Two
Her stomach drops at the news headline on the front cover of a gossip magazine. (1)
It isn't real, it isn't real, it isn't real, she repeats to herself, over and over again, as her palms break out in a terrified sweat. She's sure she's dreaming, she's sure she's having a nightmare, because there is no way this is real life. There is no way this is her life. It can't be, it shouldn't be. It couldn't be.
"Excuse me, ma'am?"
Her eyes snap open to find a young boy standing next to her, a hand fluttering to her chest.
"Do you need any help with anything?" asks the boy, oblivious to the storm of panic brewing inside her.
It's real, it's real, it's real, her mind screams at her, and she thinks she's going to be sick.
"Ma'am?"
Stella flinches, registers the boy looking at her with growing concern in his eyes. His brows are furrowed, waiting for a response. She quickly shakes her head in a polite decline and pastes a tight smile on her face before excusing herself. Tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, she picks up her pace and swallows the lump around her throat.
Her mind is still reeling, blood rushing through her veins, heartbeat pounding in her ears, and she's frantically scrambling down the aisle to get to the restroom at the far end of the building. Her stomach churns in sickening knots when her hand closes around the door handle. With a shuddering breath, she pushes through the stall door, crouches down on the floor in front of a toilet bowl, and holds her hair to the side.
And then she throws up.
And then she breaks down.
Her hand clamps around a blue evening dress in time with the low, faint beep that comes through her phone.
This is the twelfth voicemail she's left, and she's only getting started. "Hey, it's me. Again. You know, your only daughter," she says icily, with her phone to her ear. "I'm not asking you to pretend to care about me. It's just—I had to find out from some supermarket tabloid that you're seeing someone new." She breathes deep to quell the racing thoughts, tosses the dress in her hand over her shoulder. Her other hand curls around her phone, gripping it tightly—a habit she's taken to as of late, or a tether to keep the ghosts at bay. "I was hoping you'd at least have the courtesy to give me a heads-up. But I guess that's too much to expect."
Before she can get another word in and release some more steam, the call disconnects.
Stella swears under her breath and hurls her phone across the room. There's a loud thud, followed by a click from the door.
"Is everything alright?" asks a voice from the other side of the room, as though it's been waiting for a cue to reveal itself.
Bloom appears in the doorway the next second, taking stock of the scene before her. Jackets, shirts, dresses, and skirts take up most of the floor space in the room, stacked in precarious towers of color and size, while half-empty cans of flavored sparkling water litter every other available surface. "What is all this mess?"
"Oh, Bloom. I'm so glad you're here," Stella says in palpable relief, grateful to have a distraction. Then, dismissing her earlier phone call, she launches into a rant, one tinged with melodrama and all the ways she knows how to cope, "I've been having the worst day ever. First, I woke up with a headache, and then some barista tried to ruin my morning with an almond milk latte—the gall, honestly, I'm their most regular customer and everyone and their uncle knows I don't order anything other than hazelnut milk—I mean, rude, right? And then, to top it all off, I find out that my worst nightmare has come true and—"
Bloom steps into the room, lowering herself to the ground next to her. "What are you talking about?"
"—I don't know what I'm going to do by myself. Everyone disappoints me. Everyone leaves me—"
"Not me."
"—even you."
"Me?"
"Yes, you," and she sniffles, using the sleeve of the purple polka-dot dress she finds on the floor to dab at the corner of her eye. "You left for Gardenia, remember? Miss Faragonda got mad at us for not stopping you and gave us an earful about it. Flora made us some freshly brewed lemon balm tea and baked brownies all night; Musa snapped at everyone within a five feet radius, and Tecna locked herself in the computer room for a whole day. You had all of us worried, Bloom."
Bloom draws back in guilt, hands bunched into fists in her lap. "I'm sorry."
Somehow, the quiet remorse does the trick and stills the cloud of chaos inside her head, soothing her anxiety-fueled irritation like a balm to a burn.
