by Ari Rhoge
“He calls her. —— A lot.”
“He would,” Georgy said, laughing. “Well, hey, I'm rooting for them, if something does happen. I think it's obvious how he feels about her, though. He smiles a lot, but not nearly as much as he did when she was in the room that day you met. My cheeks hurt just looking at him.”
“True enough.” I couldn't stop myself from grinning.
“And Jane likes him too, right?”
“Well, ja,” I said, laughing. “She's all blushing and quiet and awkward as hell. Sometimes she's just beyond shy — and, let me inform you, it's a tell-tale sign.”
“I don't know. Subtract the blushing and I'd think she was being distant or something.” Georgy shrugged.
“She's just quiet — never makes the first move.”
“Gotchya.”
“So, my dear,” I sighed, zipping up my bag. “What are you going to do about this place? Pick one day — one day of the week you can work here.”
“One?” Georgy winced, sulking. For a second and a half, I saw Will Darcy in her likeness.
“Yes, one,” I murmured.
She straightened, considering it. “Fridays.”
“Coincidentally the night that boy works here, but I'm going to pretend I don't know that, and compromise.” I sealed the deal with a handshake. “Oh, and, before I go, I have to ask you a question.”
“I have to go, too — I have to start a 12-page paper,” she sighed. “But, yeah, shoot.”
“Why's your brother's name Fitzwilliam?”
She snorted, surprised. “Wow, did he actually admit to that being his full first name? He never does.”
“Charlie told me,” I lied, feeling shithead-ish.
“Fitzwilliam was our mother's maiden name. Call it a true-blue joining of surnames through the name of the first kid in the family,” Georgy said, clicking her tongue. “This was, of course, before my mom left my dad broken-hearted, moved to California, and started a family of her own.”
I winced. “Sorry.”
“Don't worry about it,” she assured me. “Anyway, it's not like I have many clear memories of her. I've seen her a handful of times in my life. Will's seen her much more, and he's about 10 times more bitter.”
“Will Darcy — bitter?” I blinked. “I can't even imagine it.”
Georgy rolled her eyes upward, grinning. “Here we go.”
“I can't help myself — It's too easy to pick on him.”
“One of these days, Lizzy…” Georgy stood up, adjusting the guitar-case's strap on her shoulder. “One of these days you'll see things a lot differently than you do now.”
“I'm sure.”
• • •
“You know, we do have a free texting plan,” I pointed out to Jane, mid-dinner preparation. She glared at me from the counter (dressed adorkably in bear PJs) and pressed her hand to the mouthpiece of her cell. I added, “then again, you might end up sending Charlie 50 texts per hour, and that's just time-draining in terms of spellchecking.”
“Lizzy, I'm going to spit in your salad.”
“What a horrible thing to say.” I pouted, hugging the blue-glass bowl to my chest. “I even got croutons for you and everything… no need to bitch.”
She smiled, and rolled her eyes, taking up her phone conversation again. “Yeah. No, she's just making dinner and being ever so sweet, as usual.” A pause. “Of course.” A short, blushing giggle. “Okay, bye.”
“Has Charlie's ear dislocated itself yet?”
“Oh, good one,” Jane pointed out, shrewdly, popping a stolen cucumber slice into her mouth.
“What do you think you'll name your kids?” I considered, stroking my chin and losing the effect as I don't have a philosopher's beard. “I'm feeling something catchy and original. Like Jojoba, or Shanaynay.”
“Will you stop?” Jane said, laughing, swatting at my arm. “We're just friendly, that's all. There will be no making of babies, okay?”
“You're the second person to feed me that 'we're friends' spiel today,” I muttered, salting the vegetables.
Jane looked confused for a minute, and I shrugged. “Don't worry about it — I'll catch you up eventually.”
“Good to know,” my twin sighed, stretching delicately. “Oh, you do know that we're visiting home on Saturday for dinner, right?”
The wooden spoon clattered mid-stir, and I groaned. “What, no. You can't be serious.”
