by Gigi Blume
The apartment was dark when I returned. Lydia left a drawing of herself drinking margaritas on the dry-erase board we used for grocery lists. Her eyes were bulgy and words inside a speech bubble said, Look out, Mexico. Here comes Lettuce. Under that, Jane’s fine handwriting stated BRB: gone to Hobby Lobby.
I was glad for the silence, but it was maybe a little too silent. I plopped on the couch, flipping through the thousands of channels the guy next door hacked for us. Nothing was on but reruns of the Rose Parade. I usually liked the Rose Parade, but all the smiling faces on the floats, waving cowgirls on horses, and marching bands made my misery even more acute by comparison. I returned to the letter and read it again. By this time, I almost had it memorized. I was a glutton for punishment. Looking back on my memories with Jorge only confirmed Will’s account of his character. Where I once saw a young, hot, fun surfer, I realized there was no redeeming quality in Jorge. He was just a party guy and a flirt. From the first moment I met him, it was all double entendres and stripping himself of his shirt at every opportunity. The attention he got from the chorus girls at the theatre—he was all over that. He was in his element. And then there was Caroline’s warning. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right about him—in her own bigoted, Caroline way.
I always suspected he was a player. That was no newsflash. But now that I’d read Will’s letter, things made sense. Jorge was so worried all the time. Could it be he thought Will might expose him?
Suddenly, I felt like an idiot. Jorge had me eating right out of his hands with his bedroom eyes and sad story about his childhood—how much he suffered because of the Darcys. Blah blah blah. Then I remembered how friendly he was to my sister—all the times he encouraged me to invite her along with us places. She was only seventeen—one year older than Georgia had been. I shuddered to think what might have happened if I’d included her as Jorge so often suggested. What was wrong with me? I’d always been proud of my excellent judge of character. But I was wrong about Colin and now, so detrimentally wrong about Jorge. I was even wrong about Will.
Every time I turned it over in my head, Jorge’s charm faded more and more. But the most disturbing thing of all was that I saw Will in a completely different light. It had been so fun to direct all my abhorrence toward him. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t exactly join the Will Darcy fan club. That would involve attending weekly meetings with Caroline. It would majorly suck beans. I decided to let all this new information percolate for a while. In a week, I’d go to Stella’s charity carnival and after that, there’d be a few days before I had to face Will at the theatre. It would be awkward but doable and certainly not the end of the world.
I opened my laptop and clicked through the trades. It was time to take Fitz’s advice. There are no guarantees. Only regrets.
22
The Winter of Our Discontent
Will
The FedEx driver came to my house for the ten millionth time in a week. Today, Stella briskly swooshed away one rather large, flat box from my hands.
“I’ll take that, thank you,” she chirped merrily.
Stella had been a permanent fixture at my house since the day after Christmas. She was a spry force to be reckoned with in her winter years. The round-the-clock preparations for her charity event seemed to magically float into place by her tireless orchestration. A constant movement of elegant rental tables, tents, booths, stages, and rides were erected all over my house and lawns. I couldn’t tell you where most of my furniture had gone, only that my living room was transformed into a ballroom at the Ritz Carlton. A great tent extended beyond the back deck, and the front lawn was littered with carnival rides and even more tents and stages. Why did I ever agree to this? I supposed it was the sweet charm spread across Stella’s face when she asked me. Her organization had outgrown the venue from prior years, and I couldn’t resist those pleading, soft eyes. That woman could con a con artist with those baby blues. It made me wonder how many hearts she’d broken as a young woman.
“Wait a minute.” I caught the corner of the box to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me but after reading the address label, I let go as if it scorched my skin.
“Why is Elizabeth Bennet getting Bloomingdale’s deliveries at my house?”
Stella shrugged with her arms stretched around the edges of the package and smiled wryly.
“For the gala, of course. You wouldn’t expect the poor child to carry an evening gown in a knapsack all day. She’ll have to change into it before dinner.”
Why could I not escape this pixie girl? She was everywhere. Now, she was having evening gowns delivered to my house?
“Couldn’t you have found someone else to take Emma’s ticket?” I said with more aggravation than I cared to display. I would have preferred to avoid Beth for as long as possible before preview night at the Gardiner. She hated my guts. Plus, I couldn’t control my manners around her. My intellect reverted to caveman status whenever she was within a hundred feet from me. Her feisty wit and scrappy obstinacy were all that refrained me from clubbing her over the head and throwing her over my shoulder. The thought of her in my home, touching my furniture, using a guest room to slip into a slinky dress—at least I hoped it was a slinky dress—freaking A, I lost my train of thought.
Get a grip.
I stared at the offending box and willed it to contain a burlap sack. A burlap sack from Bloomingdale’s. That didn’t help. It just brought on more caveman scenarios.
Stella didn’t answer my question. She just grinned with a twinkle in her eyes and winked. This was all her fault. She flittered away with Beth’s seduction-in-a-box with a bounce in her step just as my cell phone went off in my back pocket. The caller ID displayed contact info for Catherine de Bourgh. Oh, how wonderful. Was this my day to be harassed by elderly women?
