Personally, I'd Rather Lick Sand: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation Romantic Comedy

by Ari Rhoge

I was really tempted to leave the apartment in my state of ratty PJs and equally messy bun — maybe just snatch Darcy's Lincoln car keys from the peg by the intercom, make a quick dash, and be back before anybody had even stirred. It was tempting — there was a Manhattan Bagel a few blocks over. But my morals got the better of me. Darcy had almost pissed himself from an allegedly stolen iPod. I think he might notice something amiss if an entire SUV had upped and vanished.

  Still, it was lonely in the loft, so I plunked down into one of the armchairs, fished my phone from my bag, and watched the sunrise slowly from the balcony window while waiting for Charlotte Lucas to pick up at the other end. When she did, she sounded surprisingly perky.

  “You're awake,” I balked, absently blowing strands of hair out of my eyes. “I thought I was going to get voicemail or that screeching-cat sound you make when I wake you.”

  “You mean the Howl of Doom?” Charlotte deadpanned. “No, I've been up for a couple of hours. I have to cover your early shift.” A sigh. “How's your sister, by the way? Still blowing chunks rapid-fire?”

  “That was a lot more visual than I had wanted it to be,” I said, wincing. “And, no. She's been sleeping through the night. She did throw up around two, though. I think I'll take her to the doctor's as soon as she gets up. Nobody's up here yet.”

  “Talk about your lazy bumpkins,” Charlotte murmured, cheerily. “Is Prince Charming still salivating?”

  I had mentioned Charlie Bingley once in a conversation with Charlotte. This was how her coinage of nicknames worked — speedily, and mercilessly. Charlie had been branded without knowing it. PC worked for short because eavesdroppers were usually under the impression that we were comparing Macs and Sony Vaios. And Charlotte and I indulged in butchered codenames because we most likely harbored a secret desire to be eight-year-old girls again.

  “He's very sweet. She slept in his bed last night.” I paused. “And, yes, I know exactly where your mind's going, but before it gets there you should know that he has two guest rooms. He occupied one, and his best friend occupied the other. Jane and I bunked up.”

  “Why do you have to strip such good material away from me?” Charlotte sighed, gloomily, which was followed by a sharp clatter of dishes. “What the French toast, Scout? I gave you kibble half an hour ago — there's nothing for you on that kitchen table. Motherfudge.”

  “How long are you going to keep swearing like the Orbit gum commercials?”

  “Until it stops amusing me — and my dog,” she answered. “Pisses Brenda off, though. Speaking of which, you really have to get your ass in here one of these days. We have a new girl, and I don't remember why I hired her. But sometimes she looks like she's on the verge of tears, so that might have had something to do with it.”

  “Can't George do anything?”

  “George can flirt,” Charlotte snapped, irritably. “It's gotten worse since you started flaking out on us, because his material is going dry and he needs somebody to practice on. So, this poor, gawking girl just stands there while George goes on about his tricked out '67 Mustang and that time he drank a gallon of milk in under an hour and vomited into his brother's glove compartment.”

  “I hate that story.” I winced.

  “See, but at least you tolerate it,” Charlotte added in, breezily. “Because we all know you dig George Wickham and want to have his babies. —— It's probably the dimples. Or the fact that he looks like the long-lost member of Hanson.”

  “He does not. You're never going to give this up, are you?”

  “Nope.” There was a long pause where neither of us felt much like saying anything, until she interjected with lyrics — “never going to let you down.” She added, punctually, “I don't even like Rick Astley, but, God, it's catchy.”

  “Rickrolled.” I smiled, resting my head on the arm of the chair. “Should I get you his Greatest Hits album for Christmas?”

  “Um, you best be. Oh, and I'm Jewish — just FYI. We've only been friends since infancy.”

  “Sorry, my mind spaced over political correctness.”

  “That's okay — it's overrated,” she said, pausing. “So, what's it like there in La Casa de Jane's Dying? PC's digs and all.”

  “I'll send her your warm, fuzzy regards.” I rolled my eyes, rising to my feet. “It's lovely and all, it's just that he has no coffee.” I paused, peeking through the curtains of the bay window. “And his best friend's a dipshit. A possessive dipshit. A possessive, narcissistic dipshit. Not that that's irrelevant or anything.”

