Swearing Off Stars

by Danielle Wong

  “She’s good for you, Lia. I haven’t seen you this happy since—”

  “Oxford?”

  He nodded slightly.

  “That was different,” I said quickly.

  “Was it?”

  His question hung in the air.

  “Of course,” I finally responded.

  We sipped coffee in silence until Robbie spoke again.

  “Do you think she’s the one?”

  I stared at him, wondering whether or not it was a loaded question.

  “I’m not sure if I believe in that anymore,” I said quietly.

  “I do,” he said. “And I think you do too.”

  I thought about our conversation the entire way home. Robbie was right. I still did believe in soul mates. If I could talk Beck into forgiving me, maybe we would have a shot at something more—a real future together. Something little girls dream about at night.

  Chapter 22

  Connecticut, June 1927

  The pianist’s elegant fingers moved swiftly over a set of polished black and white keys. A wonderful array of musical notes came together seamlessly as wedding music poured out of the instrument in front of us. Beck whispered something into my left ear, but I couldn’t hear her over the distracting melody.

  “Get ready to walk,” she whispers again. “We can’t screw this thing up.”

  “We won’t.” I smiled at my girlfriend in her rich emerald dress. Beck’s fiery hair contrasted the gown’s color perfectly. She was a stunning bridesmaid, to say the least.

  “Places everyone,” called a shrill voice behind us. It was Ness’s over-particular cousin, Amanda. She had planned most of the wedding, including the orchestra and a decadent cream layer cake. “Oh come here, Ness! Stop fussing with your veil.”

  I shot a sympathetic glance at Ness, who was much too polite to tell her annoying cousin to fuck off. Instead, she walked quickly towards the corner where Beck and I were hiding.

  “You look beautiful,” I sighed.

  “A flawless bride,” Beck nodded in agreement.

  “You two are liars,” she laughed. “I can’t believe we’re actually getting married!”

  “You’re perfect for each other,” I said and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  “No, you two are perfect for each other,” she whispered.

  I glanced nervously around to make sure no one else heard her comment. Ness winked at Beck and squeezed my hand back playfully. Her words carried more weight than she realized.

  “We could, you know . . .” Beck said quietly as Ness walked away.

  I couldn’t even look at her. We’d had this conversation multiple times over the past year.

  “Get married, I mean . . .”

  I opened my mouth to reply as a cold hand shoved me forward.

  “Walk!” Amanda commanded. “Follow her pace, Beck.”

  Wedding guests stared curiously in my direction as I fumbled down the aisle. I heard Beck’s shiny heels trailing smoothly behind me and tried to correct my awkward steps. Red from embarrassment, I forced a smile as I approached the altar. And there he was—my best friend, standing proudly in a black tuxedo. He stifled a laugh as I nearly tripped, but flashed a reassuring smile at me before turning back to face the aisle. I finally stood still as Beck gracefully made her way over to me.

  Ness’s compliment replayed in my head as other bridesmaids lined up beside Beck and I. You two are perfect for each other. It was intended to make me happy, but it reminded me of a recurring argument between Beck and I. She had no doubts about our relationship and wanted to stay together until the end of time itself. While the sentiment was sweet, women couldn’t live together as partners, much less get married.

  Our situation was unique and only worked out because of our unwavering commitment to secrecy. I thought that Beck understood that, but our recent conversations had proven otherwise. My heart began to race as I thought about what might happen if she told anyone about us. I smelled the freesias in Beck’s bouquet as I felt her frustration seeping through that emerald dress.

  Every guest stood as Ness and her father emerged across the church. She was breathtaking in an ivory lace gown, straight brown hair flowing over her covered shoulders. I looked at Robbie and smiled at his reaction—he and Ness were blissfully content and irreversibly in love. It all seemed so simple for them, so easy to be together. Robbie took Ness’s frilly veil in his hands and lifted it gently over her head.

  Just then, I felt Beck’s red waves skim my shoulder. I knew what she was thinking. She was wondering why that couldn’t be us—why we couldn’t have exactly that someday. My heart broke for her as Robbie and Ness exchanged their vows. I wanted to turn to her then and there, take her expectant face in my hands, and kiss her publicly.

  “Robert Johnson Wells, do you take Vanessa Jane Quincy to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “I do,” Ness replied shortly after.

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

  My best friends embraced as the audience swooned. In that moment, I wanted so badly to give Beck everything she de-sired. I wanted to, but I never could.

  Chapter 23

  New York City, February 1930

  I closed the door to our roomy loft and hung up my peacoat. It was dark, with nothing more than moonlight to illuminate the apartment.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Beck said dryly.

  Her voice startled me. She was sitting at the dining table with a dozen roses and an equally red glass of wine.

  “Hi, darling.” I smiled. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

  I walked over to her, wondering why she was so dressed up . . . full makeup, with a sheer sapphire shawl draped elegantly over her shoulders.

  “You look beautiful,” I said.

  “I got these for you,” Beck said as she dodged my hug.

