by Ari Rhoge
“Thanks, Ann Landers. —— Do I turn to you for legal advice, too?” Charlie pressed, his tone bordering on annoyed.
Will smiled ironically. “Fuck you.”
“You know, forget I asked,” Charlie said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I might be attracted to her, but there's definitely something more. I can feel it.”
“Maybe you just need to get some.”
Charlie rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore this. “I'm probably going to invite the Bennets over for Thanksgiving next month.”
Darcy whipped his head back, blue eyes wide. “Oh, God. Please don't. I'm begging you.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Hey, if you want to miss it, do whatever you feel like. I mean, my mum might miss you, but she'll be in St. Bart's with my father for a few weeks, anyway,” he said, pausing for a few seconds. “Unless this is strictly limited to your disapproval of the Bennets. Which is just ridiculous, Will.”
“Not necessarily the Bennets, collectively,” Darcy muttered, rubbing the side of his face wearily. “Just one of them.”
At this, Charlie's smile widened. “And, of course, you mean the charismatic Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Charismatic is a bit of a glazed-over word, isn't it?” Darcy said, quickly. “You have to dig up something better, something synonymous with aggravating.”
“Well, I've never seen somebody talk to you the way she does,” Charlie said, laughing, switching on his turn signal. “She seems like a very outspoken, free-spirited girl.”
“She seems like a pain in the ass, is what she seems like,” Darcy muttered, slumping in his seat. “God, I had such an annoying argument with her. She thinks — God, she actually thinks that. —— Fuck it, I don't even know what she thinks. I can't hold a conversation with her.” The issue of Wickham still hung in the air, and it made him unbelievably anxious.
“I'm confused.” Charlie glanced at him quickly.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What did you argue about?” Charlie asked, curious. “Did you provoke her or something?”
“I can't even explain it. She's just so stubborn, Charlie,” Darcy said, completely exasperated. “And, God, she just has to backtalk, criticize everything. Everything. I've never been so frustrated with a person in my life, I guarantee you. I just about popped an artery back there.” Darcy scowled, and glanced back out the window, contemplative. He got a clear, mental image, then, of her glaring up at him, face slightly flushed from their argument, eyes bright and patronizing.
Charlie watched him with amusement, perfectly aware that his friend resembled a petulant child with his arms crossed at the chest, glowering. Something about this girl was really getting to him. They slowed to a red light, and he faced Will a little more clearly, scratching his head. “I'm going to say something in a second, and you have to promise not to leap across your seat and strangle me. Can you do that?”
Darcy just looked skeptical.
“You have to realize that this is the third time in a week that you've brought up Lizzy Bennet,” Charlie said, pausing for moment's consideration. “And I'm not personally suggesting anything yet. But you're probably the only one this bothered by Lizzy. I think she's charming. So does Georgy. I mean, there's Carolyn's disapproval, but her opinion's about as fascinating and vital as a wooden post.”
“She just pisses me off, Charlie,” Darcy mumbled, pressing his hands into his eyes.
“She makes you question yourself,” Charlie guessed, slipping back into traffic. “And that pisses you off.”
And he knew he was right. “I kind of hate you —— did I ever tell you that?” Darcy asked.
“Multiple times,” Charlie said, smiling, looking back at the road. “Hey, listen… maybe you're secretly attracted to her and you haven't realized it yet.”
“That's the most ridiculous —”
“Is it, though?” he said, looking over, shrugging. “Just think about it for a second. She's very cute. And quick-witted. And she's the first person to openly carp on you in ages. I think you're definitely intrigued, at the very least. Why wouldn't you be?”
“Maybe we should just stop talking,” Darcy insisted, grimly, closing his eyes. “Because I have a migraine the size of a third world country and I don't feel like chatting about the Bennets anymore, if that's okay with you.”
“Fair enough,” Charlie said, smiling knowingly. “Thanksgiving still stands, though. So, suck it up, okay? Thanks a bunch.”
• • •
It's of a universal opinion that the standard method of catching-up between women usually is comprised of lunch and a movie. I'd like to think that Charlotte, Jane and I could avoid this stereotypical pitfall. But not many people are as impervious as they say they are when it comes to some newly released Hugh Grant chick flick, and the prospect of an afternoon stuffing your face at Bertucci's. We were suckered in — by bruschetta and accents, respectively.