"No, stop. Don't go all sad on me," Stella says, good-natured, regaining her senses enough to let go of the dress and place her hand over Bloom's clasped ones. "I'm not blaming you. If anything, I should be the one apologizing to you since I'm the one at fault for everything bad that's happened to you."
Pale blue eyes blink up at her. The picture of innocence and naïvety. "How is any of it your fault?"
There's a thick pause, followed by a soft sigh. "I'm the one who convinced you to leave behind everything you'd ever known to come to Magix, Bloom." Her guilt still weighs on her, pricking at her conscience like a freshly disinfected wound. She flicks at bits of nonexistent lint on her skirt to occupy her attention. "Sometimes, I wonder if you'd have been better off if you'd never met me."
"Don't say that."
Stella looks up, surprised to hear the heated conviction in her friend's voice.
"It was my choice, Stel." Bloom squeezes her hand, offering her a sincere smile. "I made it, and I don't regret it. You girls are the best thing that's ever happened to me."
Stella raises an eyebrow at that, not thoroughly convinced. There's a part of her that understands why Bloom had left the way she had, that empathizes with her. Two peas in a pod in that respect. She can relate to the impulsive desire to run away when times get tough because she has done it all her life, compartmentalizing her emotions and joking her way through her feelings. But there's also a part of her that had felt betrayed when Bloom had left, wondering if Bloom had ever valued their friendship the same way she had.
"I mean it. You don't have to look so skeptical," Bloom says, as though reading her mind. "It was cowardly of me to leave Alfea, but I didn't know what else to do. I felt so different and out of place. I felt like I was causing more harm than good." She takes a breath, even and composed. "I never wanted to leave you guys behind. You girls are like family to me, and I promise I'm not leaving this time. You can stop worrying about me."
Stella knocks her shoulder into hers, playful. "I'm always going to worry about you whether you like it or not."
Bloom smiles. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Is everything all right with you?" Bloom asks, then motions to her room. "I mean, what is all this?"
"Oh, I was just organizing my clothes." It's a half-lie. She's organizing her clothes, yes, but only because sifting and sorting through her clothes give her a sense of groundedness when she feels like her life is spiraling out of her control. Like it had hours ago. But she doesn't mention the last part, nor does she give her friend a chance to prod further as she gets up to her feet. "Now, since you're here, be a peach and help me pick out an outfit for the mixer party at Red Fountain."
Bloom frowns. "I thought we all agreed to study together tonight."
"No, you guys agreed. I said nothing about wanting to study," she corrects. "Do I look like Musa or Flora to you?"
"Well, no," the redhead says, getting up from the floor and brushing off her bell-bottom jeans. "But you do look like a friend of mine who failed her last simulator test and promised to work, and I quote, 'extra hard with a pretty cherry on top.'"
Stella fixes her expression into one of innocence. "Never heard of her, nope, not me. I don't know her."
"This isn't funny, Stel."
"I never said it was, B."
Bloom lets out a long exhale, pinching the bridge of her nose. Always the first one to give in. "All right. But you have to take the—"
Stella squeals and leaps up to tackle Bloom in a hug, knowing she has already won. The latter manages to keep herself upright just barely but wraps her arms around the other anyway. "I knew you'd understand."
"Yeah, yeah."
The party is lively, some giggling and gossiping in tight-knit cliques; others drinking and dancing in varying degrees of sobriety as pre-recorded pop music blares from the speakers. It's a typical high school party scene, and she's no stranger to it, having been to countless dances and parties since an early age when she used to sneak out of the royal palace. Those were the fun times.
Her hazel gaze sweeps past the people around her, spotting a long folding table at the center of the room. Every inch of the table is overflowing with mouthwatering finger foods: a selection of fresh-cut fruits, platters of cheeses and crackers, bowls of dips and jams, and tiered dessert stands filled with pastel macarons and sweet pastries. She grabs a pink buttercream cupcake on her way to the makeshift bar.
