by Bernie Su
“Hey, look, a free table!” Lydia pointed, and shoved us toward it. “You guys hold it down—I’ll get drinks!”
Lydia dodged her way through the Saturday night crowd and tried to elbow her way to the bar, without much success. We Bennets inherited our mother’s petite frame.
“I’ll go help her,” George offered, as he held out a chair for me (!!). “And the first round’s on me.”
As George moved off, Jane caught my eye. “Well, I can certainly tell what you see in him.”
“He’s pretty great, right?”
“Handsome.”
“And charming,” I replied. “If only he were rich, we would have hit the mother-trifecta.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that—at this point she might be willing to take two out of three.” Jane laughed. Then her ridiculously perfect brow came down in confusion. “Wait, does that mean you’re thinking about George . . . long-term? Hitting the mother-trifecta?”
“God no!” I replied immediately. “We’ve just been texting. You can’t think long-term about anyone like that when you’re limited in communication by your data plan.” But . . . “He’s interesting to me, though.” I smiled.
The thing is, Lydia was not wholly wrong. George actually is the most interesting this to happen to me in years . . . at least guy-wise. I don’t let people get close to me easily. It’s just not my thing. Jane becomes best friends with everyone within five minutes of meeting them, and Lydia gloms onto people with the fervor of a chipmunk on a sugar high. But I’ve always been a little standoffish. A little suspicious, I guess. So the fact that I’m talking to a guy, liking a guy, letting that guy buy me and my sisters a round of drinks, is kind of a big deal.
While I was contemplating the big deal that was currently leaning against the bar and showing off an incredibly perfect . . . pair of jeans, Jane’s phone buzzed.
“Oh, no,” she said, her entire posture falling.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Bing’s not able to come,” she sighed. “But Caroline says she’s on her way.”
“Oh, that sucks—you guys haven’t seen each other in forever.”
“I know. His school is going to start up soon, and they’ve been giving me so many extra hours at work, which means I can’t carpool with Bing . . .” She shrugged, letting it drift off. But I had to wonder. Bing’s school is in Los Angeles. What was going to happen when he had to go back? A long-distance relationship? Jane making frequent trips down I-5 on weekends? He seems to really like it here; would he transfer?
“Excuse me,” a guy from the next table leaned over, “but didn’t we go to high school together?”
Jane turned around, startled. “I think so. It’s so good to see you!”
Jane and the guy started talking, and he introduced her and me to his friends around the table. That’s how we were situated when Caroline and Darcy walked in the door.
Ugh.
I hadn’t actually seen Darcy in the flesh since Jane and I left Netherfield. He didn’t seem worse for wear. In fact, he actually . . . smiled at me. Smiled.
I think I may have approximated something vaguely smile-like in return, because as Caroline went over and air-kissed Jane, wedging herself into the seat next to her, Darcy came and sat next to me.
“Hello, Lizzie.”
“Hello.” Yes, I do have the ability to mask my feelings and be polite. “How have you been?”
“I have been well,” he said, his posture completely perfect. Seriously, even his bow tie was perfectly pointed at the corners. It was ridiculous. “And you?”
“Fine.”
“Er, how are your students? The ones you tutor?”
“Good,” I replied. “Although for most of them school has already started, so our sessions are over.”
“Oh. So you’re not teaching them anymore?”
“No—I only tutor in the summer—because of my own workload with grad school.” Which will be starting up again soon enough. And I won’t have my regular partner in crime anymore . . . but let’s think about that later.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Darcy said. “Not because you won’t be . . . I’m mean it’s . . . I just find what you teach interesting. That’s all.”
“What I teach?” I asked, a little bewildered by his inarticulateness. Usually he knows the most cutting thing to say at all times. “You mean English?”
“Yes. Especially for someone studying communications.”
“I’m getting my grad degree in mass communications, but my bachelor’s is in English,” I said defensively. “If my understanding of literature wasn’t sufficient, my former teachers would not recommend me to their students.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “Just that it must give you an illuminating perspective about . . . Tolstoy.”
“Tolstoy?”
“Yes! I was thinking about how you were saying that Tolstoy thought Shakespeare was a poor dramatist, and that as a communications student you must—”
Darcy stopped talking, mid-sentence. His eyes fell on something—or someone—behind me. I turned around. George was standing there, four beers in hand.
“Here you go, peach,” he said, putting the beers on the table in front of me. “I got you the same kind you had last time.”
What was really amazing was that George did and said all of this while keeping his eyes locked on Darcy’s.
You know how I was saying I have the ability to mask my feelings and be polite? You know who doesn’t?
Darcy.
And at that moment, I could read everything on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his jaw working overtime. “I have to go.”
Then . . . he just stood up and walked out of the bar.
“Darcy, wait!” Caroline cried, clearly flummoxed. “Um . . . he’s my ride. I’m sorry, Jane, I’ll see you later?” And without bending to air kiss, Caroline was out the door on Darcy’s heels.
Out of all the weird things that Darcy has done in my presence, this was by far the weirdest.
And George Wickham is the cause of this weirdness. From the look on George’s face, he wasn’t pleased to have seen Darcy, either.
