“Darcy was engaged,” Brendon blurted.
Elle’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Brendon admitted.
A spike of irritation shot through her. Wasn’t that what got her into this entire mess to begin with? Brendon revealing state secrets. Well, and Darcy lying. “Maybe you shouldn’t then.”
Even though a part of her was desperate for him to keep talking.
Brendon shrugged and gave a weak little laugh. “In for a penny, in for a pound, yeah? I’m trying to fix this.”
She worried her lip and waited.
He took a sip of his tea. “Natasha. Her name was Natasha. They met in college, dated, moved in together. Darcy proposed. She was happy.”
Elle’s chest threatened to cave in on itself.
“A month before the wedding, Darcy came home early from work. She . . .” Brendon puffed out his cheeks, eyes dropping to the table. “She, um, found Natasha in bed with a friend. Darcy’s friend. A mutual friend. Ex-friend, now. But yeah. She broke things off.”
Sympathy spread throughout her chest, hot and achy. “Brendon. You shouldn’t—”
“Too late.” He lifted his head and blinked fast. “It was bad, Elle. It was”—he coughed—“bad. Darcy tried to make things work in Philadelphia, but it was too rough. She packed up and moved to Seattle.”
That’s why Darcy had moved. She’d mentioned a breakup and how she’d wanted a fresh start, but she’d never said that, nothing that communicated that ugly or painful of an end.
God. “That sucks.”
Brendon’s lips quirked wryly. “Understatement.”
None of this explained why Brendon was telling her this. “Why are you telling me this?”
He stared. “It’s not obvious?”
She could fill in the blanks, but that was all she ever did. Fill in other people’s blanks. Darcy’s blanks. “Spell it out for me.”
“My sister has trouble letting people in. She’s scared, Elle. She doesn’t think I know. Darcy does everything she can to keep me in the dark because she’s got it in her head that she’s got to be strong all the time, but I know her better than she realizes. I’ve been pushing her to put herself out there because if I didn’t, she wasn’t ever going to. Because she thinks it’s easier to be alone than risk falling in love and getting hurt again.”
Elle shook her head. “I understand. I get it. But your sister doesn’t love me, okay? She’s not—we’re not anything, okay?”
Brendon cut his eyes. “Nothing? You don’t feel anything for her? Nothing.”
That’s not what she said. “Look, Brendon. I love that you care about your sister. You’re a great brother, clearly. And I like you and I like working with you. You’re a good friend. But it’s not fair for you to try to turn this around and make it about what I feel, okay? Because I’ve been up-front about what I’m looking for since day one. Since day one I told Darcy what I wanted. I never stopped wanting to find someone to fall in love with. My soul mate. And Darcy knows that.” Her next inhale was shaky. “I understand that your sister has baggage, but we all have baggage, Brendon. We’ve all got shit and I’m—” She sniffed, stupid eyes watering. “I’m tired of having to constantly put myself out there and not be met halfway. That’s not fair.”
Elle wasn’t so naïve as to believe life was fair, definitely not love, or at least the pursuit of it, but she wished she didn’t have to keep stripping her skin off and showing the whole world her tender heart to get her point across.
Brendon bit his knuckle and nodded.
Elle’s head ached, her eyes burning with tears unshed. She stood, arms dropping to her side. “And no offense, but next time, if Darcy has something to say to me, she can say it herself. I . . . I deserve that.”
Margot would be so proud. But Elle would celebrate that tiny victory later. Right now, she felt like she was going to either cry or be sick and doing either in the middle of Starbucks sounded like a recipe for humiliation.
Brendon covered his mouth with his hand and nodded, eyes full of despair yet nowhere close to what Elle felt. “Yeah. That’s . . . you’re right.”
She was. She didn’t need Brendon to keep acting as Darcy’s emotional intermediary, constantly translating.
Elle clenched her back teeth until her jaw creaked. She needed to get out of here. “I’m gonna . . . I’ll see you around, okay?”
She didn’t wait for Brendon to reply. Turning on her heel, Elle booked it out of the coffee shop, stepping out into the cool, gloomy afternoon light. Gray skies and low-hanging clouds promised rain.