She settles herself comfortably onto the high bar stool and sets her purse on the counter. A burst of raucous laughter cuts through the air when she takes a bite of her cupcake, and she finds herself wishing the girls had been here with her tonight. She sighs. It's never fun coming alone to a party, but she has long ago learned to find ways to entertain herself; discard the lonely and the unbecoming like an old dress never to be worn again. She will just have to do it again.
No sooner does she chew and swallow the bite than her eyes, for the second time that week, land on a familiar figure, and she almost chokes on her pastry.
It's him, obviously, because fate has a twisted way of toying with her life.
It goes without saying that she shouldn't indulge in the view, but she does.
Brandon had come straight from training. The low-slung joggers and maroon red varsity jacket are one clue, the wind-swept hair and the bright post-workout glow on his face the other. He's sporting a pair of white sneakers instead of his usual brown dress shoes or navy knee-high boots, dressed top to bottom in what she'd describe as casual wear. It's not a style he normally would wear, favoring fitted button-ups and polished footwear, but lately, she notes, he's been going more for the laidback look. It suits him, she thinks. He seems more like himself.
He must have had to adhere to the royal dress code and wear tailor-fitted outfits to keep up with the appearances when he was pretending to be a prince. That makes her briefly wonder if he had ever lied about his status to any other girl he'd been with in the past. He'd never struck her as the type to play with hearts—not out of malice, at least; she imagines his good looks and easy charm alone must have left a long trail of broken hearts in his wake—but now she can't help but wonder if all she'd ever been to him was another shiny notch in his belt. Something to win, something to lose. Something to forget.
Stella shakes her head to clear her mind when she notices the turn her thoughts have taken.
Brandon still hasn't spotted her. He's holding a red solo cup to his lips, laughing at a flustered Timmy who's standing next to the pool table, cheeks aflame, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger. He slings an arm around the lanky teenager in a gesture that's half-teasing and half-reassuring, still laughing, but his laugh cuts off short when his gaze slides over the top of his friend's shoulder to find her watching them from across the room.
Stella looks away but doesn't let the surprise, or worse: embarrassment, reach her face. Instead, she feigns interest in her cupcake and tears a little piece of it off for good measure.
"Sitting all alone, a pretty thing like you?"
Large, pale hands come to rest on the marble counter, and she glances up to see a teenage boy with dark hair and a white T-shirt sliding into the stool next to her. He looks from her to the dance floor and then back at her. "I know this might be a little forward, but would you like to grab a drink in my room?" His thumb points in the direction of the beverages behind the counter. "I promise you the cocktails here ain't it."
Stella plasters on a polite smile. "I'm good, thanks."
"Come on," cajoles the boy, leaning forward. "It'll be fun."
"I said I'm good," she says, edge to her voice now.
"Hey, gorgeous," comes a familiar voice from behind her, accompanied by a hand that snakes around her waist. Her body stiffens for a second before she cranes her neck to find a pair of warm brown eyes staring down at her. There's a moment of unspoken understanding between them, and she feels her muscles relax. His fingers glide higher, protective, trailing down her bare arm with the lightest of touches. Tease. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Well, two can play the game.
"Took you long enough." With a coy lift of her shoulder, she puckers her red lips into an exaggerated pout. His eyes flicker to her mouth, and she swears she sees his eyes darken with desire. Score.
"Sorry, babe. I'll do better next time," Brandon says with a cheeky, dimpled smirk, expertly playing along. He looks away long enough to nod at the other guy, a hard set to his jaw. "I've got her now."
There's a huff, some unintelligible grumbling, and then finally the stool scrapes against the floor. Loud footsteps fade into the distance until they get lost in the music.
Stella waits for a moment and then shoves Brandon off her as soon as the boy is safely out of eyesight, mood transformed. Her body feels bereft without the warmth of his body, but she ignores it, tugging on the hem of her shimmery gold body-con dress over her thighs as she reminds herself she's supposed to be angry.