“What was that about?” I asked under my breath.
“Nothing,” George said, taking Darcy’s vacated seat next to me.
“That wasn’t nothing,” I replied.
“William Darcy and I have . . . a history. That’s all.” He looked down at the beers in front of us. “But let’s not let him spoil our night! I want to hear everything you’ve been up to since I’ve been gone.”
If George didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine; I wasn’t going to push him. But obviously my curiosity was piqued. How could it not be, with such an enigmatic statement?
Jane might say that my curiosity was a little too piqued, because I did make a late-night video (not that kind, ew) about it. But come on, it’s too juicy to ignore:
George knows Darcy.
Darcy knows George.
And given his actions, Darcy hates George.
I can’t help it—I have a curious nature. And as my old DVD copy of Harriet the Spy as my witness, I am going to get to the bottom of this one.
* * *
I had just closed this journal when our doorbell rang. Thankfully Mom wasn’t home, because I can only imagine the freak-out that would occur upon seeing one Mr. George Wickham on the other side of the door.
“Hey,” he said. “I was thinking about going to the beach today. And I thought, maybe I could use a local tour guide? Someone who knows all the best spots?” He grinned wide. “You interested?”
George Wickham at the beach? In a swimsuit? Yes, please.
“Let me grab my suit,” I said, and ran upstairs.
I have to admit, George is in town for three days and already, things are a lot more interesting around here.
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH
George just left my room. I was making a video, and he was curious about
it, so I let him come in and be on camera today. But what I learned . . . turns everything I thought I knew about Darcy on its head, and confirms him as a worse person than even I had previously thought.
George and I have been hanging out pretty much every day this past week. He doesn’t start with his swim clients until Monday, and my classes don’t start up for a little while, so might as well make the most of it, right?
And it’s been great. He’s been great. I know that it may seem a little fast, but . . . I like him. He’s funny and ridiculously hot and charming. Granted, I don’t think he’s read any book longer than a Men’s Health magazine, but since when are common interests and tastes the basis for good relationships? Whatever happened to opposites attract?
If Charlotte were here, she would be freaking out that I was getting too involved with him, but 1. She’s not here, and 2. I’m not getting that involved. We’re keeping it casual. Casually going to the beach. Casually meeting for a movie. Casually making out in the back of my car like ridiculous teenagers who can’t afford a hotel room. (Although we actually can’t, come to think of it. Plus, he has roommates and I live at home, so no wonder I never date.)
But I don’t see anything wrong with enjoying myself a little. School is going to start soon enough, my life will be consumed by my final year, and my thesis and then getting a job/probably moving/real life will invade. If I was ever going to have some fun, now’s the time.
George is a great partner for it. And he listens to me. He’s interested in me. Which is why, when he said he wanted to see me make a video, I let him be on camera.
I also figured it would be a really good time to put him on the spot and ask him about all the Darcy drama at Carter’s the other night. Hey—I had waited patiently for a week to know the answer. That speaks to a level of maturity I did not know I was capable of. Perhaps I am ready for the real world.
Anyway . . . while we were filming, I asked him. About the “history” he has with Darcy. He was pretty reticent to tell me, especially while the camera was on. So, I turned it off.
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to tell tales out of school, or denigrate someone who isn’t here to defend himself. But honestly, Darcy really doesn’t have much of a defense for what he did.”
“If you’re worried about impeaching one of my friends, don’t be,” I said quickly. “We only know Darcy because Jane is dating a friend of his, but that doesn’t mean he’s her friend, and it certainly doesn’t mean that he’s mine.”
“And he’s not one of mine, anymore,” George replied.
“How long have you known each other?” I asked.
“Pretty much my entire life.”
Wow. I hadn’t expected that. Which must have shown on my face, because George continued. “I know. It’s hard to believe. But there was a time when we were best buds. My mom was his parents’ housekeeper. When my dad skipped out on us, Mom and I moved into an apartment on the Darcy estate, and Mr. Darcy stepped up, sort of taking me under his wing.”
I hadn’t known his mother was a housekeeper, or that his father had left them. He said it so matter-of-factly, but I could tell he was sad underneath all the charm and smiles. I just wanted to hug him. But instead I let him talk.
“William and I grew up together, always hanging out, waging fake wars in the woods, basic boy stuff,” he continued. “I was pretty much a second son to the Darcys. So much so, Mr. Darcy promised that he’d cover my bill for college.
“Anyway, my mom retired from being a housekeeper when I was sixteen, and we moved out of our little apartment. Darcy and I didn’t see each other all the time anymore, but we were still tight. At least I thought we were. Then . . . Mr. and Mrs. Darcy died in a car accident.”
“Oh, my gosh,” I said quietly. I felt for him. And I actually felt for Darcy, too. It does kind of explain why he’s so closed off. But it doesn’t excuse what George said next.
“I tried to be there for my friend, but he just cut me off. Finally, it was time for college, and I got into a great school, with the most incredible swimming program. But when I went to Darcy, and reminded him of his dad’s promise, he said no.”
