by Iris Lim
He frowns again because duh.
"Darcy, I don't mean —"
"Do you wish it to be real?" He surprises her.
Do I?
The sitting room falls particularly still. His eyes stare deeply into mine. I find myself falling — falling and flailing and sinking and drowning. If I want this to be real, then that means no internet, that means no women going to college. If this is real — then I'll never see Lydia again, never wear underwear, for that matter. If this is real —
"I will be happy wherever I am." I pull him close. "As long as you are real."
The answer solves it all for both of us — and suddenly we're kissing, and touching, and twisting our bodies until we align. He lifts me effortlessly off the chair. My legs wrap happily around his waist. There's nothing silly about this — no giggling, no teasing, no winking or jokes. Those moments are good for another time.
Right now, right here — all I want is his reality to meet with mine.
My back hits his bed with a jubilant thud. And then he's on me, over me. Lips lock, hands grab, legs tangle. Our nightgowns find the floor and then he's in me and he's thrusting and we're dancing life's ultimate waltz.
Breathy sighs and buried groans reverberate throughout the room.
And I know I'll have the best night of sleep I'll have in a very long time.
• • •
I shock myself awake, the sensation of falling still reels throughout my limbs. The instinctive motion from my foot stepping on nothing has jerked me wide awake. I pant, sweaty. I blink, surprised. The chilly English draft has turned solid — a fog of cold air throughout the room.
The suddenly very small room.
I sit up instantly, hands and eyes roaming. The dresser and its stray magazines, the mirror with its untimely sharpie messages — the floor, the walls, the ceiling — the cushion, the comforter — the subtle light glowing from my sheer curtains — my desk, my nightstand, my lamp — I'm — I'm —
I'm back, I'm here, I'm all alo—
I twist to my right — and there's nothing but the ground. There's no snoring husband, no fluffy nightshirt — no extra person able to fit in my tiny twin bed.
My hand reaches out instinctively to feel — to find. It's like I'm rediscovering myself like every sci-fi person waking up from a pod.
One by one, the puzzle pieces fall into place in rapid succession: the chill is the AC — I get it now. The bed is, well, the bed. The lack of menstrual problems — of course.
The lack of Darcy —
I can't help tearing up a little.
What was that thing I said to Gigi again?
Something in the line of not trying this without messing up anyone's life.
Something that I've proven.
Something that the shifting months and faceless villagers in the longest dream of my life had somehow known better than I did.
I'm still panting when I try to slide off the bed. My hand's caught on something — a slight, sharp pain. It takes extensive disentangling in the half-darkness to reveal the stray plastic string — a sign of my disintegrating comforter — hooked neatly across my palm. It's exactly where my supposed teacup wound had been.
I sniff. I blink.
There had never been another Lizzie.
Nor another Darcy.
Gallant Fitzwilliam Darcy and the twisting halls of Pemberley were nothing more than figments of my imagination — results of way too much time spent with period romance novels.
My heart clenches, and I almost cry for real.
"I could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain."
My head jerks towards the sound within seconds. Gigi — not Georgiana. Broadway — not piano music. I'm a stranger in my own home.
I look down helplessly at my skimpy T-shirt and sleep-shorts. I'm here, I'm real, and it's not Christmas. It's Saturday morning after a long day at work and an even longer night.
Goodbye, Regency England. Hello, San Francisco.
I'm back.
Twelve
I'm back — the thoughts flood me like a broken dam. I'm back to America, to San Francisco. I'm back to the present — to reality. That whole thing?
I wander blindly towards my dresser and open a drawer full of foreign clothes. Man, I used to be a slut. Did I seriously wear that to work — and that to the beach?
I smile a little at the memory of Darcy gazing openly at me in my skimpy one-piece during that company party. Used to think he was judging — guess I know better now.
I pull out the bright-green dress — the one with capped sleeves and the color closest to my Pemberley ball gown. I retrieve a pair of panties (Gosh, I miss underwear) and some jeans and a hair-tie — and throw on my quick ensemble in place of my sleeping attire. Right outside the door, Gigi's still humming and sizzling something on the stove. I realize quickly that maybe underwear is overrated.
I take one long breath — deep and empowering — and throw the door open.
"Lizzie!" Gigi turns to smile at me right away. She glows even in her apron. The range hood's humming, the skillet's hissing, and the very, very fragrant omelet assaults my senses in a thousand different ways. I'm blinking a lot, I notice. Gigi's looking at me weird now. Because, of course she does.
"Lizzie?"
I meet her eye again. I offer a bashful smile. "Good morning."
My words come out more British than I'd intended.
"Good morning to you," she replies in equally European tones. Her eyes are twinkling mischievously. "Happy birthday."
Right — that.
"Thanks." I smile. I'm not exactly sure where to place my hands. I almost holler for Lilieth.
"Will left those for you this morning."
My eyes follow the direction her head is tilting — and arrive at a glorious bouquet of roses. The shade's exactly like that of the one outside the drawing room. I feel my breaths getting shallower by the minute.