Jane popped her lips boredly, shrugging. “Mom called this morning. And, honestly, Lizzy, it's been ages since we've been back in Longbourn County.”
“I'm okay with that.”
“Well, I miss everybody,” Jane sighed, resting her head in her hand. “I miss Mom's over-salted cooking and Dad camping out in the study all the time when Kit and Lydia get annoying.”
“Which is practically all day because they're always annoying,” I muttered, mashing my salad a little too fiercely.
Jane fixed me with a glare, and I slumped. “Okay, I do miss them — Dad especially. I might even miss Mom too. And Marin. But you know what it's like, Jane — everyone in that house is fucking insane to some degree.”
“That's not true,” Jane said, shaking her head. “Oh, and apparently Marin's going through a mega-moody phase lately. At least that's what Mom tells me. She's gotten all sulking.”
“This is what happens when you live with Kit and Lydia and you're stuck being Mom's lackey,” I said, crisply. “That house sucks out the soul. Thank God we got out when we did.”
“Lizzy, it's not Alcatraz,” Jane snorted.
“Still,” I said, grimacing, and setting aside the bowl. “It hasn't even been that long since we were there, Jane. I still remember the smell of burnt cookies and Jonas Brothers music on repeat every fucking day.”
“I like Joe Jonas,” Jane said, wincing apologetically.
I pointed my spoon at her. “We're not friends anymore.”
Jane grinned, reaching over the counter to kiss my cheek. “But I love you… Thing #2.”
“Stop it. And only Dad can use that joke, okay?” I pointed out. “You didn't even like The Cat in the Hat growing up.”
Jane shrugged. “Yeah, but did you ever think that it wasn't a Dr. Seuss thing? Maybe Dad just forgot our names and decided to call us Thing #1 and Thing #2 from a brain fart.”
“Yeah, but then I decided that that kind of thing was probably reserved for Kit and Lydia.”
Jane flung a slice of pepper at me, and I ducked, laughing.
• • •
That Saturday, I finally showed up for work — and, keeping up with old traditions, simultaneously snuck in some studying underneath the supply shelves. Charlotte would move by and thwack me upside the head every five minutes or so.
“You're pretty awful at time management, you know?” George grinned, mopping up a mess with a used rag.
I flipped him off.
“My heart's breaking,” he said, pouting, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me toward him — and, because I have pathetic upper-body strength, I utterly failed at prying myself away.
“You're an asshole.”
“I missed you too, Lizzy,” he grinned, finally releasing me — but at this point my hair was mussed, and I huffed accordingly, throwing my visor off to pull my hair back into a bun.
“See,” George handed me back my textbook. “I always seem to make time for things. It's always just come naturally to me.”
“I'm sure,” I said, laughing, quickly taking an order and snatching a cup from a dispenser. “Didn't you skip classes all the time before you dropped out?”
“Okay, fine — there's a weaker point,” he shrugged. “But I'll have you know that I'm balancing two jobs — and both are going pretty damn well at the moment, thank you.”
“What's the second, corrupting little children?”
George narrowed his green eyes at me. “Cute, Lizzy —— and no. This one lets me express myself a little more clearly than say, fixing up frapps and peppermi
nt mochas would.”
“That's deep,” I told him, putting a hand over my heart. “Please don't tell me you're in the porn industry now.”
“Lizzy.” Charlotte whipped me good-humoredly with a rag. “You want to close your mouth for a second and get to work?”
“Yeah, Lizzy,” George teased.
I rolled my eyes, and took Charlotte's place by the register. “Hi, what can I get you?” I looked upward, then paused, mouth hanging open stupidly. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
There was a clatter of cups behind me, but I kind of didn't register this, considering that Will Darcy was standing before me, extremely uncomfortable, as always. “Hi.”
“Um, hi,” I said, frowning, blinking. “Isn't this place a little out of your way from Charlie's?”
“He dragged me here at Georgy's suggestion,” Darcy pointed out. “Better customer service.” He paused, glancing down. “Apparently.”