  The red roses sat atop a handwritten card.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Her heavily-lined amber eyes were cold and distant. “You know what’s wrong, Lia,” she said with a sigh. “It’s been wrong for months.”

  I looked at Beck sadly, knowing full well what she was talking about.

  “Your job is your true love,” she said flatly.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do,” she shot back. “You’ve been avoiding me for months! Whenever we make plans for just the two of us, something always seems to come up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, stalling. “But aren’t you happy?”

  “Are you?”

  I was unhappy and I’m sure she realized it. We’d been together for almost eight years, most of them good ones. Through careers and hardships, we’d stayed as strong as we could. But loving someone doesn’t necessarily mean you’re meant for them.

  “I love you, Lia,” she whispered. “But it’s obvious that you don’t love me in the same way anymore.” Tears pricked her striking eyes as the words set in.

  “Beck,” I pleaded. “I’m so sorry.”

  The gloomy look on her face only intensified. “It’s awful,” she choked out. “I thought we were meant to be.”

  I tried to hug her, but failed again.

  “I know how this feels,” I said. “I know how much it hurts.”

  “Then why would you do it to me?” she sobbed.

  My heart broke for her as I tried to explain. “I didn’t do this on purpose. It’s just not that simple—”

  She held up her hand to cut me off. “It’s because of her, isn’t it?”

  I looked into her knowing eyes until she turned her head away.

  “Beck . . .”

  “Was anything actually ours?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked back at me and stepped forward so that our faces were inches apart. “Any of it. The things we did . . . the places we went . . . the way you kissed me?”

  I opened my mouth and struggled for words.

  �
�Your silence is enough of an answer.”

  “You and I—”

  “Oh, Lia.” Her voice softened. “You were half-loving me the whole time.”

  I looked out the window at the starless sky, wondering if she was right.

  “You wanted me to fill some impossible void, when your heart wasn’t even yours to give. It’s always belonged to someone else.”

  “That’s not true,” I whispered. “And you’re completely different than her.”

  “Exactly,” Beck said with a sigh, and I realized that she was right.

  I took her hand and paused for a moment. Her watery eyes reminded me of what I once lost. Beck started to say something, then shook her head and turned away. She picked up her glass and drank down all the wine in it before leaving the room.

  I sat there for hours next to Beck’s empty glass and the roses she’d bought for me. Regardless of what happened next, I could never unsee her moonlit tears.

  BECK and I only exchanged a few words the following week. I felt guilty about breaking her heart after several years of what I had deemed a great relationship. But maybe she was right about us. Beck told me that my heart wasn’t my own to give— something that I still didn’t want to believe. Maybe I never should have told her about Scarlett and my time at Oxford. Maybe then, Beck would have been convinced that she was the only one for me. But wouldn’t that have been a sordid thing to do? To convince her that Scarlett didn’t exist—that my heart was untouched before I met her in that New York café?

  Perhaps such a lie would have kept us together longer. Beck’s insecurities would have lacked a base upon which to grow, to fester. What if she never even found out about Scarlett? She—we would have been happier. Life doesn’t work that way, though. Love is permanent and enigmatic in its influence. Just as I would always love Scarlett, I knew that part of me would always love Beck.

  I dwelled on that thought for several days before telling Robbie about us. He was shocked, but just as supportive as usual. Ness overheard our conversation and insisted that I come stay with them for a while. It was definitely a more tempting offer than the prospect of moving back home. But I felt a need to get out of the city—a place that reminded me so much of Beck.

  At the end of that dismal month, my father drove over to pick me up. The entire situation felt like history repeating itself—a breakup causing me to move back home after I’d finally gained some autonomy. I stood by the window as my dad’s car hovered on the busy street below. Beck was in the kitchen, busying herself and trying to avoid an inevitable farewell. I rolled my suitcase over to the entryway and picked up a pile of boxes that held my life inside. One by one, I carried them downstairs to my father’s Buick.

  As I stared at the last box, Beck’s light footsteps were unusually audible in the stagnant silence. I turned around to face her for the last time—something I’d dreaded from the moment I realized we were actually breaking up. She held my hand loosely as I looked around the loft that was no longer ours. It seemed erroneous to leave such a beautiful place and say goodbye to such a lovely woman, but there was no other option. The chasm between us was irreparable. Beck’s grip tightened slightly as tears threatened to detonate her composure. So I let my fingers slip slowly out of hers and shut the door softly behind me.

  Chapter 24

  London, September 1930

  It was late September, and London’s streets were every shade of gray. The city smelled of coal smoke, brackish water, and stale fog. I walked at a hurried pace until I noticed the billboard and stopped dead in my tracks. It was the only colorful thing in sight, with her face magnified to a breathtaking volume. Rouged lips, rosy cheeks, and those sparkling green eyes. She was the kind of beautiful that steals a bit of your soul whenever you see her.