  I still had yet to inform Charlotte of the other link I unfortunately shared with Will Darcy via my damned-to-hell manuscript, and hesitated. Finally, I opened my mouth —

  “Is he good looking?”

  I faltered, squinting. “Why would that matter?”

  “Morally, it wouldn't,” she murmured, munching on something — probably breakfast. “But I'm shallow and curious, so clue me in.”

  “Trust me, it doesn't even matter.” I scowled, tugging the curtain back into place. “It's like you're led to believe one thing, and then he opens his goddamn mouth and it's just infuriating. He's an asshole.”

  “He's probably good looking, in that case. You have some strange resentment toward handsome guys. I've been clubbing with you — I know these stats.”

  “That's complete bullshit.”

  “I know,” she chirped.

  Five minutes later, Scout, the only plausible love of Charlotte's life in the form of an extremely active Siberian husky, became finicky again and the conversation had to be left at that. I stretched, and found my way back to the bedroom, sorting through the duffel bag in search of my university hoodie and a pair of jeans. Jane stirred and yawned, rustling the sheets.

  “You're up early,” she murmured. I sat by her side and brushed a strand of her pale blonde hair behind one of her ears. She squinted up at me, smiling. “When did I change into my pajamas? I can't even remember.”

  “When I came back from the highway ride of hell with Will Darcy,” I told her, casually, patting her hand. “Don't worry… no need to look panicked. It was amusing, and I learned a lot in the case of beanbag appreciation and iPod theft.” Jane arched an eyebrow, so I switched topics — “how are you feeling? You look less pale than you were last night.”

  “I feel better,” she sighed, propping herself up on her elbow. “I think you're right about the stomach-flu thing, though. I don't know if it's shitty enough for antibiotics, but it's definitely no ray of sunshine.”

  “You should go to the doctor's anyway.” I paused, glancing at my bag across the room. “I should make a quick run to the pharmacy and get you plenty to drink. Dehydration would be pretty unpleasant right about now, wouldn't it?”

  “You don't have to, Lizzy,” Jane insisted. “Seriously.”

  “Don't worry about it — there's a Walgreens a few blocks over, anyway,” I mumbled, shrugging out of my pajama pants in favor of jeans. I pulled on my hoodie and dropped my sleepwear into an untidy pile at the dresser.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Do you want anything to eat?” I asked, slipping into a pair of moccs. “You're probably starving.” But Jane just shook her head, and I grabbed my purse from the corner of the bed.

  There was a knock at the door, then, and we whipped our heads around, surprised when Charlie entered hesitantly. He was already dressed, and embarrassed, lacing his hands behind his back. “Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt.”

  “You're not,” Jane sat up slowly, hugging her knees. “Morning.”

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her, smiling slightly. “You seem better. Can I get you anything? I have tea. Actually, a ridiculous amount of tea. It's Carolyn's, but, honestly, there's loads —”

  “That'd be nice,” I interrupted, laughing. “Jane, you're sure about breakfast, right? I'll be there anyway.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Where are you going?” Charlie asked.

  “Just to Walgreens, for some necessit
ies.” I looked at Jane. “She needs plenty to drink.”

  “That's probably true,” he murmured, rubbing the stubble of his chin in thought. “Get Gatorade too — electrolytes tend to help.” At Jane's raised eyebrow, he added, “my mother's a hypochondriac. I've been through so many runs to pharmacies.”

  “I sympathize,” I said, smiling.

  “Can I drop you off, then?”

  “No, that's fine. It's only a few blocks away — I'll walk.”

  • • •

  I loved walking in the city — there's something so different and appealing about urban landscapes when you've been stuck in the suburbs for the majority of your life. It turned a smidge sketchy and confusing when I took a wrong turn around 10 minutes in, circled the area, and stopped in front of a barren old dry cleaners with cracked windows and a suspiciously colored stain on the front door.

  “Oops.”

  So, I wasn't born with the greatest sense of direction. Some people should just emerge from the womb with a GPS system latched internally, and I'm no exception. But I did, finally, locate the Walgreens — after asking for directions, but, you know. It also turned out to be five blocks farther than I thought it had been, but that's okay.

