Where Our Stars Align

Chapter 1

I shouldn't be thinking about cheating. Not so soon after getting married. Not ever, really.

But when your husband calls your latest romance too vanilla, and that's why it isn't selling, where else is your writer-brain supposed to go?

He meant it as literary critique.

I took it as an existential crisis.

I'm not planning to cheat on my husband—of course not—just writing about someone who's reckless enough to do it.

Been listing tropes that would probably make Richard stiffen and adjust his tie if he knew where the thoughts of his wifey spiraled next.

Infidelity. Obsessions. Characters who kiss people they shouldn't under stairwells lit like synthwave dreams.

I'm not thinking about him.

Not anymore.

Richard is good, solid. The kind of man who leaves no room for ghosts.

So I'm not thinking about the one who taught me what it felt like to crave someone too much.

For once, I made a decision and stuck to it.

And I haven't put any of that cheating scandal on paper yet.

All I've managed is the title: Manuscript No. 4. In bold font.

My lip's numb from chewing it, and all I've discovered is that impatience has a taste—it's freaking metallic.

My first book catapulted me close to starlight. The second reminded me I didn't know how to breathe in the stratosphere. The third... let's just say that even with a parachute, I've never been great under pressure.

"Chaos feeds creativity," I read the sticker on my keyboard.

Sure. That or anxiety... Mostly anxiety.

I've hit writer's block before. It comes with the territory of selling your wildest thoughts disguised as fiction.

I feel a story burning behind my ribs for months now, though, just can't grasp it... which is why I'm digging low.

Maybe it started with the dream. You know, that kind that sticks with you for days after waking up?

I've had my share of those. Been a terrible sleeper since sixteen, when my life turned upside down.

This one was different.

I was drifting through a flooded San Francisco in a tiny boat and then looked up.

There was a man at a window and below him, a parade of women vying for his attention, but he had eyes only for me. Not just attraction, but recognition. Like: there you are. Finally. I've been waiting for you.

He jumped. The splash broke my boat, the water pulling me so deep I knew I was going to drown, and I screamed—terrified. Not because I was going to die—that's the weirdest thing. No. Because I couldn't reach for him.

The whole week after? I wandered around the house thinking about him over and over, even felt bad for it, as if I was cheating on Richard with a figment of REM sleep.

How crazy is that?

Anyway, I need to get out of the house because I won't write anything like this.

Smirking, I walk across our massive loft to the closet, always aware of how wild my office is in comparison to the rest.

Richard's designer chose everything with precision—furniture and art that whisper "we have lots of money in tasteful tones of white."

White is white. It's boring.

I let it slide, but sometimes I wonder why I didn't fight harder for the one thing I actually wanted—the view.

Who lives in a skyscraper near the ocean and doesn't have a waterfront view? But I don't like to argue with Richard, so I caved, and now I watch other buildings.

In the closet, I put on a tweed beige dress and kitten heels with a bow.

I'd almost pass for my usual sophisticated, if I cared to straighten my hair the way I usually do, but not today.

Today, I twist my light brown hair into a wild bun and dust on some bronzer over my golden freckles because it's been twenty-seven years and I still don't know if I love or hate them, but I do know that this will have to do.

At the door, I text Richard a sailboat emoji—our morning tradition and a reminder of how he pursued me.

He booked a cruise for our second date because "you can't escape my dad jokes on the ocean."

Instead of feeling trapped, I fell for him. For how he knew exactly what he wanted—me—and made it clear.

His reply is instant.

Richard: Jess is about to drop off your dress. You'll be the most beautiful woman there. -Rich.

I smile. Almost three years married and he still signs his texts like we're pen pals. Yup, that's Richard.

The elevator takes forever. The usual.

When the doors open and I walk in, something's different in the air.

I sniff around, trying to catch it while my foot starts tapping uncontrollably, making me smirk at how dramatic my nervous system can be.

There's definitely a faint scent and obviously it's doing something to me, but I can't connect it with anything before the ride ends.

Downstairs, the otherwise pristine marble lobby has exploded into chaos with moving boxes everywhere.

Seems like an actual human is moving in, not a company, which is rare for this building because it's mostly corporate. Good location otherwise: SoMa in San Francisco—all high-rise condos, tech wealth, and a food scene that's delicious.