Elle stopped at the crosswalk and stared hard at the red light until she saw spots, the glow burned into her glassy eyes.
I deserve that.
Maybe if she kept saying it, she’d start to believe it. Not in her head, but in her heart, where for her, it mattered most.
Chapter Twenty-One
Darcy’s apartment was quiet in a way that had nothing to do with noise.
She’d always appreciated that her neighbors were considerate and the noises from traffic never penetrated the serene little neighborhood pocketed in downtown. This was different. Never before had the loudest sound inside her apartment been the ever-persistent thud of her heart.
Darcy cradled her coffee cup against her chest and spun in a slow circle. Perhaps the loudest sound wasn’t the thud of her heart, but the echoes of Elle that lingered in the kitchen and on the couch, the floor, the shelves, the Christmas tree beside the window. The curious hum Elle had made when running her fingers down the spines of Darcy’s books. The sweet chime of her laughter in the kitchen when she’d dunked her finger in the pancake batter and dotted a dollop on Darcy’s cheek. How that laughter had evolved into the prettiest moan that had resulted in burned pancakes and a blaring smoke alarm and sheepish smiles and Darcy whispering the words fuck it against Elle’s neck.
The longer she stood studying her apartment, the less quiet it seemed.
How the hell was Darcy supposed to get rid of an echo? A sage smudge stick? Even that sounded like something Elle would say, and she would’ve gotten a kick out of the look on Darcy’s face when she suggested it.
Darcy glared at her bookshelf and chewed on the inside of her cheek. No, she’d do things her way. Erasing all traces of Elle would be her first step, a sound one. She’d scrub her apartment from top to bottom, bust out the Ajax, then she’d spackle over the void with all new furnishings if that’s what it took.
Erase all traces.
Darcy inhaled deeply and set her coffee cup on the table. She could do this.
She’d alphabetized the shelves by author’s last name. An hour later, they were now alphabetized by title, books lined neatly in a row, nary a one sticking out farther than the rest. Darcy had double-checked, taken a goddamn ruler to the shelves to make sure. Elle might’ve touched those spines, but not in that order. And she’d never touch them again. Darcy bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.
Don’t think about it.
Next, Darcy hauled the box of rosé over to the sink and twisted the nozzle, pink wine swirling down the drain. The wine bladder went into the trash and the box into recycling. Kitchen back to normal, Darcy moved back to the living room, checking off items from her mental to-do list, spring cleaning in the middle of winter.
She got down on her hands and knees and fished out the gel pen that had rolled beneath her television stand. Indigo Sky. Darcy frowned at the pen. It was a close match to the shade of Elle’s eyes.
Don’t think about it.
Darcy stared at the tree, chest burning. She couldn’t bring herself to tear it down, not yet. She’d just try not to look at it. Christmas was tomorrow, anyway. She’d take it down right after.
Don’t think about it.
Darcy moved into her bedroom. Stark white sheets and a matching duvet covered her bed. Nothing was remiss save for the speckled composition notebook full of facts about Elle lying on the nightstand. Her bir
th date. Her favorite gummy bear flavor. All her planets . . . placements . . . houses . . . something like that. Elle in a nutshell. Darcy smoothed her hand across the cover, thumb brushing the pages at the bottom.
Not true. Elle couldn’t be contained in pages, constrained to paper. She was larger than life, but these pages held an imprint, the closest Darcy would ever again get.
Recycle, it belonged in the recycle. All she had to do was chuck it and her apartment would be an Elle-free zone once more. Neat, tidy, everything where it belonged. Quiet.
Darcy clutched the notebook to her chest and left the room. She opened the cabinet beneath her sink where the trash and recycling resided, and paused. Drop it. It was only a notebook, only paper. It wasn’t Elle. So would it really matter if she kept it? She’d only used a few of the pages, it would be a waste to toss it. She could rip out the front pages and repurpose the rest. And she’d do that later. But for now, she’d tuck it in the back of her closet behind her shoeboxes. Out of sight, out of mind. She’d ignore it, just like the tree.