  Needless to say, the hike back was interesting.

  In fact, I had almost succeeded in dragging the two grocery bags to Charlie's apartment in their entirety. Almost. Just as I was pulling myself through the entrance door to the lobby, I felt another person shoving at me from the side, trying to get in. And I stumbled. And the bottles upon bottles of Gatorade clunked out of the now torn paper bags, broke, and splashed berry-colored liquids all over Carolyn Bingley's pristine Gucci boots.

  And may I just say, this woman has extraordinary pitch. I don't know that many people who can sculpt their voices to sound like that sharp, high-pitched nasal hum that your TV emits when hold a cell phone in the vicinity — but she's a woman of many talents.

  “Sorry,” I said, wincing, kneeling down to collect the bottles and salvage what I could of the ones that had broken open. “Hey, those boots are white. That blows.”

  Carolyn raised her heel indignantly, attempting to wipe off the berry stain with her sleeve. “God, could you be any clumsier?” after a moment she paused, eyes narrowing intensely. “Wait a minute — did you spend the night here?”

  “Ja.”

  “Why?”

  “My sister, she hath blown chunks,” I muttered, collecting my bags and moving toward the elevator. To my immeasurable delight, Carolyn Bingley followed close behind, heels clicking on the marble floors. She stepped onto the lift just after me, and punched in a number.

  “So, your sister's sick?” she said, slowly, fixing the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “That's terrible.”

  “Yeah, you seem really torn up over it.” I clicked my tongue, watching the numbers climb. “You stalking your brother again?”

  Empress Bingley sneered. “Is that what you call paying a visit to a sibling you love? Stalking?”

  “Well, you've got to realize that by 'stalking your brother' I obviously meant 'stalking Will Darcy.'” I shrugged, grouping my groceries. “But, you know, call it whatever you want. It's a free country.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “First off, Lisa —”

  “Lizzy.”

  “I suggest you keep your assumptions to —”

  “Oh, look,” I said, smiling sharply at her, as the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. “We're here and I'm done caring.” I walked past her and into the empty loft, dropping my damaged bags on the kitchen counter. I heard a distinct harrumph from the room over, and the sound of clicking heels receding.

  I smiled, and began unloading the two six-packs of Gatorade I had bought, along with a couple of trashy tabloids for Jane and some much-needed instant coffee (which was as good as it was going to get at this point). Maybe I could fix breakfast too — she had to eat something. Toast would have been fine, but first she needed to stay hydrated. I searched Charlie's kitchen drawers for something sharp, finally locating a cheese knife to cut the plastic sealing off.

  • • •

  Fitzwilliam Darcy had a distinct feeling of having been rammed by a Greyhound bus while he was sleeping. Insomnia usually has that bruising effect. It was a shame, really. Philadelphia wasn't really anybody's first choice of a sunny vacation spot, but he had come to Charlie's for a much-needed case of replenishing one's spirit, and some solitude with his best friend.

  So much for that.

  Dressing quietly, he debated when would be the appropriate time to return to Charlotte. He had taken a two-week leave (“oh, a mental-health two weeks, is it?” Charlie had smirked) after having what could best be described as a baby-hiccup of a meltdown at his father's company.

  A chair was broken in the process.

  Oh, and a receptionist had been reduced to tears, but this was just a standard case of win-some-lose-some.

  Darcy grimaced, straightening his collar. He didn't personally think of himself as a complete jackass. It was probably just nerves, heaped on after missed deadlines, incompetent employees, and the prospect of being chained to a company he had no desire to work for.

  “Six more months,” he murmured to himself, tucking in his shirt. “Six more months, and you can do anything you'd like.” Six more months — his replacement would be ready, and he would happily sign his control over to the poor schmuck, shackles unbound. Law school seemed pretty promising. Maybe he'd take some time off to travel. Georgy was always talking about Tuscany — maybe he would take her. Or Prague — they had relatives there.

