’t expected any of this, but here she was. Completely upside down, but Elle was a bright star lighting up the dark, keeping her from feeling entirely lost, entirely alone in this. That yes, this had started out as a fake relationship, but now these feelings felt anything but fake.
Darcy’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, words clogging in her throat, overpowered by the second impulse, the desire to never talk about why she hadn’t wanted a relationship and was so resistant to Brendon’s matchmaking, the reason that went beyond being busy. Most of the time she did everything in her power not to think about it. Saying it was out of the question.
There had to be a balance between saying something and revealing everything. She needed to find that happy medium, find it now, because the look on Elle’s face was growing grimmer by the second.
“Brendon.” Fuck. Her tongue really had adhered to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed and tried again. “Brendon’s Christmas party. Do you . . . do you want to go with me?”
Her heart beat against her sternum like an angry kickdrum when Elle frowned. “I already said yes. That was part of our deal, wasn’t it? You go to Thanksgiving with me and I go to the Christmas party and whatever else I needed to. To convince your brother.”
Darcy was bad at this, rusty at sharing how she felt. She hated being bad at things, hated not knowing what she was doing, obvious in her ineptitude. She huffed, despising how her cheeks went hot, her feelings splashed across her face.
“I know that. Obviously, I know that. I meant.” Darcy took a deep, shuddering breath in and stepped closer into the space between Elle’s knees. “Do you . . . do you want to go? Forget the deal. Do you still want to go with me?”
Elle’s head snapped up. “What?”
That her voice was barely above a whisper emboldened Darcy, made her heart beat harder, so hard it was as if it were trying to bust out of her chest and fling itself at Elle.
“I said, forget the deal, Elle.” Darcy rested a hand on the outside of Elle’s leg, gripped the warm skin of her thigh. Her pinkie grazed the soft, thin fold behind Elle’s knee and she could’ve sworn she felt Elle’s pulse jump. “That’s not why I want you to go. Not anymore.”
Elle’s tongue darted out from between her lips. She blinked twice and her shoulders rose and fell on a sigh, breath pancake-sweet. “Why?”
Because she couldn’t stop thinking about her. Because she’d had plans, very specific plans not to enter into a relationship, but Elle made her second-guess every last one. Elle made her want things she wasn’t supposed to want, not right now, not for God knows how long. Until she was ready? Darcy didn’t know when that time would come but here Elle was. And Darcy was right here, too. Wanting and hoping and being terrified of it all but not willing to let Elle go.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Elle.” Immediately, Darcy lifted a hand, clutching her neck. Her throat wasn’t the only thing left raw by that confession.
Elle’s lip popped free from her teeth, her mouth falling open.
She could do this. She could be brave, be as brave as Elle. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but this doesn’t have anything to do with Brendon. Not anymore. I’m . . . I’m not ready for this to be over.” Darcy didn’t want to wake up to a world where Elle didn’t text her, where there wasn’t the promise of seeing Elle again, of hearing her laugh. Being the reason for it. “I’m not ready to say good-bye.”
Not in one month or two. Maybe not ever.
Behind her, the refrigerator hummed. Elle was disconcertingly quiet as she stared at Darcy, eyes wide and mouth agape. A fresh wave of heat crept up Darcy’s jaw as she waited for Elle to say something. Anything to put her out of her misery.
“Oh my god,” Elle muttered. “You like me?”
What kind of question was that? That it was even a question at all was absurd, the most absurd thing to ever come from Elle’s mouth and that was truly saying something considering the number of strange, unfiltered thoughts she shared.
Wasn’t it obvious? Written all over her face? “You sound surprised.”
Elle made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff and kicked at Darcy’s leg, missing by a mile. “I am surprised.”
“Really.” Darcy gave Elle her best deadpan stare. “That thing I did with my tongue last night didn’t clue you in?”
Her words had the desired effect. Elle’s face turned scarlet as she shut her eyes and laughed. Fighting her own smile would’ve been futile, and in keeping with the theme of the morning, Darcy wasn’t in the mood to deny herself. When it came to Elle, Darcy truly was a hedonist.
Elle gave a tiny shrug after she’d calmed down. “But you never actually said it and . . . I don’t know. Plenty of people have hookups where they don’t particularly know the other person, let alone like them.”
