Where Our Stars Align

Chapter 4 #2

"Star-crossed at best," I say dryly and finally take a sip, trying to unwind.

The window is open and there is a nice soft breeze coming in that tricks you into believing things might still end well.

There's a pause while I pick at my nails, deciding how to tell her the next thing.

She'll probably make fun of me, but she's my best friend—actually, my only friend since I came back—and I need to get it out before it eats me alive.

"The biggest problem now is that I... had a dream about him."

She studies my nervous fidgeting with a cocked brow. "What kind of dream?"

"A..." I clear my throat. "A wet one."

Her brow shoots up even higher and she lets out a low whistle, more entertained by my filthy subconscious than I am. "You used to talk about that one kiss like he was some sex god who descended from Mount Olympus, so that tracks."

"Yeah, but for most of our friendship, there was nothing sexual. He wasn't just that for me. It was more. Like, way more."

"Mm. Like what more?" She purposely pins me with her eyes because she knows I avoid talking feelings.

And I don't even know how to explain gravity, so I stay silent.

Lu leans in, her fingers running through my hair, leaving red specks behind. "Your hair's dry."

I frown at it. "What does my hair have to do with it? And it can't be dry."

"Sex is the best conditioner and you—" she pats my head for emphasis, "—baby girl, are brittle. Which might explain your delicate mood."

I roll my eyes. Sex has nothing to do with it. It's the three years I spent learning how to file Ben into some invisible drawer in my mind, and now that he's back, I'm terrified it's all going to spill out again.

"That's bullshit. And I already told you it's not about sex."

"It's not bullshit. It's an ancient knowledge." She puts on a mock-offended face, then tilts her head. "So? How long has it been since Richard last checked your oil?"

I throw the coaster at her stupid face, but she ducks it, grinning with that waiting-for-it expression.

I stare at her flatly but reluctantly count in my mind. Damn, I don't even know anymore.

"Maybe three weeks? Or four?" I admit, a little humiliated.

"Shit." Her lips purse in shock. "Should I brew something for Richard's little problem?"

I sputter a laugh before I can stop it, then catch myself and straighten, giving her my best lady-of-the-manor glare that Richard would award me for. "Screw you. My husband doesn't have a problem—"

Lu raises a brow. "Richard's got a lot of problems. One of them being too busy admiring himself in the mirror."

"Stop." I level her with a sharp glare.

Lu isn't a fan of Richard either. It started pretty much from the first dinner we had together in Seattle before our wedding.

We got into the logistics, and he insisted I take his last name, even swap it on my books, calling it a rebrand.

Lucy fumed, asked him why, he started preaching about 'traditional values,' and she told him he was fucking medieval.

End of story. End of civil conversation.

"Richard is very busy with work, building an empire."

"How can he have you in his bed and not touch you? Your relationship's weird."

"It's not!" I fling my arms, too defensive. "Our love was never really in the skin. And it's the last thing on my mind now."

"Apparently it is on your mind," she deadpans. "Just not for your husband."

"Hah-hah." I shoot her a look, even though there's absolutely nothing I can say to that, and walk toward the mural, pretending to study the strokes, when the truth is I need to put my focus on someone else's unraveling.

Thumb the wall. "Your landlord knows you're vandalizing his property?"

She gets up instantly, spinning a brush as she crosses to me. "Eh, had nothing to do. When I finish, they'll beg me to keep it. Probably charge the next tenant extra for 'artistic ambiance' or some bullshit." She plucks another brush from her pocket and slaps it into my hand. "Come help me."

I take a step back. "No way. I'm not ruining it."

"You need to do something with your hands to stop that mind-vomit, and you don't come often, so I need proof you were here," she says.

When I don't move, she nudges me, rolling her eyes. "Come on. If I don't like it, I'll repaint it."

I pause a beat longer.

I can sketch, especially bodies—especially some bodies, ehm—but painting is a different beast.

I wish I was like Lu, painting, smacking some clay around when life deserves a punch.

