Written in the Stars

by Alexandria Bellefleur

  Mom squeezed her fingers. “It’s just a house, Darcy. A house your grandmother hasn’t lived in for years. A house, quite frankly, you haven’t lived in for years, either.”

  It wasn’t just a house. The three-story Victorian with its steeped, gabled roof and bright, stained glass and broad bay window was full of memories. It was weekends spent baking scones and slathering them with homemade strawberry jam and afternoons curled up on the sofa watching soaps with Grandma. It was creaking stairs and an ornate bannister Brendon had broken his arm sliding down when he was eleven. It was summer nights on the porch swing under a blanket and slumber parties with Annie.

  To Mom it was a house, but to Darcy it was home.

  Darcy twisted the platinum band on her middle finger. “Why? Do you need money because I can—”

  “It’s just time for a change.”

  “What if you rented it? That way if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t change my mind.” Mom gave a sardonic laugh, lips twisting in a way that said there was more to this story than she was letting on. “I’m selling it. I’m moving. End of story.”

  “Fine.” It wasn’t, but what else was Darcy supposed to say? It wasn’t her house, and while she had a nice nest egg put away, it wasn’t enough to buy a house in San Francisco.

  “Darcy, baby, you’re not usually this sentimental.” Mom patted her on the arm.

  Darcy covered her flinch by reaching for her wine. “I said, it’s fine.”

  Mom heaved a sigh. “Your brother and I are planning on looking at houses this weekend.”

  Darcy’s head snapped to the side. “Here? You’re planning on moving here?”

  “Well, I don’t know where exactly.” Her head waffled side to side. “Mercer Island, maybe. Somewhere close to the water. Doesn’t it remind you of the Bay?”

  Something did not compute. “If you’re looking for something that reminds you of the Bay why are you moving?”

  Mom pressed her fingers between her brows. “Darcy. Can I not want to move closer to my children?”

  Darcy stared.

  “Fine.” Mom dropped her hand and sighed. “Kenny and I broke up.”

  Of fucking course this was about a guy. When wasn’t it about Mom’s latest flavor? “Ah.”

  “Yes, ah.” Mom huffed. “And where did he decide to move to? He’s renting an apartment two blocks away. I see him all the time.” She reached for her wine and nearly drained it. “I’m sure you of all people can understand what I mean when I say I need distance.”

  Mom had effectively backed Darcy into a corner. Because what could she say? She’d packed up her life and moved all the way to Seattle after . . . after she’d broken off her engagement with Natasha. Been forced to break off her engagement. It wasn’t so much a choice as an act of self-preservation. She wasn’t going to go through with it, not knowing what she did. And staying in Philadelphia had been too hard, her life there too integrated with Natasha’s to make for an easy break. It had been messy, their group of friends entirely assimilated. Darcy hadn’t just wanted a fresh start, she’d needed one.

  “Sure.” Darcy nodded. “I get it.”

  Except she had learned her lesson, whereas Mom clearly hadn’t. She bounced from relationship to relationship, building her life around whoever she was seeing. She didn’t know how to just be, let alone be alone and so she’d move on to the next guy until the pattern repeated itself and she wound up with a broken heart. Again.

  The corners of Mom’s mouth lifted. “I thought you would.” Her veneer of happiness was flimsy at best, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Brendon and I are going house hunting this Saturday, then we’re grabbing drinks and a show at Can Can. You should come with us. You could use a little fun in your life.”

  She might not begrudge Mom her attempt at a fresh start, but house hunting with her? Drinks? Darcy could already feel a tension headache forming at the base of her skull. “We’ll see. I might have plans.”

  “Plans?” Mom wiggled her brows. “With a friend?”

  Darcy reached under her chignon and jabbed her fingers into the space where her head met her neck. “Yes, Mom. A friend.”

  “The same friend who leaves cheap wine in your kitchen?”

  A strange surge of protectiveness rose up in Darcy’s chest. “Honestly, Mother?”

  “You mothered me.” Mom stared, dark eyes wide. She lifted a hand, lightly stroking the front of her throat. “Brendon told me you were seeing someone and that it was serious but I couldn’t believe it. Looks like I owe him twenty bucks.”