She wasn’t wrong, but that’s not what this was. Darcy had had hookups like Elle had described, and this was nothing like that. Not even close.
“This is different. This is—” Approaching a line she wasn’t ready to cross. “I don’t cook breakfast for just anyone, you know.”
Or spend the night. Or talk about her mother. Or share her fondest memories. Sharing, period, was something Darcy seldom did these days.
“Lucky me,” Elle said, reaching for the plate of pancakes. She snagged two off the top and brandished the plate in Darcy’s direction with a wrist wiggle. “Care to partake in the fruits of your labor? They’re extra yummy.” As if to make her point, Elle stuffed half the pancake in her mouth. “Sweriously.”
Darcy bit the inside of her cheek and took the plate from Elle, setting it down beside the stove. Then she grabbed Elle by the hips and pulled, yanking her near the edge of the counter. She stepped into the cradle formed by her thighs and brushed her lips along Elle’s jaw, humming in satisfaction when Elle shivered in her arms. “I don’t want pancakes.”
Chapter Fifteen
December 5
MARGOT (9:43 P.M.):
DARCY (9:55 P.M.): Is there a reason you sent me a compilation video of Greatest Soap Opera Slaps of All Time?
MARGOT (10:02 P.M.): Elle and I are watching soap operas on YouTube and I fell down the rabbit hole.
DARCY (10:03 P.M.): Oh god.
MARGOT (10:04 P.M.): You ever watch Passions?
ELLE (10:05 P.M.): omg there’s a soap with a witch Darcy
ELLE (10:05 P.M.): her name is *Tabitha* omg
ELLE (10:06 P.M.): this is the best
DARCY (10:10 P.M.): There’s a crossover connection with Bewitched, actually. Tabitha claims to be the daughter of a witch named Samantha and a mortal named Darrin. In a later season, she has a daughter who she names Endora. Dr. Bombay makes a few appearances which suggests that Passions and Bewitched exist in the same universe.
ELLE (10:11 P.M.): #obsessed
MARGOT (10:11 P.M.): Elle just made a weird choking noise and keeps muttering oh my god.
DARCY (10:12 P.M.): Did you try turning her off and turning her on again?
MARGOT (10:12 P.M.): Jesus. Nerd.
MARGOT (10:12 P.M.): You’re as bad as your brother.
MARGOT (10:13 P.M.): You’re just closeted. A closeted nerd.
MARGOT (10:14 P.M.): Btw turning Elle on is your job. Ugh.
DARCY (10:43 P.M.): Was I supposed to sort by kudos or hits on AO3? I can’t remember.
MARGOT (10:47 P.M.): Kudos if you’re looking for quality. You strike me as the type who’s picky about her word porn.
DARCY (10:48 P.M.): Excuse me for being concerned about proper grammar and punctuation.
MARGOT (10:49 P.M.): You’re excused. Elle’s texting must drive you up the wall.
DARCY (10:52 P.M.): It’s fine. I don’t mind.
ELLE (10:54 P.M.): awwwww
ELLE (10:54 P.M.): you dont mind my texting shorthand
ELLE (10:55 P.M.): wud
u still lik me if i typed lik this
ELLE (10:58 P.M.): darcy?
ELLE (11:03 P.M.): DARRRRRCCY
MARGOT (11:05 P.M.): Idea! You should write a Passions x Bewitched crossover fic. I’ll beta it for you.
MARGOT (11:06 P.M.): You’ll get like 2 kudos and 6 hits because there’s no audience for something that niche, but I’ll love it and so will Elle.
DARCY (11:08 P.M.): Maybe.
ELLE (11:10 P.M.): you should do it!
ELLE: (11:11 P.M.): 11:11 make a wish!
ELLE (11:13 P.M.):
ELLE (11:13 P.M.): Please do it.
DARCY (11:15 P.M.): Fine. Only because you said please and used proper punctuation.
ELLE (11:16 P.M.):
DARCY (11:18 P.M.): Good night.
ELLE (11:19 P.M.):
DARCY (11:28 P.M.):
* * *
December 6
ANNIE (2:43 P.M.): Elle requested to follow me on Instagram. Should I accept?