"Well, isn't that a nice way to thank someone for saving you from a date?" Brandon says, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His tone is light enough to let her know he's mostly joking, but she still narrows her eyes at him.
"First of all," she says, matter-of-fact, lifting a hand in the air as she starts to count off on her fingers. "That wasn't a date. I don't even know him." His shoulders loosen, and she takes almost a smug sort of pleasure in the way they do. "Secondly, I'm not some damsel in distress. I can take care of myself. I don't need you or your shining armor."
Brandon looks taken aback. "Is that what you think about me?"
"Does it even matter what I think?" she asks, but her tone's without any real heat. There's no anger or annoyance. It's something else, but she doesn't stop to mull over it. Instead, she exhales. "Never mind. Where's the restroom?"
He takes the hint and doesn't press her further. "Basement, third door to the left."
Stella nods in wordless acknowledgment. "Don't follow me. If you do, I'm going to scream."
With that, she gets off the stool and pushes through the crowd of unfamiliar faces, making her way to the staircase. She descends the steps into the basement, scrunches her nose against the stench of spilled beer and stale body odor. Ignoring the foul smell, she steps inside the single-occupancy restroom and moves to stand in front of the bathroom mirror to examine herself. Her hair looks great as always: let down to her waist and straightened to silky perfection, with honey-blond bangs framing her face. Her makeup looks intact for the most part until she notices a tiny red smudge on the corner of her lips.
Horrified, she yanks a sheet of paper towel from the wall dispenser, folding the square bit of tissue into a triangle, and turns the faucet on for a few seconds to run it under water.
The door creaks open just as she turns the faucet off, but she doesn't look up from her reflection in the mirror. No, she dedicates her undivided attention to the task at hand, blotting and rubbing the lipstick stain with the folded piece of paper towel.
"Occupied," she says in a chirping voice, masking her exasperation at being intruded on with false cheer.
"You might wanna lock the door next time."
Like a hawk alerted to its prey, she whirls around to the source of the voice. She opens her mouth to fire a retort, but any protest she might have had goes right out the window when she sees him in the doorway with her handbag. "Oh," she says dumbly, lowering the paper towel.
Brandon crosses the length of the room, closing the door behind him. "You left your purse," he states the obvious, handing her the purse.
"Thanks," she says begrudgingly, accepting her purse back.
He observes her closely, studying her face with an expression she can't quite name. It's unnerving, the way he looks at her when she doesn't have the faintest clue as to what he's thinking.
He leans further into the space between them. "You know, you shouldn't frown like that. You'll get wrinkles."
Her mouth falls open, scandalized. "Don't ever dare joke about—"
"I know, I know." The pad of his thumb reaches up to stroke the rise of her cheek, a gesture that momentarily catches her off guard. It jolts something inside her with an intensity that makes her cheeks warm. "No wrinkles. You can relax. I was just trying to get you to loosen up."
"You're not helping at all," she hisses at once, prying his fingers off her. "You're just ruining my makeup!"
Brandon raises his hands in a universal sign of peace, not looking the slightest bit apologetic. "Sorry."
Huffing, she turns around to toss the used paper towel into a nearby trash can, a deliberate move to avoid looking in his direction. There's an amused glint in his eyes when she recovers from her flustered state to catch the sight of them again, and she decides to make her insistence more pronounced. "And I'll have you know that I'm perfectly relaxed."
"Uh-huh."
"I am," she presses, ever stubborn.
His mouth twists. "You're a bad liar, you know that?"
"You'd know that, wouldn't you?" she retorts, not missing a beat.
It's a low blow, and she knows it: she sees it in the way his smile falters, the way his whole demeanor deflates, just a little, but she notices it all the same. In all honesty, she hadn't meant to take her anger out on him. Not here, not now. Even though a part of her doesn't regret the underhanded insult she has just thrown at him, she knows he isn't the culprit to blame for her present frustrations.