“Yeah, I'm sure you think so, now,” I snorted, smiling. “And where is Master Bingley?”
“In the new-age-and-philosophy aisle.”
I nodded, then hesitating: “um —— yeah, so, coffee?”
So, I took his order for two tall café Americanos, then was stuck making idle chitchat while Charlotte whipped it up. But, just as I spun back to face Darcy, equipped with some bullshit, 15-second topic about the weather, I noticed that he was glaring — and just over my shoulder — right at George Wickham.
I'm not talking 'you working-class scum, you better make that no foam' snob glaring, but full-out, tight-jawed, eyes burning, fists clenched, glaring. I backed up.
“Hey, Will,” George offered, standing rigidly. He looked smug and angry at the same time. “How's life been treating you?”
Darcy didn't reply.
George nodded, smiling ironically. “Life's grand here, you know.” He draped an arm over my shoulder.
I looked back at Will, and our eyes met for a split, bone-chilling second before he turned on his heel and walked away. And, despite my major creeped-out state, I leaned across the counter and called out, “wait, your order!”
But he turned the corner and was already gone, leaving me with half of my body hanging out past the countertop like a deranged, deeply confused moron — which wasn't far off from the real thing.
10
—
Bridges We've Built
There was a rush of fabric, a yanking of the wrist, a slam of a supply closet's door, and suddenly my back was arched into the cobwebby shelves lined with merchandise in the back of the cafe. Charlotte had a finger pointed at me under my nose, and I might have feared for my life if I didn't already know that the 5'2" redhead was virtually harmless.
“You know, they'll be looking for me,” I told her, off-handedly, shoving my hands into my apron's pockets. “If they find a carcass in here, it'll be tough to dig up an alibi.”
“That was Will Darcy.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes, finger consistently pointed.
“Yuh-huh.” I raised an eyebrow.
“Lizzy, I heard you say his full name — that was Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Am I supposed to follow this? Because I'm kind of having trouble.”
She rolled her eyes, and jammed the rim of my visor down until it squished my forehead. I swatted at her blindly, scowling, until I was able to fling it off.
“When were you going to tell me that the asshole you had been spending time with was none other than the bastard editor whose balls you wanted to fricassee?” Charlotte pivoted her hands on her hips, exasperated.
“That was vivid, Char —— touché,” I muttered, finally surrendering when she glowered. “What did you want me to say, for God's sake? I'm trying to be civilized here and just ignore it — especially since he's my housemate's brother.” I rolled my eyes. “Besides, I didn't think it was that important. Bygones and all that shit.”
“Lizzy, there are two things wrong with that statement,” my best friend said, helpfully, raising two fingers. “A — you could never be civilized. We've attempted this since Kindergarten. Stop trying.” A pregnant pause. “And B — of course it's important! Even with bygones.”
“I'm handling it,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. “And by handling it I mean not bringing it up. I know enough about that man to know that it was my own fault for sending the manuscript to his company. He's in a state of permanent pissyness.”
Charlotte arched an eyebrow. “He didn't look that pissy before he saw George.”
“Yeah, what the fuck was that?” I asked, glancing at the small square of glass in the doorway out — George was knelt over by the counter, his back facing us, rewiring the register. He hadn't spoken since the incident. Then again, three minutes hadn't lapsed between the time Darcy left and Charlotte kidnapped me.
Charlotte shrugged, picking a feather from her apron. “All I know is that it was unnecessary tension in the workplace, hon, and you and I should be the only ones to supply that. Lovingly, of course.”
“Of course,” I smiled, yanking a strand of her hair half-heartedly.
She swatted at me. “Anyway — you kind of glazed over that Darcy guy during our phone conversation,” she smirked. “Sulking or not, that boy is fine.”
“I haven't noticed.”
“Are you selectively blind?” she cooed. “Half of the women in the vicinity looked over. And the man at the corner table reading a Liza Minnelli biography.”
I rolled my eyes, shoving past her. “You want to make coffee now? 'Kay, thanks.”