  Darcy's thoughts were put on hold when he heard the clatter of dishes outside his room, followed by a girl's laughter. He rolled his eyes. The one time he had come to visit his best friend in months, and Bingley's loft was already harboring two-plus members. One was beautiful and about as intellectually stimulating as cardboard. And the other?

  Well, he hadn't really decided what he thought about Elizabeth Bennet.

  Sighing, he left his room, with a laptop bag in tow, and entered the kitchen to find it completely occupied. He stopped in the doorway, thrown off guard that he had slept so late in comparison with the others. At the table, Jane Bennet had bottles of Gatorade at her side, and was smiling slightly at a joke Charlie was murmuring to her. She was pale, and a little weak-looking, but Charlie —

  God, Charlie was holding her hand.

  “Will!” Carolyn Bingley chirped, by the kitchen sink, setting aside a bottle of San Pellegrino. She hugged him passively around the shoulders — and he uncomfortably let her. Yes, Carolyn was overly affectionate to him, but he had learned in the last few years to just bear it. He shrugged her off after a couple of seconds, and found a pot of coffee at the nook of the kitchen counter, tentatively sniffing it. When he glanced up, he accidentally caught Elizabeth Bennet's eye — she sat beside her sister, drumming her fingers on the edge of the table.

  “It's shit because it's instant — but you'll have to make do,” she assured him, grinning in a way that seemed mocking, at best. Narrowing his eyes, he poured some into an empty mug, and snatched some milk from the refrigerator.

  “Y'know, I really have no problem driving you.” Charlie was continuing a conversation with Jane, taking a sip from his mug. “I just don't know if you feel well enough to go home. I don't want to force you out only to have you pass out or something on the train.”

  “I wouldn't,” she assured him, smiling slightly. “And you're not forcing me out. I just feel like such an imposing shit as it is, so,” she said, laughing weakly, leaving her sentence unfinished.

  Darcy raised an eyebrow, not sure if this was Jane Bennet's way of asking for an extended invitation or what. He glanced to Lizzy Bennet for a split second, but she was ripping off bits of toast distractedly and popping them into her mouth.

  “No — God, you're not,” Charlie assured her, actually looking insulted for the barest second. “You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like. Stay all day, s
eriously. It's not like I'm really doing anything.”

  Darcy and Carolyn both glanced up, the latter clearing her throat. “Charlie, I thought we were going to the Rodin exhibition tonight. I asked you if you wanted me to buy you a ticket.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Buy one for Will.”

  Darcy coughed into his fist.

  “Never mind — don't buy one for Will.”

  “Don't change your plans for us,” Lizzy said, shrugging, and stretching briefly. “We probably have to be back home soon, anyway. Oh, and I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning, Jane. The doctor's is closed today.”

  “I don't even think I need to go to the doctor's,” Jane said, shrugging. “They just recommended lots of fluids for a mild case of the stomach flu.”

  “You should probably get plenty of rest in your bed, too, hm?” Carolyn suggested, sweetly — but it wasn't difficult to pick up on the strong implication that Jane Bennet reside at her own home. This passed over one Bennet's head, but Elizabeth Bennet's eyes narrowed with the sort of aggression that simultaneously intrigued and frightened Will Darcy.

  Not that Lizzy Bennet was terrifying. She was just a shade of unpredictability that caught him off guard.

  She caught his eye for a second, and he looked away, stirring his coffee. They had barely spoken since they had returned to Charlie's very early that morning. He looked back up when he was sure that she wasn't looking his way.

  Something about Lizzy really bothered him, and he couldn't place his finger on it. It was definitely some absurd mix between her verbal diarrhea and extremely outspoken opinions. She was unfathomably rude and aggressive. It irked him.

  He took a seat at the kitchen table, sipping from his mug. Carolyn took a seat beside him, her leg just slightly brushing against his. He blinked twice and shifted subtly a couple of inches to the left. To his surprise, Lizzy snorted from across the table — she had noticed, and quickly buried her face back into her cup.

  Darcy grimaced, watching her intently. The thing was, she wasn't that remarkable of a girl. Lizzy Bennet was actually pretty plain. She had dark, occasionally frizzy curls usually pulled back, a pale face, and an average, if not slightly curvier figure. She was nothing short of ordinary.