"Point taken," he says after a while.
Stella immediately feels bad when she sees how he avoids her gaze, focusing his attention on a graffiti scrawl on the wall across from him. It cuts her like a knife, but she doesn't have it in her to apologize, still hurt by the lies and deceit. But she doesn't like hurting him back either, she realizes in a moment of startling clarity, and so she retracts her claws.
Her red pumps click on the tiled floors when she takes a step toward him. His surprised gaze cuts to her, but he doesn't say anything.
Leaning forward, she takes hold of the collar of his shirt and uses her thumbs to flatten out the wrinkles at the buttons. The cotton is soft to the touch, worn to an alabaster white. "You don't wear your ascots anymore," she says, in lieu of an olive branch for being irritable. "You never liked wearing them, did you?"
Brandon considers her for a long moment before giving her a one-shouldered shrug. "Not usually, no."
Hints of sandalwood and lemongrass waft in the air, and she tries not to get too distracted by his cologne. Instead, she makes a noncommittal sound, adjusting the neckline of his shirt to give her something to busy herself with—or, at least, that's what she tells herself. "That makes two of us." Pats the collar down, done.
He grins then, his good humor returning in full force. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I always thought they made you look kind of stuffy."
His laugh fills her senses like sunlight, easing a tension that has been growing in the cracks of her heart for the past couple of weeks. She smiles despite herself, struck by a wave of nostalgia at the ease of their banter and the way the overhead fluorescent lights frame his face, bringing out the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. She allows herself to have this one little moment where she can pretend everything is back to normal.
But the moment is long gone and shattered when she looks back in the general direction of the door and gets reminded of where she is and who she is with. Her fingers go to the strap of her purse, adjusting it, and she takes a step back, putting a distance between them.
"Wait."
That stops her.
Brandon hesitates for a beat or two, running a hand through his hair in a gesture she recognizes as one of his nervous ticks. "Look, I know we haven't been on the best terms lately, but full transparency: I do still care about you," he says, going slow. Sincere. "How about a compromise? I'm staying at my folks' place this weekend, and I was wondering if you'd like to come. You know, to—uh get your mind off things."
Stella opens her mouth to respond, but he seems to sense her reservations and beats her to it.
"Consider it a temporary truce. No strings attached. I'm not expecting anything else from you." He extends his hand out to her, his gaze trained on her. "Deal?"
There's no pity or guilt in his eyes, only unmasked concern, and she sees what he means, what he's truly asking. It's not a plea for forgiveness, but an offer in the form of a lifeline.
He knows how hard holidays are for her, after all. He's always known. She hasn't forgotten about the late nights in his bed, the posters on his walls, or the bottom drawer he always keeps empty for her. Somehow, some way, he'd always found a way to carve out space for her, understood her without her having to say anything at all. This time isn't any different.
"Also," he adds, the corner of his mouth lifting with a hint of a grin. "I'll try and take it easy on the jokes."
With a roll of her eyes, she accepts and takes his outstretched hand. Her hand fits into his as easily as the smile that stretches across his face. "Deal."
Notes: And that's the first reference to their iconic handholding moments. (If you know, you know.) To anyone who has reviewed, followed, or favorited this story — thank you. Your support truly means a lot and helps me with my writing slumps.
That said, I'm so excited to write the next chapter because we're going to get more interactions between Brandon and Stella in Eraklyon. If you've been a long-time follower of mine on Tumblr (you can find me at stellasolaris; feel free to drop by any time), you might know that I've wanted to dig deeper into Brandon's background story for a while now. Now I finally have the chance to do that. And yes, there will be some romance, too.
As always, thanks for reading. I hope everyone's faring well during these times.
(1) I have crossposted this story on AO3; you can find the news headline there if you want to take a look at it. I go by the same pen name. I've also posted some other stories there that aren't here.