“William Martin Darcy,” she snapped without preamble, “I want to be sure I have a place for Anne and myself at the head table.”
She never did have patience for pleasantries, even over the phone.
“Hello to you, Catherine.” I, on the other hand, wasn’t above a cordial yet pointless greeting. “How may I help you?”
I learned long ago that the way to grate on her nerves was to either ignore her completely or be so sugary sweet, it would offend a dentist.
“I have donated a large sum for the honor of attending the gala, and I intend to be seated at your table.”
I decided to channel my inner customer care representative who doesn’t give a fig about your first world problems.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to take that up with Stella. She’s in charge of the seating chart.”
“That woman doesn’t answer her phone.”
“She’s been a little busy.”
I could hear a frustrated sigh on her end of the line.
“At least tell me who you have at your table,” she demanded.
My thoughts raced to Beth. Lovely Beth in a burlap sack from Bloomingdale’s. Stella already placed her name card next to mine at the VIP table. At first, I was livid, but now with Catherine yelping in my ear, Beth at my side sounded like a superior alternative to the De Bourghs.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, ma'am,” The customer service rep was getting cheeky.
Catherine was silent for a long while. For a moment, I thought she’d hung up. But then she said with resignation, “You’ll take Anne around to meet your colleagues. Wear a blue bowtie to match her dress.”
“I’ll make sure Anne has a wonderful time,” I promised. Honestly, I didn’t anticipate I would have time to show anybody around. The jobs Stella had for me to make sure the gala ran smoothly wouldn’t allow for it. But Stella assured me Anne would hit it off with a certain gentleman on the guest list. Maybe he’d wear a blue bowtie.
Once Catherine was done giving me sufficient instructions—from her preferred dinner music to the foods she had an aversion to—she hung up, and I looked all around me to make sure no other ol
d ladies were in line to torment me. But there were none. The only tormenting going on was in my head. I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. That would imply Beth had accepted my heart long enough to shatter it. Downtrodden was more the right word. I was a miserable mess. I naively thought that if I could explain my feelings in a letter, she’d be at my doorstep, aching to kiss me again. Or at least a text. But five days had passed without a whisper. Had she even read it? Couldn’t she see I was in torment?
It was probably too forward of me to kiss her on New Year’s Eve. But the look in her eyes seemed an invitation. They flashed with a challenge, provoking my concession. For one glorious instant, the universe exploded around us. It was everything. She was everything. Her beautiful body gave in to my touch, and a little moan escaped her throat. She had to feel it too. That was no ordinary kiss. I never knew it could be like that.
But then she pulled my hair and bit my lip. Who does that? A feisty, scrappy pixie who hated my guts, that’s who.
To top it all off, I was being a terrible brother. Georgia only had a couple more weeks before she had to go back to New York. I dreaded her absence, but at the same time, I must have been the worst companion imaginable. Thoughts of Beth occupied my every thought to the point of causing physical pain. A constant tightening in my chest felt as though it was caught between the jaws of a nutcracker. And I felt queasy all the time. I’d lost my appetite completely.
It wasn’t hard for Georgia to figure out something was wrong. She’d baked Mexican Wedding Cookies—my favorite. She made a royal mess of the kitchen, but the gesture was adorable. I knew she was trying to get me out of my slump, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than one small bite.
“Wow!” she said. “You got it bad.”
“What? No, I don’t.”
Yes, I do.
“I knew you were twitterpated, but this goes way beyond. You never eat less than a dozen of these cookies in one sitting.”
Her little face was scrunched up in a know-it-all smirk, and she nodded smugly.
“Has it perhaps occurred to you I’m just stressed? I have a show opening soon, Tobias has been badgering me to sign on to another Dangerous film and look at the state of our house.”
I waved around erratically to accentuate the chaos.
“And stop using that word twitterpated,” I added. “It makes me feel like Bambi, and that just gets me depressed.”
“Okay, all right,” she huffed. “Not twitterpated. In love. Better?”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! I never said I was in love. I only thought about Beth all my waking moments. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t have daydreams without her popping into them like a zealous photo-bomber.
Was this what love was? More than ever, I wished Dad was there. He was crazy in love with Mom. He’d know if that’s what I was feeling for Beth.
“No,” I replied. “Not better. But thanks for the cookies all the same.”
Georgia rolled her eyes and gave me one of those head shakes mothers often do when their small child makes a mess.
“Don’t worry, big brother.” She slapped a hand on my back and patted it a few times. “Everything will turn out. We got this.”
She shot me a wink and scurried away without an explanation as to what ‘we got this’ meant. What did she mean? Who was ‘we?’ Even as I sat there with a tin of Mexican Wedding Cookies on my lap, I had a sinking feeling exactly what she meant, and that delivery for Beth had everything to do with it.