"He brought these?" I walk towards the flowers — proof that I hadn't made up his request for a date. I mean, who knew when the dream started? My hands graze over the petals a bit before picking up the card in the middle.
"Mm hmm. I told him to stay, but I think he was too shy about it."
"Oh."
Gigi goes back to finishing that omelet. I read the small, beige card.
Happy birthday, Lizzie.
He spelled my name right!
May all your memories today be happy ones for you.
-Darcy
My heart is in my throat by the time I'm out the door and on the street.
• • •
My feet stumble a little on my kitten heels, but I force my way forward anyway. The hills are unforgiving — but so is this overwhelming urge to get there — to get to him.
It's Saturday — and joggers and fashionistas and hipsters of every shape and size fly by me in all their androgynous glory. The cars zoom, the phones click. I'm drowning in a 21st-century urban symphony. But, even then, nothing's been clearer.
I turn the corner, still feeling very exposed in my capped sleeves and skinny jeans. What kind of lady shows off skin and curves like this? It's strange — unheard of.
Left and right, individuals speak crisp, American English into their various minuscule microphones. Man, I miss San Francisco.
The route isn't foreign — but it isn't familiar either. I've joined Gigi once or twice this way, and it takes a few seconds to load my mental Google map at each corner. But that doesn't stop me.
No.
Nothing's gonna stop me now.
It's a good thing that Darcy stays in his condo near the office. I could never have walked my way to the estate.
My breath catches when I turn that last corner — because he's there, just mere yards away. He's walking towards his building. The revolving doors (of course) glisten just a few steps ahead. The broad shoulders — the tiny splatters of grey hair from the back — the dark-blue shirt that perfectly reflects his persona
— it's all present, all here — all so close I can just reach out and touch it.
"Darcy," the word escapes me.
He stops. I pause. He probably thinks he heard wrong because he's moving again — reaching out towards that door —
"Darcy!"
I'm five steps closer, and he hears me this time. It takes a few seconds for him to turn.
I'm blinking furiously, heart beating at a thousand miles an hour. I lick my lips. My limbs turn cold.
What do I say when 'darling' and 'dearest' and 'sweet husband' don't work?
What do I do when he's not actually my husband and I have no right whatsoever to assault him and take him — then and there?
It's a comfort, really, that I haven't slept with anybody else's husband — even if I technically never had mine.
"Lizzie?" He's surprised and confused and smiling and shy.
I realize all over again how adorable he can be.
"Darcy." I smile, walk forward.
He leans a little, though we're still quite a few feet apart.
"Happy birthday," he says softly. My eyes threaten to cry for real — right here — in the middle of posh, posh easy street.
"Thank you."
He smiles when I smile. I try to control my hormones — my nerves — my goosebumps — I —
I launch myself at him — every lip, hand, leg, and shoulder knowing exactly where to go. We've done this a million times over in another life — and this time, it's got to be real.
• • •
It takes a full minute, I think, before he pulls back. Sixty seconds of heavenly bliss (public heavenly bliss) before his lips leave mine. His arms stay around me. We're both panting — and staring — and then smiling — and panting.
"William," I whisper. It's so much better this way.
"Lizzie." His hand lands on my cheek. I smile even more.
The sparse Saturday-morning crowd glides past us bit by bit. Their faces are as blurred as the Lambton villagers'.
"Are you sure?" Darcy asks, and I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that this man doesn't realize we're soul mates.
And if he does, he doesn't know I did too. There's no arranged marriage here, no sister who still lives with him, no servants informing him of any of my personal epiphanies.
"I'm — I want —" It's strange to be able to speak like an American so blamelessly.
He raises an eyebrow when I pause — and I so want to attack him all over again.
I chuckle a little at the mental word choice.
"Yes?"
I look up again, meeting those bottomless blue-grey eyes. His shoulders feel strong and comforting under my trembling, un-caffeinated hands. His smile, his lips — I know where they belong.
"Darcy, I —"
He waits while I make out the words, while my mind finishes the last phase of time travel.
Not husband, not master. Yes colleague, maybe friend.
"I don't know —" I gulp, unsure. His faint smile prods me on. "I don't know — if I'm getting that promotion. And I — I'll have reasons to be happy regardless of the result. But I do know that I can get something else I want very, very much — and I am absolutely sure I want it now."
His eyes grow darker as if on demand. His lips open slightly. I know mine are doing the exact same thing.
"You think —"
"Thank you for the flowers — and the note." My smile grows in mirror-image to his. "I think I'll be making very happy memories today."
It's as if the words are magic — because, all of a sudden, he's kissing me and touching me and lifting me off the pavement in a very rare display of uninhibited public expression. I lean close, and he supports me. I kiss deep, and he responds.
Five minutes later, he's pulling out his keycard and whirling me into his high-tech condo. I catch glimpses of grey and chrome and carpet. I feel my back — shirt halfway up — pressed against something ridged and cool.
It's the wall, of course, and the memories are impossibly real.
I wander down his jaw and neck first — but he reciprocates fast, firm. His hands trace my hips and waist and ribs and arms and legs and inner thighs. Mine greedily shed off his clothing — wondering only for a moment if he has any house help around, and deciding against the thought.