  It was the first time I’d been back to London in so many years. I tried to distract myself by looking at the antique dishes in local market’s colorful stalls. Rustic saucers sat alongside vintage china and eclectic jewelry. It fascinated me how such different treasures could coexist together, side by side. I would normally spend hours getting lost in a place like that. Still, my mind was preoccupied with that giant billboard. I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman on it. I guess I’d never really fallen out of love with her.

  MY shaky hands could barely clasp the cappuccino sitting in front of me. I pulled out the sealed white envelope and strongly considered opening it, but I was too scared of the hypothetical message inside. Why did my parents keep it all these years? Why didn’t they ever give it to me?

  I saw Scarlett through the café window and immediately wondered why life turned out the way it did. I couldn’t help but stare, tracing her red lips down to her long neck and svelte frame. She wore a white blouse tucked into a black ballerina skirt. Her long blond hair rustled in the wind as she noticed me, and my heart skipped a couple beats. She smiled and I smiled back, blushing at the sight of her after all those years.

  As she walked in, the first thing I noticed was her unmistakable gaze. Her eyes were even greener than I remembered. Her skin was taut and devoid of wrinkles, especially around her eyes and mouth. I wondered how much she had actually smiled since Oxford.

  Scarlett nodded at diners as she slowly walked by their tables. When she finally arrived at mine, she rested a familiar hand on my shoulder, sending chills down my spine.

  “Amelia Cole,” she whispered.

  “Hello Scarlett,” I managed to say.

  She took the seat across from me and smoothed her skirt gracefully.

  “Fame looks good on you,” I muttered in an attempt to break the ice.

  She just looked back at me with a curious expression. I wanted to know what she was thinking.

  I cleared my throat. “So, how are you?” My nervous energy was exacerbated by the caffeine in my system.

  “I’m really good,” she said, smiling.

  I wasn’t sure if I believed her or not.

  Her delicate fingers were accented with clusters of rose gold rings. But one in particular stood out. A princess-cut diamond on her left hand.

  “Scarlett.” My stomach clenched. “You’re married.” I was asking and telling at the same time.

  “Engaged,” she whispered. “James. He’s a good man.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “In my own way, yes.”

  “Well, I’m happy for you both,” I said without really meaning it.

  “It’s a little late in life, but better late than never, right?” A forced smile spread across her lips. “And you?”

  “Oh no, I’m not married,” I said quietly. “Never found anyone quite as interesting after I left England.”

  There was a glimmer in her eyes as the sentiment registered.

  “Oh rubbish,” Scarlett countered. “You’re telling me that you’ve never been with anyone else in ten long years?”

  Her playful tone reminded me of the girls we once were. But a shiny engagement ring told me otherwise.

  “I just meant that I never married,” I said quietly into my porcelain cup. The frothy milk had sunken into an inch of lukewarm coffee.

  Scarlett raised a prying eyebrow, tempting me to tell her all about Beck. I wondered if I should catch her up on the tumultuous years since Oxford.

  “I—” but something stopped me cold. Probably the realization that she would tell me all about her experiences during the past ten years as well . . . including James and other topics I didn’t want to hear about. So I changed the subject.

  “There is something I’ve been wanting to ask you though, Scarlett . . .”

  “Ask away.” She waved a slender hand through the thick café air.

  “That conversation we had in London . . .”

  Her shoulders stiffened, and I got the sense that she knew exactly what I was going to ask.

  “The acting. Did you ever—?”

  “Amelia. I never . . .” Her voice fell off, and she leaned closer. “We were never an act. I meant everything I said.” She gr
ipped the edge of the table. “The thing is . . .Will and I . . .”

  “What about you and Will?”

  She shook her head.

  “The three of us had so much fun at Oxford,” I ventured.

  She nodded her head and gave a half smile.

  “I heard that Wonderland burned down.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “There was . . . a fire.”

  “I wonder—”

  “To fully answer your question,” she said, “my love for you was nothing but real. You were the only person I could ever let my guard down with.”

  And then we were both lost for words. Everyone around us was chatting, laughing, and sipping hot coffee, but Scarlett and I were frozen in silence.

  Eventually, I had no choice but to break it. “Can’t we at least be friends?”

  My question hung in the espresso-scented air, waiting to be answered.

  “I—I don’t know how to be your friend, Amelia. I’m not sure I ever did.”

  “We were friends for a while at Oxford.”

  “No.” She sighed. “It was always something more.”

  “We were friends,” I insisted. “Before we . . . fell in love.”

  “But the two weren’t ever really separate, were they?”

  Now her question hung in front of me, and we both knew the answer. I didn’t know what to say next, so I pulled out her letter and set it on the table between us.

  “What is that?”

  “An unopened letter from 1920, if you can believe it. I found it as I was rummaging through my parents’ study this summer. They had it all this time.”

  “You never opened it?” Recognition flooded her face, and the rosy color drained from it.

  “No,” I answered.

  “I was wondering why you called after all this time,” she said. “I didn’t even believe my agent when he told me.”

  “Well, I found this and I guess it conjured up a lot of memories . . . and feelings.”

  “You shouldn’t read it,” she said quietly. It doesn’t really matter now . . .”