Written in the Stars (Written in the Stars #1)

by Alexandria Bellefleur

At least they were a self-aware psycho.

Elle was a bright splash of color against the clean canvas of Darcy’s apartment. Cobalt sweater, bleach-splattered jeans, and mismatched socks, one neon green and the other a soft periwinkle, with a pink chevron at her toes and a hole near the ankle.

“God. Do you insert that stick up your ass every morning, or is it more like an IUD that lasts you five years?”

“So tell Darcy to go fuck herself.” “It’s not that easy, Mar.” “You open your mouth and say it. Fuck. You.”

I don’t even like Two Weeks Notice.” Brendon gaped at her. “Blasphemy. It’s got Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant. Rom-com royalty. Don’t let me catch you saying that sort of thing again or else I’ll sit on you and force you through a remedial rom-com marathon.” She took a sip of her sparkling water and mock-shivered. “Oh, the horror.”

“Your name is Darcy.” “And I might be a single woman in possession of a good fortune, but I’m not in want of a wife.”

It would take an utterly uncharacteristic move on Margot’s part, like murdering someone, to make Elle hate her. Even then, Elle would at least ask why before passing judgment.

Envy never failed to make Elle feel guilty; it just wasn’t who she was, wasn’t an emotion she felt at home in, but there was a part of her, a secret part tucked away, buried so deep she didn’t even let on to Margot, that was worried it was who she was becoming. That her feelings of inadequacy were mutating into something ugly. Resentment.

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.

“Eventually, when those massive stars reach the end of their lives, they go out with a bang, a supernova so bright, so beautiful it drowns out all the other stars. And when they do, they throw out all those elements they created. That’s what we’re made of. We’ve got calcium in our bones and iron in our blood and nitrogen in our DNA . . . and all of that? It comes from those stars.” Elle’s eyes glistened, sparkling as bright as the stars she spoke of as she blinked and pointed up at the sky. “We are literally made of stardust.”

Darcy threw herself off the cliff’s edge and let herself fall. Not to Earth, but toward Elle. Elle, who was magnetic and made it sound like nothing was impossible. That even gravity could be defied if Darcy simply believed. That even if she didn’t defy gravity, she could fall anyway and it would be okay because Elle would give Darcy a soft place to land. That Darcy could trust Elle with every fragile inch of herself.

Talking to Mom was like speaking to a brick wall and expecting it to understand, to empathize.

“I hopped on Tinder and this guy legit thought that being pansexual meant I’m attracted to fucking nonstick cookware. ‘Oh yeah, baby, your griddle fucking turns me on. You shake that wok. Shake it harder.’” Elle chortled. “That’s not funny.” “I joke so I won’t commit fucking homicide.”

Champagne fizzing and shooting stars, fireworks and late nights riding in the back of a too-fast car, lights of the city whizzing past, the bridge of her favorite song blaring. None of it held a candle to this moment, this feeling burning in her veins and warming her chest, bubbling in her stomach and erupting goose bumps along her skin. Magic.