In another two minutes, my eyes see shifting walls and my bare back hits plush and comfy bedding. He hovers above like he always does — strong, tender, passionate. I feel my whole body growing limp.
"Darcy —"
"Are you sure?" His voice carries both hope and respect.
I smile, taking in an eyeful of his delicious body (yes, I overlook nothing, thank you). His eyes are both amused and shy when I meet them again.
"Lizzie —"
"Yes, absolutely."
"Now?"
"Now."
Because my body had always known something my heart didn't — or, well, my heart knew something my mind had refused to admit. And this time, I'm about to let my heart do the talking.
He kisses my neck this time, hands wandering to unhook my bra. I'm more than happy to let go of such a ridiculously constricting piece of clothing — and just as anxious to get rid of his boxers.
It doesn't take long before he's inside me, body and soul. My screams, moans, and sighs feel right at home in this universe, and his bedroom as intimate as the one in Pemberley. He's here. I'm here. We're here —
And it's impossibly, amazingly real.
• • •
"I had been afraid to hope."
I look up at him, my head on his lap and the rest of me curled up on his ridonkulously expensive couch.
I smile. "Why?"
I'm too drunk on the bliss of my best birthday ever to realize he's making more sense than I am.
"Well —" He smiles shyly, tucks his chin in, blushes, smiles again. I could get used to this. "Gigi texted last night and she mentioned this morning that you —"
"Might not like you very much?"
He meets my eye for a short moment before his one, quiet word, "Yes."
"Well, if it's any comfort — I kinda thought so too."
He looks at me so strangely that I'm forced to push myself up to sit beside him. He's given in about staying in — explaining myself is the least I can do.
"What did Gigi say?" My hand soothes his shoulder. My other hand holds his.
"She said —" He pauses, stutters. He breathes in, then out.
"Yeah?"
"She warned me — not to — be hasty." He smiles a little — just the tips of his irresistible lips. Each set of words comes with a slight, adorable hint of hesitation. "I had not thought she would tease me by creating false expectations. Her words this morn—"
"She wasn't." I laugh, happy and comforted. The dark greys around us seem lighter than before. "I didn't know — myself."
"You did not know —"
"That I liked you — that I lo— like you a lot." My smile turns sheepish for a handful of seconds.
He nods knowingly, the smile on his face eventually staying. "I apologize for the times I have — acted less than gentlemanly. Had Gigi not told me, I would not have realized that my efforts to please and banter may have been interpreted as, well, creepy and —"
"No, no — you're fine!" I snuggle against his neck. The weight of his jaw feels warm and perfect against my crown. "I don't mind the — memories."
"Even if they are bad ones?"
I pull back to look at him, his frank and loving eyes against my wondering ones. I smile before I kiss him.
"Well, even if they are —" I smile, knowing things I never knew before. "Then we'll replace them — one by one."
Epilogue
"Lizzie, you know I cannot help wondering."
The way she looks up at him, hair splayed all over his lap, is beyond gorgeous and beautiful. Her smile lights up the entire apartment. Her skin is glowing, as are her eyes. "About what?"
Right — he did ask a question, didn't he?
Darcy smiles. "About the answer to the question that I did not manage to answer correctly tonight."
Even her frown is enticing, he thinks — realizing with a smile at how irrevocably, hopelessly in love he is with her.
"I think you got all of them, right?" Her facial features draw him in even as she speaks. "I mean — sorry if Mom and Lydia don't really have a radar as to what kind of question is considered 'inappropriate.'"
That thought has him chuckling. "I happen to appreciate the revelation that you prefer to leave hickeys on my thigh rather than on my neck. I had thought of course —"
"Will!" Her hand's over his mouth in a flash. Embarrassment and mischief both mingle in her eyes.
He kisses her hand before pulling it away. "Is not the purpose of an engagement party to reveal the many secret thoughts of one's significant other? I'd much rather we go into marriage without hidden intentions."
She, of course, catches his mock intentions. Her response is a very welcome hickey on his neck, despite any former answers to the contrary.
"Oh, Lizzie." He's breathless by the time he gets to kiss her lips. The way her legs start straggling his lap doesn't leave much room for coherent thought.
But if ever there was a man determined, it was William Darcy.
"When did you decide you'd like to marry me?" He pulls away, staying hands on her hips, just to ask his question.
"I always knew you'd make a good husband," she mutters. The way her eyes roll everywhere is a huge indication that she's only telling half the truth.
"And I know you shall make a good wife." He smiles before kissing her sweetly. "I have always known, from the day you rolled your eyes at my refusal to dance — that you're the only one for me."
The smile on her lips is extremely rewarding.
"I have reason to believe, however, that such sentiments had not been instantly mutual," he insists — and her face falls again.
"Will, you're being —"
"Annoying? I'm sorry," he apologizes sincerely. His hands start falling back on to the sofa. "I know I can be willful. I —"
"No! I'm not saying that! I'm just —" She smiles a big smile, and he hopes again. "I think you're too smart for your own good."