23
The Girl with The Lanyard
Beth
The charity carnival was a day away, and I was alone. Lydia was still in Mexico with Cole and Holly, and Jane got a callback for a show in New York. I’d never seen someone bolt to the airport so quickly. I was so incredibly happy for her, but it made me a little sad. I knew our days as roommates were numbered, and even though we promised to always keep in touch, it would never be the same. I guess that’s life. Welcome to adulting. Things change. Get over it.
But Jane being Jane was a little bit worried to leave me. She said she was worried I might eat my weight in ice cream. Pshh. As if. (I totally would do that.)
Jane knew me well enough to know that when faced with cruddy life situations, my coping mechanism was to stuff my face with copious amounts of sugar. Usually Nutella or ice cream. Or Nutella with ice cream. I assured her the sugar would remain at normal levels and waved off her concern with an “I’ll be fine.” Then I gave her a tight squeeze and ushered her out the door where her Uber waited. What she didn’t know was that I’d recently traded in sweets for French fries on top of pizza. I figured I’d get a head start on the carnival food.
There was no reason for her to worry, though. I didn’t tell her everything in the letter. I left out a few of the more sordid details and opted not to go into too much where it concerned Bing. Jane was just starting to get her life back. I didn’t need her to revert back into Cap’n Crunch hair and telenovelas. Bing was a big boy and when it came down to it, he made his own decisions. He’d come around if that’s what he wanted in the end. If he truly deserved Jane, even Will’s influence over him couldn’t hold him back. True love always wins. At least that’s what I learned from watching Princess Bride a thousand times. Then I got angry because Princess Bride reminded me of Will. Admittedly, everything reminded me of Will, but that was another can of worms. So what if I left out certain details for her own good?
Besides, Jane was too fixated on Will kissing me to hear much else. Her grin couldn’t have been much bigger if I’d told her I won the lottery and was elected president on the same day. Her reaction didn’t help my efforts to dampen the little leprechaun doing cartwheels in my tummy. It was a female leprechaun, and she liked to perform gymnastics whenever I thought of the kiss. So I resorted to the French fries on pizza tactic to squeeze her out.
“Are you upset I pushed him away?” I asked. She looked horrified when I told her I stopped the kiss by pulling his hair. I didn’t mention the biting. Even I thought that went too far.
“Upset? No! Not if you really don’t like him. Maybe you could have been a little less violent, but hey. These things do happen.”
She threw on a little Italian inflection with the last sentence.
“But you think I shouldn’t have brought up Jorge?”
“No. You spoke your mind, that’s all.”
“You might change your mind once I tell you what happened the next day.”
I told her how Will brought me the letter at work on New Year's Day and his explanation of his history with Jorge without mentioning Georgia. That alone was enough to give her pause. Jane had a hard time recognizing the bad in anybody and could hardly believe someone could be so selfish. She kept asking questions, trying to find a way for both Jorge and Will to be in the right. She was sure there must be some mistake. That perhaps it was just a big misunderstanding like every single episode of Three’s Company. Somehow, she still held out for that final scene where the truth was revealed and everyone laughed about it.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to choose which man to believe,” I said as though I was Morpheus with a blue pill in one hand and a red pill in the other. “There’s only enough virtue between them to make one good guy and as far as I’m concerned, the needle has been swaying more toward Will lately.”
I saw her start at that, so I quickly added, “And it has nothing to do with that kiss.”
Or did it?
After a few moments of thought, she shook her head.
“Poor Will. He must have been upset after you told him off. It was probably hard to trudge up painful memories in writing you that letter.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. “I’m sure it’s upsetting for you, too.”
“Nope. Not at all.” I put on my big girl grin. “I’ll let you be upset for the both of us.”
“And poor Jorge,” she went on. “He seemed like such a nice guy.”
“Well,
you know what they say about books and their covers.”
“Jorge has a really nice cover.” She nodded enthusiastically.
“Yep. But Will is the better book.”
She sighed and shook her head even more. “That’s enough metaphors for me.”
I agreed. “What do you think I should do? Should I say something to Stella?”
“No,” she said seriously. “Will would have told her if he wanted her to know.”
She was right. The story of Georgia’s encounter with Jorge wasn’t my secret to tell. It was a personal matter Will told me in confidence. Besides, now that the set was finished, I didn’t think Jorge had a reason to return to the theatre.
Jane watched me for the next few days, periodically checking the freezer for a stash of Chunky Monkey. When she didn’t think I was looking, she rummaged my usual hiding places for candy bars like an obsessed parole officer. I came up clean every time. If she were clever, however, she’d have searched my car for discarded pizza receipts. Since she left for New York, the house was quiet, and I rebelliously let the fast food evidence pile up in my garbage can.
I looked at my underwear-clad figure in my closet door’s full-length mirror. Had I put on some pizza weight? Even though the charity event was casual dress, I didn’t want to look bloated. I decided to go for a loose, flowery ModCloth dress and a denim jacket. The ensemble was very forgiving around the middle, but it made my legs look awesome—especially in strappy sandals. I wore that dress to auditions a lot. It had cap sleeves, a low, gathered, scoop neckline and empire waist that made my girls appear more perky. Believe me, those poor little pebbles needed all the help they could get.