  She wouldn’t quit. Darcy clenched her teeth until her molars creaked. “Brendon doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “So it isn’t serious?” Mom pressed.

  “Why do you care?”

  Mom’s eyes widened. “Darcy, I’m your mom.”

  “Yeah, well, you could try acting like it.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Mom—”

  “No.” She sniffed and smiled tightly, eyes wet with tears unshed. “It’s nice to know what you really think. You’re always so tight-lipped with your feelings around me. Tight-lipped, tight-ass.” Mom scoffed out a laugh. “It’s fine.”

  The barb barely stung, the slick feeling of guilt swimming in Darcy’s stomach winning out. She meant what she’d said, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t undo it, press rewind if she could. “Look, me and Elle . . . it’s complicated, okay?”

  “Complicated?” Mom’s brows flew to her hairline. “Darcy, baby. That doesn’t sound good. Haven’t you had enough of complicated?”

  Her spine stiffened. This wasn’t like that, and she had enough with Brendon meddling. She didn’t need Mom nosing in, too. “That wasn’t an invitation to give your two cents.”

  “Not the answer to my question. But I can take a hint.” Mom stood and reached inside her purse, withdrawing her cigarette and lighter. “I’ll get out of your hair, but just let me say this. Your brother . . . he’s like a rubber band. He’s got an immense capacity to love and his highs are high, his lows low, but he always snaps back. His heart is elastic. You and I, we’re more alike than you want to believe. But it’s true.

  “When we feel things, we feel them deeply, all the way to our bones. We don’t snap back like your brother, and our hearts aren’t made of elastic. They’re breakable, and once broken, it’s difficult to piece them back together.” She lifted her head and stared at Darcy with wide, shiny eyes. Darcy wasn’t good with tears, not hers, not anyone’s. Definitely not Mom’s. She was all too familiar with those.

  Darcy found it hard to swallow. “Mom—”

  “I know. You don’t want to talk about Natasha any more than I want to talk about your father, and I understand that. I do. You were ready to spend the rest of your life with her and that’s no small thing. Natasha broke your heart and while I’m sure Elle’s nice—Brendon seems to think she is—do you have any business getting involved in something that’s complicated this soon after you’ve put yourself back together, Darcy?”

  Cold settled in Darcy’s chest, her stomach heavy and hard.

  “Which isn’t to say you should spend the rest of your life alone.” Mom waved her hand, dismissing the thought. “Life is short and you deserve to have fun. But you’re sensible, far more sensible than me and for that I’m thankful. I’m only suggesting that our hearts can lie. You have a good head on your shoulders, baby. Use it.”

  Natasha had checked all her boxes, was all the things Darcy thought she wanted. They’d made sense together. She was a safe, sensible choice and Darcy had been ready to spend the rest of their lives together. It had never, for one second, crossed Darcy’s mind to fear that sort of betrayal before it happened, before she saw it with her own eyes. Even knowing what Mom had gone through, learning that Dad had cheated on her during those long business trips, and how Mom had drunkenly told her love was a lie more times than she could count, Darcy hadn’t believed it could happen to her until the day it
did.

  Was she right? Were they more alike than Darcy wanted to believe? Here she was, supposed to be dedicating her time to passing this FSA exam and instead she was carving out time, carving out a space in her life, for Elle, free-spirited Elle who couldn’t have been less like Natasha if she tried. Elle was all she could think about half the time and it was more than just fun, it was—

  God. It was times like these, Darcy would do anything to have just five minutes to talk to Grandma. She’d give it to Darcy straight, tell her if she was behaving irrationally, if she was in danger of losing her head. Grandma had been the only person to get Mom back on some semblance of a track in life and Darcy, for all she tried, couldn’t do the same, not alone. It was too much, the weight of it crushing.

  But Grandma wasn’t here and soon her house would be gone, too.

  Darcy’s nails bit into her skin when she crossed her arms. “While I appreciate the concern, it’s unnecessary.” She crossed the room in the direction of the door, hoping Mom would get the hint. “Since we’re doing Christmas at Brendon’s this year, did you at least pack Grandma’s ornaments?”

