“Do I what?”
Delilah just lifted her brows.
She left you like you didn’t mean anything. And you do. You mean something.
Astrid didn’t speak—she couldn’t. Her throat felt suddenly tight, too big for her body. It had been so long since she’d actually liked someone. She wasn’t even sure she’dlikedSpencer—he’d just fit the right mold at the right time.
Jordan, one the other hand, was a puzzle, one that Astrid was pretty sure she wanted to figure out.
“She’s trying to sabotage my design plan for the Everwood,” she said. “So that’s a problem.”
Delilah’s eyebrows lifted, but a little smile settled on her face. “So solve it. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?”
Astrid sighed. Before her broken engagement with Spencer, yeah, she would have said she was an excellent problem solver. But in the past year, she couldn’t stop thinking about how close she came to marrying a man she didn’t even like, and all for what? Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? She’d let herselfbe madeinstead of deciding what kind of life she really wanted. And while she’d gotten out of that mess, she hadn’t quite felt like herself ever since. She wasn’t altogether sure she’d ever felt like herself, to be honest.
As she sat there in her stepsister’s living room—the stepsisterwho left Bright Falls at eighteen because she wanted more, created beautiful art because she loved it, because she couldn’tnotcreate it, and then came back home for a woman she didn’t want to live without—Astrid had the sudden and horrible thought that maybe, just maybe, every single detail and quirk that formed who she was hadbeen made.
The thought was a firework in her chest, and she suddenly had a hard time breathing.
“You okay?” Delilah asked, brows dipping low in concern.
Astrid nodded, swallowed one more sip of coffee and got a grip, because that’s what Astrid Parker did—she got herself together.
“I should go,” she said, standing and smoothing out her yoga pants, which couldn’t be wrinkled anyway, the motion so practiced, such a habit.
Delilah nodded and stood too. “Well, you can always come find me here at two in the morning if you have any more dirty dreams.”
Astrid laughed, but it felt like one of those that verged on the edge of tears. “Until next week.”
Delilah looked confused for a split second, but then a blissfully dopey expression settled on her face as she gazed at the boxes. “Yeah. Next week.”
“You two are having a party to celebrate, right? Next weekend?”
Delilah nodded.
“Cute.”
Delilah flipped Astrid off. “Yes, it’s all super wonderful and perfect. Now get the hell out of here. You really do look like shit, and it’s freaking me out.”
Astrid laughed, because when her stepsister was right, her stepsister was right.
Chapter Seventeen
THE TWO OFCups.
There it was again, staring up at her in all its true love, queer, fuck-you-naysayers glory. Jordan sat cross-legged on her bed, a hangover headache pressing against her eyes despite the gallon of water she drank when she got home last night, and glared down at the card.
This was the third day in a row this card had reared its head at her. In the last week, she’d had several pentacles and a few wands, all of which she embraced for their respective material and creative meanings. But of course, the universe loved to laugh, so here she was, the morning after tucking an unbearably adorable and very drunk Astrid Parker into her bed, staring down at this lovefest.
She should’ve known right then the day would go from bad to worse. Half an hour later, when her phone buzzed in her back pocket while she poured her coffee in the cottage’s kitchen, she already knew who it was.
There were only two other people in the entire world who ever texted her, and they were in the room with her at this very moment. Hergrandmother sat at the round breakfast table in a purple button-down and matching glasses, sipping Earl Grey tea out of herI love my queer grandkidsrainbow mug while reading theNew York Times, just like she did every morning. Simon was whistling while frying up thick slices of bacon to go with the cheesy eggs he’d already scrambled, Jordan’s preferred hangover food. Times like this, she was thankful to have a twin who only had to look at her to tell she needed a greasy breakfast.
But now her phone was putting a real damper on her excitement for homemade diner food. Every time this happened, she told herself she wouldn’t even look at the text. She hadn’t responded to any of them, not once in the last twelve months, but she always read them, puzzled for days over each word, then inevitably gave in and stalked Meredith’s Instagram, which was filled with images of her raven-haired ex-wife all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in San Francisco, Nashville, floating in a crystalline Lake Michigan, posing outside the Eiffel Tower, for fuck’s sake.
From there, Jordan’s emotional state would spiral, usually ending in a couple pints of Ben & Jerry’s, a drained bottle of Bulleit, and a lot of empty delivery cartons.
Suffice it to say, Simon had been right to worry that she wasn’t coping with the fact that the love of her life dropped her like a load of garbage at the dump. Problem was, Meredith kept coming back to sift through the trash bags for things she’d left behind.
