1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

12 | eridanus

THE GLAMOUR OF RODEO DRIVE NEARLY BLINDS HER (AND THE PRICE TAGS, TOO). Green tints of money linger in the passing breeze and golden credit cards reflect the sunlight from the tips of distressed Gucci denim. Eloise doesn't belong here—and she's well aware.

But Chase Kennedy does. The Spanish girl links their arms rather smoothly and matches her posture to the others around them: back straight, chin tilted upwards, smile permanent. Ever since the soccer game, she's been on edge with even more nightmares attacking her mind when the clock strikes midnight, like there's something trying to escape the inky film of her subconscious after waking hours. And there are many kinds of therapy, Eloise acknowledges as her friend pulls her along, but Chase's is retail. Because goddamn, this girl could shop for hours. She feels slightly out of place dressed in a pair of athletic leggings and one of Jonah's many sweatshirts, but Eloise swallows her pride within a span of a minute as Chase lets her hand graze a silky scarf.

"God, this shit is so overpriced," Eloise murmurs (much to the dismay of the store's employees). "This hairband exceeds my entire portion of rent, Chase."

All she receives in return is a simple glance back at the plain Burberry accessory as Chase's eye catches on Eloise's hesitating moment as she puts it back down. "Pick it up," she grins devilishly. "We're getting it."

Eloise shakes her head. "No," she defends. "You have at least six of these in all different patterns."

"Not for me, idiota." Chase continues to walk ahead, stopping by a rack of suede thigh-high boots. "It's for you. Grab it."

"Absolutely not," she growls in frustration. "This is too expensive—no, I can't."

Feeling someone tugging her hand along, Eloise stumbles over herself and yelps softly before her friend directs them towards the register. The classy acrylic nails of the posh woman working there clicks against the glass countertop like echoing gunshots, and she shrinks a bit as the sample fragrances cloud her judgement. Eloise barely has enough time to protest yet again before she hears the sound of a credit card being swiped and processed.

Chase takes the bag and sighs before dragging Eloise out (whose face is still impassive). "Maybe you can't," she grins, "but I can. My therapy lasted another month, so they're rewarding me by transferring an obscene amount of cash into my account."

Eloise frowns, and she pulls the car door open before stepping inside. The dry heat radiates into her back, skin damp and dewy as Chase blasts the air conditioner on high. "It fucking blows. The therapy, I mean. It doesn't help."

Her heart constricts within the confines of her chest, and Eloise angles her head towards her friend, fingers latching onto the bag handles as it's being offered over. "What do you guys talk about?"

Chase sighs and rubs her temples, fiery exterior gone and shattered now. There's a tender vulnerability in her eyes that mists over intense irises, like something's desperately trying to escape. Eloise has never liked Chase's parents: too overbearing and detail-oriented, she supposed. But maybe there's a part of her that's envious of the way they fawn over her—an action her father never did.

"About what I remember from the past," Chase comments drily. "He says it's best to forget and leave behind all of my memories in a 'virtual trash can' because they're no use. But I can't—" her voice breaks off dangerously, and she rests her head against the curve of the steering wheel. Eloise reaches out a hand and tucks a piece of stray hair behind her friend's hair—just listening. "I can't do it. I can't—forget. I don't want to."

She hums and leans back in her seat as Chase collects herself. "Your nightmares are getting worse," Eloise murmurs. "I hear you staying up as long as you can, you know." And it's true: her roommate refuses to fall asleep, refuses to fall into a pit of endless oblivion, because they all know that it'll result in her screaming before dawn.