Darcy shut off the light to her closet and stood in the middle of her bedroom, arms crossed. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to fill her time, nothing to drive away the silence she was desperate to fill with action and noise.
Sitting still wasn’t an option. If she sat down, she might not get back up. Like an object in motion, Darcy needed to keep moving or else the feelings inside her chest that had taken root would branch out. Like some invasive species they’d wrap around her, choking her until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—
Darcy pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. Keep moving. She’d shower, then— No. One step at a time. Minute by minute. Like sands through an hourglass, so were the days of her life.
A desperate, broken chuckle splintered the silence. Darcy clapped a hand over her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
Don’t think about it.
Stepping into the bathroom, Darcy flipped the light switch, then reached for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head. Her eyes caught on her reflection, something out of place on her face. She dropped her shirt and leaned closer, tilting her head. That wasn’t there earlier, that was—
Glitter.
A speck of glitter stuck to her cheek, beneath her eye where the skin was puffy and swollen, so puffy no eye mask or cold compress could combat it.
Darcy rubbed at her skin with her fingers. No dice. She rubbed harder, scraping with the edge of her nail. It wouldn’t budge. It was adhered to her skin like glue, going nowhere. She turned on the faucet and splashed her face, gasping a little at the shock of ice-cold water against her flushed skin.
Jesus, was it embedded? Was it stuck beneath the surface? It was glitter, of course it wasn’t going anywhere. Glitter never went anywhere other than exactly where you didn’t want it, where it didn’t belong.
Turning off the water, she hung her head, sucking in air through her mouth because her nose wasn’t working. Was suddenly stuffed. She couldn’t breathe through it, why couldn’t she—
“Darce?”
She shrieked and jumped back, nearly slipping on her discarded shirt atop the tile floor. Hands grasping the counter, Darcy caught herself, then ducked and grabbed her shirt, tugging it over her head. The tag brushed her chin, her shirt backward.
Brendon.
“What the fuck? Don’t you knock?” Blood pumped adrenaline to her extremities, making her fingers twitch.
Brendon stared at her with wide, frazzled eyes, the crests of his cheeks pink. “I did? I knocked. I called. I texted. You didn’t answer so I used the key—”
“The key I gave you in case of emergencies, Brendon. Christ. This isn’t . . . this isn’t an emergency. It’s not. You don’t get to come in here, just waltz in my apartment like you own the place. An emergency is if I don’t pick up for hours or a day or two days. This isn’t an emergency.”
Brendon guppied like a goldfish. “I was worried. I didn’t—”
“That’s not your job.” Darcy pressed a hand to her chest over her racing heart. “You are not supposed to worry about me. I worry about you, got it? That’s my job.”
“Darce—”
“No. I’m mad. I am mad at you. Do you hear me? I’m so mad.” Darcy sucked in a gasp and bit the inside of her cheek. Her vision blurred so she shut her eyes. “God, what’s wrong with me?”
Hands grasped her arms tight, held her as she sunk down to the bathroom floor. She tucked her knees against her body and leaned into Brendon who shushed her with empty words meant to make her feel better. I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.
“It’s not.” She gasped. “It’s not going to be okay.”
She could scrub the apartment from top to bottom. She could rearrange her books and get rid of all Elle’s things, everything Elle had touched. Darcy could burn her whole apartment to the ground, salt the earth, and move halfway across the world but there’d be no escaping the memories, the glitter. Virtual fingerprints she’d never get rid of.
There wasn’t a part of Darcy Elle hadn’t touched, her skin, her hips, her hair, her lips, her heart. She’d be finding glitter from now until eternity.
Brendon cupped the back of her neck with fingers that felt cool against her flushed skin. “You’ve got to believe that it’s going to be okay. I believe it’s going to be okay.”
God. He sounded like Elle.
Darcy pushed at Brendon’s shoulders and lifted her head. “Elle wanted to know how I felt. I told her I didn’t know. I was—”
Scared. Like Brendon had accused her of being.