But she's right. I have to stop overthinking and unclench. Ben is here and there is nothing I can do about it.

So I dip the brush into black—weird, usually I crave colors—and say this with an omen in my voice: "Whatever I do is on you."

She shrugs, indifferent, and peels back the foil from the fridge to rummage in it. Then pulls out a bottle of rosé without a label, and studies it up close.

"Your big exhibition is coming up. You nervous?" I ask her.

"Nah. My feng shui says I blow up next year so I'm trying to enjoy these days when I can run braless and nobody cares."

I know that's BS. She's freaking out that someone will get in the house and set it on fire before the world sees her genius but will never admit it.

"Baby, I don't need any divination tool to tell you'll be huge. So huge, artsy kids will hate you because they'll have to study your life in school."

She pulls a horrified face. "God, no... But thanks?"

I grin because I can tell it made her happy.

"Alright. Not sure when I got this—" She inspects the wine like it belongs in a toxic lab. "Might have been last year. Let's do it. But don't expect anything fancy."

I stare at her, insulted. "I'm still the same girl, you know."

She smirks, giving me a judging once-over. "Yeah. Only now you're wearing what?"

"Eh... Ralph Lauren, I think," I admit, making a face. It's probably headed for dry cleaning, and I'm sure it will be costly. "Either way, I want that hangover."

"That's my girl." She smiles and pours me a full glass.

I stare at the sediment, swirling like volcanic ash. Perfect. Headache incoming. Exactly what I ordered.

I take a sip, and pull a face because ugh, how can rosé be bitter? But whatever, it's not about the wine—it's about sharing it with Lu. So I take another sip and drag a shapeless blob of paint across the plaster.

And then, I don't know how it happened, what time it is, probably close to evening, but we're laughing. Finally. I'm laughing, like in good old days.

When I used to live here, this was it. Tea lights, and indie playlist, and gesturing like heathens—our own language since we were seven and she moved next door.

We clicked instantly, probably because of our childhoods that both left marks. Mine mostly courtesy of Mom, who I can finally admit, thanks to therapy, is a narcissist, and Dad who preferred to be MIA.

Lu's parents were cooler, but divorced when she was seven, splitting her between two homes and poisoned barbs about each other. Different shapes of damage, same scar tissue.

We're still at the wall.

I've slapped together some black-and-yellow mask, added weird frills around it with no clue where my brain wandered, it's too drunk, but I actually like it, which is rare. Usually, I don't like what I create.

The conversation is male glutes because I noticed the massive portrait by the sofa with a nude male turned the other way.

I keep squinting at it even though I probably shouldn't because it's Micah.

Micah is Lucy's long-term trainwreck. Every artist needs a muse and I guess he's got the best cheeks for it.

"Damn, was it his ass that sliced that canvas?" I nod at it. Lu's signature style is torn and burned canvases.

Lu gives it a brief side-glance and snorts. "Could be. It's the only reason I keep messing with him."

I take a sip from my third glass. "Ben's got a hell of an ass."

"Uh-huh." Lu raises an eyebrow, amused. "And how exactly do you know?"

"When we had that sleepover? He went to the bathroom in the morning and I snuck a peek." I smirk devilishly like I deserve a medal for being a pervert. "I swear it was lifted. Peak gluteal engineering. I wanted to—" I pucker my lips and mime grabbing something, "—squeeze it."

Lu sniffs a laugh. "Good. If there's no shelf, keep it to yourself."

I burst out laughing. Then nod, trying to keep a straight face. "I mean, if we're supposed to have big boobs, it's only fair?"

She nods, solemn too. "Only fair."

"Richard also has a nice butt actually. It's nicely round." I pout, imagining it. Makes me feel better that I gave proper credit to my husband's cheeks too.

Lu studies me a beat between trying to paint a butterfly, tongue out, and then says, "Do you think you went to Richard as a fuck-you to Ben?"

I freeze, brush hovering midair. Shoot her a glare. "What? No."