DARCY (2:56 P.M.): I don’t care.
ANNIE (2:58 P.M.): Just wondering if it was crossing a line or something.
ANNIE (2:58 P.M.): Since, you know. It’s fake.
ANNIE (3:01 P.M.): You didn’t tell me Elle was so pretty. She’s freaking adorable. That group shot your brother posted didn’t do her justice.
DARCY (3:06 P.M.): About that. It’s not fake.
ANNIE (3:10 P.M.): Wait. What?!
DARCY (3:15 P.M.): It’s not fake. It’s complicated.
ANNIE (3:20 P.M.): Oh my god. You had sex. You slept with her.
ANNIE (3:21 P.M.): I fucking knew it.
ANNIE (3:24 P.M.): It was good, yeah? It must’ve been.
ANNIE (3:29 P.M.):
DARCY (3:32 P.M.): Did you really just send me a link to Baby Got Back?
DARCY (3:34 P.M.): I rue the day I ever got a cell phone. I’m at work and everyone I know keeps texting me. I forgot I had my volume on and I tried to play that video and now my coworkers are staring at me like I’m a freak.
ANNIE (3:39 P.M.):
DARCY (3:40 P.M.): Annie!
ANNIE (3:43 P.M.): Oh boo hoo. You have friends who like talking to you. People care about you. Your coworkers know you listen to music other than fucking Chopin. Wah. Poor Darcy.
DARCY (3:46 P.M.): It’s a hard knock life.
ANNIE (3:47 P.M.): Oh fuck you very much.
* * *
December 9
ELLE (2:08 P.M.): so annie and i were discussing your aesthetic earlier this morning and we think 70s style jumpsuits should be your new thing
ELLE (2:08 P.M.): you have the height to pull them off
ELLE (2:09 P.M.): granted going to the bathroom might be a bitch but you’ll look sexy while you struggle
DARCY (4:15 P.M.): Since when do you talk to Annie? Let alone about me?
ELLE (4:27 P.M.): annie and i go waaaaay back to last tuesday
ELLE (4:28 P.M.): catch up
ELLE (4:29 P.M.): jumpsuits yay or nay?
DARCY (4:31 P.M.): May . . . be?
ELLE (4:32 P.M.):
* * *
“Darcy!”
She tore her eyes from the Passions x Bewitched fanfic she was drafting in Google Docs on her phone and searched for the source of her name. There, sitting on one of the couches in the center of her apartment’s lobby, was Gillian. Her mother. What was she doing in Seattle, let alone her apartment building?
“Mom?” Darcy crossed the lobby, stopping in front of her mother who clasped her arms with cold fingers and buffed a kiss across each of her cheeks. Darcy’s nose wrinkled at the cloying scent of nicotine and Yves Saint Laurent Opium that clung to Mom’s hair, so pungent Darcy could taste it. “What are you doing here?”
The colorful enamel bangles on Mom’s left wrist jingled as she released Darcy. “Have you done something different with your hair?”
“No?”
“Huh.” Mom laughed. “It looks different. Good, but different. You look great.”
“So do you.” Darcy raked her eyes over Mom’s outfit. It was Darcy’s style, but the yellow floral maxi and brown leather jacket looked nice on Mom. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
One hand on Darcy’s back, Mom silently ushered her in the direction of the elevator. “Why don’t we head upstairs?”
Darcy held her tongue until after the elevator spit them out on the ninth floor. “So. What brings you to Seattle?”
“Your brother’s Christmas party is next weekend.” Mom surveyed Darcy’s apartment for the first time with a speculative tilt of her head. Her wall art received an interested hum, her furniture a none-too-subtle frown.
“Does he know you’re already here?”
Mom gave a quiet huff of laughter and plucked a book off the shelf, scanning the cover before placing it back out of order. When Elle had touched Darcy’s things, at least she’d put them back where they belonged. “I would imagine he does, seeing as I’m staying in his guest room.”
Why was she just now hearing about this? Brendon hadn’t said anything at their lunch yesterday. “When did you get into town?”
Mom chuckled. “God, Darcy, what’s with the third degree?”