  Mom frowned, cigarette poised halfway to her mouth. “Those old things? Darcy, they were falling apart. I donated everything in the boxes in the basement. They reeked of mothballs.”

  Darcy’s heart seized. They weren’t old, they were one of a kind. Delicate lace angels and hand-carved nutcrackers. Felt trees and mercury glass globes. They were tradition and family and Mom had tossed them out without a second thought.

  Darcy opened the door with sweaty fingers and stepped aside.

  “You’re not upset with me, are you?” Mom rested a hand on Darcy’s shoulder as she passed by, her cigarette tickling her neck.

  “I’m—” Darcy shook her head. “Good night, Mom.”

  As soon as the door was shut, Darcy pressed her back against it, sinking slowly to the floor.

  Talking to Mom was like speaking to a brick wall and expecting it to understand, to empathize. But Darcy needed to talk to someone or else she was going to go crazy.

  Who? Normally she could talk to Brendon about anything—almost anything—but certainly not this. Annie was still in Berlin, working on behalf of her company, an independent human resources consulting firm, to facilitate a corporate merger. It was just after seven, which meant it was the middle of night there. Then there was—

  No one. She’d done an admirable job of accomplishing what she’d set out to do—isolate herself. Before this moment, she’d never realized what a lonely job it was, protecting a fragile heart.

  Darcy clutched her phone, staring at her contacts. No. Not no one. She had the phone pressed to her ear before she could second-guess herself.

  “’ello,” Elle’s voice came through the line, so vibrant and happy it made Darcy ache inside. “Darcy?”

  She sniffed as quietly as she could, covering the receiver. “Hey.”

  Her voice quivered, but held, flimsy but unbroken.

  The line was quiet, the sound of Elle’s breathing a near-silent whistle. “What’s up? Let me guess, can’t stop thinking about me, can you?”

  Darcy laughed, the edges of her self-control fraying, thinning, split in too many directions. Elle had no idea how right she was. “Something like that.”

  “You know, this is the first time you’ve called me.”

  Darcy took a shallow breath. “I hate talking on the phone.”

  Elle chuckled. “And yet you called? You could’ve texted.”

  She scrunched her eyes shut. “I hate talking on the phone but I—”

  Wanted to talk to you. Elle was the exception to so many rules it made her head spin.

  “Darcy?”

  “Sorry.” She had to clear her throat. “I just— My mom’s here.”

  She could hear Elle shift, fabric, a blanket maybe, rustle. “Right now?”

  “No, I mean, yes. She’s in town, but she was at my apartment. She just left, but she’ll be here through Christmas. She’s, um, she’s selling my grandmother’s house. No questions, just like that. She’s selling the house and she got rid of the Christmas decorations and . . . and I just wanted to . . .”

  She trailed off, not because she didn’t know what she wanted but because she did. She knew what she wanted but she didn’t have the slightest idea anymore what she needed. If they were one and the same or polar opposites.

  Elle cursed quietly beneath her breath. “God, Darcy. Are you okay?”

  “I’m—” It was there, on the tip of her tongue. Fine. Darcy always had to be fine, always had to be okay, because if she wasn’t, who would be? She always had to hold it together, be strong, keep her chin up. But she wasn’t. She was anything but fine. “Not really.”

  Two words and she split straight down the middle, her voice breaking and her chest cracking open, all the feelings she’d kept compartmentalized, carefully tucked inside boxes set neatly on a shelf deep within herself, spilled out. Messy overflowing feelings seeped out in the most inopportune places, eyes leaking and nose running. Fuck.

  “Darcy—”

  “Sorry,” she said, hating how her voice quivered. “I didn’t mean to call and dump all over you.”

  “You didn’t.” Elle sounded sincere, vehement even, her voice a firm contrast to Darcy’s weak everything. “You didn’t dump all over me. I swear.”

  Nice of Elle to say that, but it wasn’t true.

  “Still.” Darcy swiped a hand across her face, the heel of her hand coming back smeared with mascara and smudges of brown and cream eyeshadow mixed with her concealer. “It’s getting late. I just couldn’t talk to Brendon about this and I—” She needed to stop. She had no business making herself more vulnerable than she already was and especially not to someone like Elle, someone who Darcy had no guarantee would be a permanent fixture in her life. She’d make herself vulnerable, crack herself open, and . . . then what? “You know, I should let you go. I should . . .” Darcy scrunched her eyes shut, shoulders bunching by her ears because this was awkward as hell. “Bye.”