"I'm just saying." She shrugs innocently and leans on the wall, studying me. "You jumped him about a week after you and Ben imploded so—"

"I did not jump Richard a week after!" I shout defensively, hands on my hips, feeling my cheeks go warmer. "We waited. Almost a month. For your information."

"Wow. So he proposed right after you guys slept together?" She gives me an approving look. "Didn't know you were so ferocious."

Normally, I'd laugh, maybe flex a little because, yes, that's kind of what happened.

Richard did everything right, any intimacy being on my terms, and after a month, I decided he deserved a reveal. It was my bathrobe, actually.

I got out of the shower on his yacht and sort of guided his hand.

He asked if I was sure, I nodded, and he opened me like I was a present. The sex was as good as a first sex can be, if you ask me. Okay. A bit clumsy. However, for him it must have been good because a few days later, he proposed.

But anyway, now I'm busy defending myself.

"You know I didn't go to Seattle for dating. I went for my book signing. And yeah, maybe I was a little heartbroken—"

"A little?" Lucy drawls, staring me down. "You were obsessed with Mr. MindFuck. I held your hair while you puke-cried for three days after you split. Don't rewrite history."

I tap her with the brush, splattering yellow across her robe. "Stop being an ass."

She checks the splash and gives me an unimpressed look. "I'm just saying—it all happened so fast."

"Richard wasn't my rebound if that's where you're going," I snap. "He's a good husband who takes care of me, consistently. I know what to expect from him and I know he loves me. Heck, he even remembers my mother's rambling when I don't. A girl is allowed to want stability at some point, no?"

"Mmm. Mmm." She pulls a skeptical face, and pops in another caramel from her pocket. "Are you still pissed at him?"

I frown. "You mean Ben?"

She nods.

"Maybe?"

"Maybe a little or maybe a lot?"

"Why do you ask?"

She chews with her mouth open. "Because it determines how much you're not over him."

"I'm totally over him," I rush out, rolling my eyes.

When I see her unconvinced face I exhale loudly. "Really. It's been too long. I just wish we got the closure."

She pulls a salty face. "Closure is a myth and you know it. You write about it."

I sigh again. She's right.

"What would you want to happen now?" she asks bluntly and I blankly stare at her. How the hell am I supposed to know?

Then my phone dings on the table and I rush to it like it could tell me what to do.

It doesn't. It's worse.

Carl: Darling! Back from Hawaii. Let's schedule a meeting to discuss what you're working on. We can't have such a big gap.

Sighing, I show the message to Lucy, hoping she could magic me out of it, but she just sneers with "Ah, real life" and walks away.

"I've been telling him I have something for the past two months," I say, thumb hovering over my phone. "Help me come up with an excuse."

But Lucy's not even listening. Her voice floats from behind me. "Mm. Not bad. Is that a Venetian mask?"

"What?" I mumble, absentminded.

"The home of the Italian stallion?" she teases.

I freeze.

Then slowly turn to the mural and goosebumps rise like a tide.

Venice. Ben's family is from Venice. The boat in my dream. The man in the window. The umbrella with gondolas—his umbrella—opening in my face.

"Oh shit. Lu," I whisper, then clamp a hand over my mouth. "I had this dream..."

She frowns, confused. "How drunk are you? You already told me that."

"No." I slap the phone on the table and pace around the kitchen. "A different one. It was weeks ago. The guy in the window. I knew him. He was waiting for me. I was trying to reach him..."

It all comes spilling out—halting, stumbling, every fragment—and by the end, I'm gnawing at my nails while Lu's lips twitch because she's holding back her witchy grin.

"It's not funny. It's straight-up creepy!" I slump on the wall, dragging a hand over my face.

"Told you. Twin flames." She shrugs. And then her voice drops and her thin brow flicks up: "This is where it gets good."

I stare at the mural and shake my head. "No... Absolutely no."

But it's right there—the black eyes, the glowing yellow face.

It's Ben, looking back at me.