“He said no?” I blinked, a little in shock, even though I was expecting it. “Just flat out?”
“Just flat out.” George nodded. “I couldn’t believe it. But Darcy . . . he’d become really cold, and snobby. He didn’t want to play with the housekeeper’s kid anymore.”
“So . . . what did you do?” I asked.
“What could I do?” he replied. “It’s not like there was anything written down, so I didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Which Darcy told me in so many words. So I applied for loans, financial aid, I even got a little swimming scholarship—it wasn’t much, but it helped. Still, with all that, I only had enough money for a year of school. So I had to drop out and piece together a career coaching swimmers.”
“Wow,” I said after a moment. “I just . . . Wow. I don’t really know how to process this.”
“Can I confess something to you?” he said, putting his hand over mine. “I’ve been watching your videos.”
“Well, I know,” I said. “Since you wanted to be in one and all.”
“Not just recently. You told me about them the first time we met, and I looked them up. They were so cool and addictive I kept watching, and then you mentioned this Darcy guy. I just didn’t think that your Darcy and my Darcy could be the same person. Because the one you describe doesn’t match my memories of the friend I used to run around the woods with as a kid. But it was. And now I can see that he’s only gotten worse with time.”
“Was Carter’s the first time you’ve seen him since you were eighteen?” I asked.
“No. I’ve seen him once or twice, just for a minute, though. His sister Gigi, too—she used to be such a sweet kid, but last time I saw her, she was becoming a lot like her brother.” His eyes hit mine and I melted into a puddle. “But it was still kinda shocking, seeing him here with you.”
“Not with me,” I quickly corrected. “Christ, he must have stalked out of the bar that night because he was ashamed of what he did to you.”
“I don’t know why he left the bar, but it wasn’t because he was ashamed. That would mean he felt guilt. Hell, that he felt anything about how he ruined my life.”
“George—you have to let me tell my viewers this. Darcy doesn’t deserve to be walking around free of guilt. The world needs to know what kind of person he is.”
He seemed to think it over. “Well, you can tell them if you want—but you should protect yourself. The Darcys have a bunch of lawyers, and if they found out, and decided to sue . . .”
“I think we can find a way around that,” I replied.
So we turned the camera back on and told the Internet a “hypothetical story” about two boys who grew up together, and one betraying the other. Then, after Lydia came in and spilled water all over George—executing a convoluted plan worthy of Mom to get him to take his shirt off—he kissed me good-bye, and we made plans to meet up for lunch tomorrow.
I’m still having a lot of trouble processing what George told me. I’m willing to believe a lot of bad about Darcy, having personally witnessed his terribleness, but this? This is not just being insulting and rude. This is actually negatively affecting someone’s life. How could anyone do something like that? Especially to someone he once called a friend.
I sort of wish Charlotte were here—even though I’m still mad at her for giving up on her dream. I could use another person’s perspective, and she’s always been my trusty eyes and ears. But you know what? Charlotte would probably try to play devil’s advocate and justify Darcy’s actions, or take George down a peg for making muscle tone a priority in his life. And that’s not what I want right now. I want someone to be outraged with me.
And besides, as stated previously, Charlotte is most definitely not here anymore.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11TH
It’s very quiet in the library today. Which i
s, I suppose, as it should be. I don’t have any tutoring students anymore; they’re all back in school. And I don’t have any classes of my own yet, and won’t until October. The thing is, I could use some distraction in the form of droning lectures right now. It makes me wish my course curriculum had offered the last few classes I need for my degree during the summer session, just so I didn’t have to be alone and ponder right at this very moment.
But days like today lend themselves to reflection. Especially days with this date.
So I should be pondering. But the problem is, I should be pondering more substantive things. About the state of the world, the sacrifices we make for privilege, and the hope for peace. But instead, I’m thinking about guys.
Way to be enlightened there, Lizzie.
Specifically, I’m thinking about George Wickham and William Darcy. It’s not hard for me to reconcile what George told me with the Darcy I have come to know—just the opposite, in fact. The problem is, it’s hard to reconcile anyone doing something so egregious to someone else outside of a mustache-twirling cartoon villain. How can he, who destroyed a friend’s life on a whim, even get to exist among us more civilized yet common people?
George hasn’t talked about it since, really. We hung out yesterday, and he was his normal “everything is awesome” self, but sometimes he would get quiet and look out into the distance, and I could tell he was thinking about it. I asked him, and he made a self-deprecating comment about how his life was ruined, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
I don’t know if George has been thinking about it for the past—what, eight, ten years?—or if it’s just gotten all churned up because he saw Darcy in town. But either way, it’s something that still really bothers him, and it’s something I can’t make right.
Maybe I’ll confront him about it. Darcy, I mean. After all, Bing’s birthday is coming up this weekend—which will be a fine opportunity for forced interaction with everyone’s favorite killjoy. It promises to be a doozy of a party, too. Although I don’t know if Caroline knows how to throw anything other than a doozy of a party. But this time, Bing’s not only inviting us “young folk” but our parents, too. Caroline also said that her parents are coming into town, as well as some other relatives and a bunch of Bing’s friends from college.