I try to pass through the line-up but a mover bumps one stack and—

"Oops! Sorry!" he calls, just as an umbrella shoots open, right in my face, startling me to take a step back.

I manage a faint "No worries," staring at the pattern.

Italian flag with ristretto cups, hearts, and a gondola. So shameless I stifle a laugh, and already spin a story about its owner.

Some sentimental romantic who's still in love with a girl named Veronica. He met her in Venice. She asked him to buy her ice cream—Bacio. That gave him the courage to kiss her before she had to leave. Their forever was supposed to start at Rialto Bridge, seven sharp. She never came.

See? I still have it. If I get really desperate, I'll write his story.

Outside, the morning fog clings to the tops of buildings with that particular golden quality you see only here in SF. Reminds me of VHS movies for some reason.

It still feels strange that I moved back home when I swore I'd never return to the city that only saw me hurting. But Richard's firm needed him here, and I thought being somewhere familiar could fix me. It hasn't.

So it's only been a place of my two failed relationships. Actually, one relationship, and that other... thing.

There's a tiny comfort in knowing the streets from the back of your hand though and some of the hidden gems, like this one I'm walking into called Eleven:Eleven.

The door opens with its usual little chime and the smell of coffee hits me instantly.

I order my usual choice of decaf with a good drizzle of caramel.

I know—what kind of writer doesn't live on caffeine? Well, someone once told me it was bad for my anxiety, and I believed him. I think if he'd said oxygen was bad for me, I'd probably try to photosynthesize.

Dani, the barista, checks me while handing me the cup. "Rough night?"

"Writer's block," I sigh. "Got any muses for rent?"

She huffs a laugh. "If I did, I wouldn't be spelling names wrong on cups. Card machine's down, by the way—" She pauses, surprised by my smile. "You're not mad?"

"No," I say, pulling out cash and smiling like paying is my favorite thing to do. "I miss the good old times."

She snorts. "You're such a millennial."

I wink and claim my usual corner, sinking into the pink plush chair before watching my private window-cinema at full 2024 speed. Everything passing—car horns, footsteps, even the saxophone testing notes on the curb.

Sipping my decaf, I catch sight of myself in the reflection and realize I could scare myself. Dark circles, shoulders hunched, skin a little ghostly. Definitely not flattering and I need to get out of the house more. But first, I have a book to write.

"Come on, universe," I whisper, palms pressed to my face. "Help a girl out. Give me some inspiration... Something... anything..."

And then I glance up, and the world decides to slow down.

The clatter of cups, the chatter, the music—it all fades into the background.

Because I see him.

He walks past the window. Tall, black hair, a little longer now, brushed back in that careless way that somehow always worked. That bone structure—those cheekbones—carved from limestone in perfect symmetry. Skin kissed bronze, still glowing like he's a walking summer.

But it's the way he moves—unhurried, like he knows the world shifts around him.

He slides his phone into his pocket, scrubs of course, and looks up, not down. Present. That's always been his thing—he's here when he's here. And once, that used to be enough to make me forget who I was.

By the time my brain catches up he's gone, folded back into the crowd like he was never there, but my pulse is still stuttering like a scratched record.

I shake my head, finish the last sip of my cup, and order another one for the way home debating whether I should do caffeine because I need to wake up from whatever fever this is.

It can't be him.

Ben is in New York.

He told me himself in his last message, the one that ended with: I hope one day I can forgive you.

I reread it for a month, even though it destroyed me.

Because you don't say that unless you felt something real, right?

And yeah, I was already with Richard and it doesn't look good, even in hindsight, but feelings don't ask for permission. You can feel something for two people at once. I know because I did.

I close my eyes and just like that I'm back in 2017.

Nineteen, dating David, a med student who really should've gone into law because he was too good at fabricating truth. Cheating bastard.

I'd heard about him from everyone before I ever saw him. He seemed larger than life—the prodigy who assisted in surgeries, volunteered at free clinics, won every tennis tournament, and still had enough juice to be a good friend.

"You'll like Ben," David said on the way to the party. "Everyone does."

Ben's apartment was crammed with students celebrating the end of exams, which meant cheap wine that leaves film on your teeth, someone making out under the coat-rack, and guys taking turns playing FIFA.