  “Wait, Darcy, don’t—”

  Darcy pressed end and let her phone fall against the floor, her head knocking against the door with a muted thud.

  Ears ringing, Darcy played over everything she’d said, her memory unfortunately practically perfect. Mortification set in, her skin itching and stomach churning.

  Perhaps Elle would pretend this hadn’t happened. Perhaps they could act like Darcy hadn’t called and gone all soppy, spilling her guts all over the place. Perhaps Darcy could change her name and number and move to a small village in the south of France. She could eat enough butter and wine that the humiliation wouldn’t matter.

  Changing her identity might take some time, but she could get a jump start on the wine. Rolling to her knees, Darcy stood and filled a fresh glass with the cheap, cloyingly sweet boxed rosé because it made her think of Elle and apparently, unbeknownst to her until nearly her thirtieth year on this planet, Darcy was a masochist. The more you know.

  * * *

  Sitting in the middle of her kitchen, pencil skirt hiked up around her waist for comfort, Darcy polished off her second glass and was reaching for her third when someone knocked on her front door.

  Brendon. Darcy shut her eyes. Mom had probably blabbed to him about how poorly Darcy had taken the news. Now she was going to have to do damage control, smoothing over her emotions, sweeping them under the rug. Prove to Brendon that she was fine, that while she wished Mom wasn’t selling the house, it hadn’t affected her in whatever way Mom claimed.

  Ready as she’d ever be, Darcy adjusted her skirt and reached for the knob. As soon as she opened the door, she was greeted with a face-full of plastic pine needles.

  “Sorry! Shit, it’s slipping. Let me just . . .” The branches pressed against Darcy’s face moved, revealing a harried-looking Elle. Blond hair fell free from the messy bun at her nape, and sweat glistened at her temples, her breath coming out in haggard little puffs. “You mind
if I . . . ?”

  Darcy clutched the—tree? bush?—and let Elle step past. Arms wrapped around a bursting cardboard box, the flaps flipped up and bent to the sides because the contents were brimming over the top, Elle waddled in the direction of the windowed wall where she bent and set the box down with a grunt. “Fuck, that was heavy.”

  Darcy kicked the door shut, plastic pine needles biting into the skin of her biceps. “What is all this?”

  Elle’s eyes bounced between the box at her feet and Darcy. “It’s a good thing you called me when you did. One Man’s Trash is only open until eight on weekdays. I managed to slip in right before they closed.” She nudged the misshapen box with the toe of her boot. “It was kind of slim pickings this far in the season, so the ornaments are . . . eclectic.”

  Darcy set the tree down beside the box and stared blankly at Elle’s haul, trying and failing to make sense of what this was.

  “As for the tree.” Elle winced. “There were only two, but the other was ginormous. Like, couldn’t fit my arms around it even if I tried . . . which, okay I did try. It didn’t work. I could actually carry this one and fit it in the back of the Uber I took here. It’s a little”—Elle shut one eye and stared at the pile of disassembled branches—“like a shrub. But I think it has a certain charm. A je ne sais quoi, you know?”

  Darcy pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “But . . . why?”

  Elle scuffed her toe against the floor, then seemed to think better of it, quickly toeing her way out of her boots, hobbling when she nearly toppled over. Her pajama bottoms—Christ, she was wearing PJs—were too long, tucked halfway under her fuzzy-socked feet. Darcy’s stomach swooped and then disappeared altogether.

  “You said your mom got rid of your grandma’s holiday decorations, so I just thought . . .” Elle shrugged. “I guess I didn’t do much actual thinking. You could’ve already had a tree and ornaments, or Brendon might’ve, but I wanted to make sure you had something. I know the tree is kind of ugly, and none of the ornaments match but if—”

  “It’s perfect,” Darcy whispered. Her eyes stung, her sinuses burning with each rapid, tear-stifling blink. “It’s really perfect.”