It wasn’t every Tuesday that Mom showed up at her apartment unannounced, but when she did, it spelled trouble. As much as Darcy wanted to believe this was nothing more than a surprise visit, that maybe Mom wanted to catch up, see how Darcy was settling into a new city, ignoring history would be foolish. Mom didn’t check in and she didn’t stop by for the hell of it. She made time for Darcy when she needed something—occasionally a place to stay for a night’s layover, quick cash when her latest ex screwed her over, most often someone to dump her emotional baggage on.
Every time, Darcy vowed to put a stop to the cycle and every time, she caved. Annie—because she couldn’t talk to Brendon, not about this—encouraged her to establish clear boundaries or else one day she’d snap from the pressure. It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t fair, but what in life was? She had learned the meaning of resiliency when she managed to muscle through, shoulder a little more of Mom’s baggage.
She ran her fingers over the waist of her skirt, fidgeting with the tuck of her blouse. “You want a drink, Mom?”
Darcy escaped to the kitchen, assuming the answer would be yes.
“Since when do you drink boxed wine?” So much for an escape. Mom stood in the doorway, frowning.
And apparently, she was the one who asked too many questions?
Turning, Darcy reached inside the cabinet and grabbed two glasses. She snagged the bottle of red closest to her and tugged on the cork, quickly filling both glasses before adding an extra splash to hers for good measure.
“It’s not mine.” She offered Mom a glass and slipped past, leaving the kitchen. “A friend left it here.”
“A friend?” Mom asked, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a landslide.
Taking a generous sip, Darcy set her glass down on a coaster and sat on the far end of the sofa closest to the window. “Yes, Mom. I have friends.”
Mom perched herself on the other end of the couch, pinching her glass tightly by the stem. “Well, go on. I want to hear about this friend of yours.”
Her brow wiggle passed suggestive, entering into lewd territory.
Darcy acted like she hadn’t spoken. “So. You’re staying with Brendon.”
Mom hauled her purse onto her lap and rifled through the inner pocket. “No hard feelings, I hope. I called him to pick me up from the airport and he offered his guest room, so . . .”
With a crow of satisfaction, she withdrew a cigarette and lighter from her purse.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Darcy said.
Cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth, Mom waved Darcy off. “Oh what? Like your landlord’s ever going to find out if I—”
“I don’t want you smoking in here.” Yes, it was a building policy, but it was also a Darcy policy. One she wouldn’t budge on.
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Mom tugged the cigarette from her mouth and gestured to the wall of windows. “What if I crack a window?”
Jesus. “We’re on the ninth floor. The windows are floor to ceiling; they don’t open.”
With a huff, Mom threw the cig and lighter back into her purse, which she then tossed on the floor. “Okay, Mom. Jeez, I never raised you to be such a tight-ass.”
Darcy bit the tip of her tongue, swallowing her retort. Mom had barely raised Darcy at all.
“So you’re here for Brendon’s Christmas party. You must be planning to fly home around the same time as Brendon and me.”
“About that.” Mom tucked one leg up on the couch, turning to face Darcy.
Ah, the but. It had only been a matter of time, a matter of how long Mom was going to beat around the bush before she came out with the real reason why she was here. Not only in town, but at Darcy’s apartment, on her couch, guzzling her wine down like it was water, and gripping the stem of her glass so hard Darcy worried it would break.
“I was thinking we’d have Christmas here this year,” Mom said. “Save you and Brendon the trip.”
“We already have tickets.”
Mom opened her mouth only to pause. She took a deep breath and smiled tightly on the exhale. “Your brother canceled those.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “He didn’t say anything.”
“I asked him not to.” She scooted closer, sliding across the cushions. “I wanted to tell you myself. Preferably in person.”
Darcy’s pulse stuttered then sped. “Is everything okay? You’re not—”
Mom rested a hand on top of hers. “Everything’s fine. God, you worry too much.” She reached up, poking the space between Darcy’s brows. “It’s gonna give you wrinkles one of these days.”
Darcy batted her fingers away. She worried for good reason.
“Then what is it? Why aren’t we having Christmas in San Francisco?”
“Well, that would be hard to do,” she said, “seeing as I’m selling the house.”
“You’re selling Grandma’s house?” Darcy’s voice nearly cracked, so she coughed.
Written in the Stars Page 20