“Now she wants to make coffee,” Charlotte muttered, under her breath, following close behind me.
• • •
I caught up with George after his shift ended. And by caught up I mean dashed out at the last minute, still in uniform, to find him dwelling in the parking lot. He was digging through his car, and I startled him so that he narrowly avoided hitting his forehead on the edge of his trunk. I'm a girl with expert timing.
“Jesus, Lizzy.” George lifted his head carefully, ducking out of the way. “… Don't do that.”
“Whatchya digging for down there?” I asked, peering inside. “Atlantis?”
“My guitar.” He raised an eyebrow, hauling up a beat-up, gray case.
I didn't even know he played. I hugged my arm self-consciously, not entirely sure how I would ask him what I wanted to ask him.
“Let me guess,” George said, smiling ironically, dimples apparent. “You want to know how it is that I know Will Darcy.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Well, seeing as you've been giving me concerned little glances all afternoon and you raced out here after my shift?” George took a moment for a sentimental pause. “I'd say it's obvious, yes —— I just didn't know you cared so much about me, Lizzy Bennet.”
“I'm not one for flattery —— now, tell me, before I scratch your car.”
“How do you know him?” George pressed on, curiously.
“I asked you first.”
“Just tell me.”
I remained stubbornly tight-lipped.
“God, fine. You're so fucking persistent. I don't know if it's a fault or an asset.” He took a seat on top of his closed trunk, leaning his elbows against his knees. “Let me paint a picture for you, then —— it goes back to freshman year of university.”
I sat beside him tentatively. “This reminds me of Reading Rainbow.” He glared, and I cleared my throat. “Sorry, continue.”
“Okay, well, Will Darcy was my roommate for our first year at NYU,” he muttered, plucking loose threads from his sleeve. “Actually, we go way back to sophomore year of high school. Unbefuckinglievable, right?”
That was for sure.
“Wait a minute —— Charlie Bingley was his roommate.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Oh-ho, look who's got their history. Nope, Bingley came along just after the first semester ended. Darcy and I shared a dorm room. I wouldn't necessarily say we were close —— but we straddled that weird mark betw
een acquaintance and friend — does that make sense?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Anyway.” George leaned back until he was perched against his rear windshield, arms folded beneath his head. “Just before the holidays, we went to a friend's party. I didn't even like the asshole, anyway, so I left early to get some sleep. Darcy obviously stayed,” he sighed, squinting. “At around three in the morning, the smoke detector goes off.”
I frowned, crossing my legs Indian-style.
George was smiling bitterly. “See, I don't even understand what possessed him to light a joint up in the middle of the night. Fuck, I didn't even know he did that. I don't understand if it was the fact that he had privilege and money in the palm of his hand and could do anything he wanted —— or if he got a little shitfaced at the party.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, hugging my arms to myself. “What happened?”
“Caught, obviously,” George muttered, rubbing his face wearily. “He had stubbed it out before they barged in. So, they searched through our drawers and stripped our mattresses. And they finally found something —— a bag of the shit hidden beneath my bed sheet.”
“He set you up,” I mumbled, blankly, feeling disgusted.
“And I took the fall,” George said, grinning remorsefully. “He had a reputation to uphold, and I knew his family was going through a rough patch. At the very most, I expected him to plead with the board or attempt to stick up for me. But the bastard just stood there. I was thrown out by the end of the week.”
“But couldn't you have defended yourself?”
“Elizabeth.” George patted my hand. “If your daddy paid the university a ridiculously large sum of money, I'm pretty certain that they'll take your word over that punk roommate of yours who's riding on scholarship funds. It has to be basic principle.”
“And all this time I thought you dropped out.”
“I think it preserves my dignity a bit rather than saying I was thrown out of NYU,” said George, callously, laughing. “Oh, and don't forget about the community-service hours that followed —— there go several months of my life I'll never get back.”
“God, what a bastard,” I said, seething, and closing my eyes. “I can't believe he did that to you. He truly doesn't care about anybody but himself, does he?”