And now he knew. It was hard to pretend to be some pillar of strength when he’d watched her fall apart.
He leaned back, staring. “All right. Then tell me how you feel. Tell me something about Elle.”
Seriously? “Brendon—”
“Come on.” He nudged her with his knee.
“Why?” Anger sparked, never having gone away, instead drifting into the background, pain pervading. Why did Brendon care? When was he going to stop making her do things she didn’t want? Things it was so hard for her to say no to?
He took her outburst in stride, shrugging congenially. “Why? Because I care about you and you’re wrong. It’s not your job to take care of me.”
“It is—”
“No.” Brendon shook his head. “It’s not. You’re not Mom, and it was never supposed to be your job to take care of me. You did more than you needed to, more than I probably know about, but you don’t have to do it by yourself anymore. It’s our job to take care of each other, okay?”
“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she whispered.
“Needing help, wanting help, it doesn’t make you weak, Darce. Let me in. Let me help you.”
This was Brendon. And apparently, he knew more, was far more perceptive, than she’d given him credit for. He’d already seen her at rock bottom; how much worse could it be opening up? “You want me to tell you about Elle?”
He nudged her again. “Humor me.”
Fine. Darcy licked her lips. “She tastes like strawberries.”
Brendon wrinkled his nose, face scrunching up in disgust. “Oh, come on.”
Darcy kicked him in the foot and laughed, swiping beneath her eyes. “I meant her lip gloss. She tastes like the strawberry jam Grandma used to make. Remember?”
Brendon leaned his head back against the bathroom wall and smiled. “Yeah?”
She twisted the ring on her hand and nodded.
“What else?”
The easier question wasn’t what she liked about Elle, but what she didn’t. Because Elle wasn’t perfect, there were things about her that drove Darcy up the wall, like how she never wore a jacket and would sometimes drop off in the middle of a sentence when a new thought flitted through her mind, but listing the things she loved about Elle was like asking her to count the stars in the sky. They’d be there all night and even then, it wouldn’t b
e enough time.
“Her eyes are my new favorite color and if you make fun of me for saying that I’ll—”
“Issue an empty threat?” Brendon nodded. “Not laughing, but got it. Go on.”
Darcy sighed and leaned back against the bathroom cabinet. “I can talk to her, trust her with things I don’t tell everyone. Like how I watch soap operas and used to write Days fanfic—don’t say anything—and she didn’t laugh. She told me I should do whatever makes me happy.” Darcy rested her hand over her throat. “She makes me happy. Made me happy.”
Brendon reached out, resting a hand on the top of her foot. “Sounds like you love her.”
Darcy shut her eyes and bit her tongue.
He hadn’t said it the way Mom had, intrusive and anxious. Brendon made it sound simple. The sky is gray. It’s raining out. You love Elle. As if it were easy. But there was nothing simple about how she felt.
“Brendon.” She choked. “I can’t. I can’t love her. I can’t do it.”
He squeezed the top of her shin and made a soft sound in the back of his throat, half hum and half cough. “I don’t think it’s a matter of can or can’t. You either do or you don’t, and I think we both know you do. There’s— If I make a Yoda joke, will you kill me?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “You feel how you feel and that’s not going to change just because you didn’t tell her, because you didn’t say the words. I mean, you didn’t stop loving her after the party the other night, did you? How you feel . . . that’s not really the question, is it? It’s whether you’re going to let Elle in. Whether you’re going to let her love you the way you deserve to be loved, Darce.”
Would Elle even want to hear how she felt, or was it too late? What if Elle turned her away? Or worse, what if everything went perfect, only to go wrong again in a month, six months, two years?
There was no accounting for anything when it came to love and that was terrifying.
“Come on,” Brendon said. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Darcy swallowed. “I’m scared.”
Brendon’s brow furrowed like he wasn’t expecting her to admit it, to finally say it. But it was about time she finally owned up to the fact that she was constantly terrified. That her fears had come true and the hope of fixing this only to fail all over again was almost enough to make her throw in the towel and never put herself out there again.
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