“I can't think of the last time I hung out like this,” mumbled Charlotte, slurping an ICEE as we wandered through the mall after the film had ended. “Between classes and juggling work, I'm exhausted.” The truth was that we all were. Jane was the only one occasionally seeking out personal time, in the form of scattered little dates, with Charlie Bingley, after which she'd come back positively blushing, and beaming, and describable with multiple alliterative adjectives that might normally make one want to throw up if this was anybody but Jane. But it was Jane, so you were helplessly programmed to smile and consider it all adorable. Which it was.
“Just wait… we'll be launched into finals prep right after Thanksgiving,” my sister sympathized, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Actually, you should be a seasoned pro by now. It's me and Lizzy who'll be pulling that deer-in-headlights kind of thing.”
“Freshmen,” Charlotte teased, clicking her tongue. “Hey, if you two didn't have one of those borderline summer birthdays, you would be sophomores now. I hate that parents have that power to override the system.”
“August 31st — always the oldest in our grade,” Jane said, smiling, and stealing a sip of Charlotte's artificially flavored goo. “Don't worry about us, though. We'll catch up with you eventually. A lot of coffee will be needed along the way, but we'll get there.”
“In one piece, hopefully,” Charlotte said, smiling, then turning to me. “Mutey thinks so, too. —— Why so silent, Eliza?”
“Are you calling me Eliza to make me angry and drag me into the conversation against my will?” I asked, watching ahead as a little boy bought a balloon from a sullen, teenage mall vendor. Truth be told, I was just tired. The chick flick had been a bit of an unexpected tear jerker, and leftover school stress from the week before was making me a little irritable. Not that I would pass up the opportunity to be cryptic with them or anything.
“Who says we want you in this conversation?” Charlotte teased, grinning. “Maybe it's exclusive.”
“That's obviously why you invited me, right? To exclude me. You're hilarious.”
“That's the thing about our Lizzy — she thinks she's good at reading people,” Charlotte whispered to Jane, obviously. “In reality, I think she's full of shit.”
“In reality, she can still hear you and you know she can,” I murmured, flicking her upside the head.
Jane grinned, coming to walk by my side. “She's just sleepy and romantically repressed, Charlotte. And Lizzy, don't look at me like you aren't. I happen to know from a trusted source that you've been avoiding George Wickham like the plague.”
“Guess who has two thumbs and is the trusted source in question?” Charlotte pointed at herself. “Hey there.”
I rolled my eyes. “I'm not avoiding George. It's just awkward as hell. Mainly because we're both interested but I'm not ready for anything to happen yet. It's kind of like being stuck in emotional limbo.”
Emotional, extremely awkward limbo. And it was. Every time I would look at him, I could feel my face heating up. We didn't have playful, friendly convers
ations at work anymore. Just discreet little looks, and flirty smiles from him, and distinct I'm-going-to-ignore-you-now elements of body language from yours truly. It wasn't dating and it wasn't friendship — it was a muddled, stranded version of the two that made me a little lightheaded and unsure of myself. God, I hate being a girl sometimes.
“Just go out with him,” Jane said, simply, as if it was the most natural decision. And advice from Jane has always been so easy and lacking in conflict. She drew a world where no unfavorable consequences were even thought of, and I envied her for having this perspective on life.
“Yeah, Lizzy — he's a sweet guy.” Charlotte came to her side, encouraging as ever. “A little too charming for his own good? Uh, yeah. But who says you have to get serious? Nobody's getting married. Let go and live a little. He likes you. A lot.” And this was a valid argument too. Who wanted to be so serious at 19 years of age? But, still, there was something nagging on my mind.
“The thing is —” I said, stopping, trying to make sense of it in my own head. “— I kind of don't want to. As strange as that sounds. Even though I'm interested in him and everything, I don't want things to get weird. And part of me is really worried that we won't click as something other than friends. And the other part of me is really just unwilling to try it out. I don't know if that's your textbook definition of a commitment-phobe — or someone who's just really, really hesitant.”
“See, there's a benefit to being non-friends first,” Jane found herself saying, smiling so brightly Charlotte kind of looked as if she wanted to hit her. After a second, Jane cleared her throat. “Sorry. I know I'm an ass because I'm going out with a great guy not many people are so lucky to find. I'll make it a point to stop talking about him eventually —— I promise.” She looked solemn for about three seconds, and then an incorrigible grin blossomed on her face — because she couldn't exactly help herself.
“I'll always be bitterly jealous — but don't apologize,” Charlotte reasoned, smiling crookedly. “More power to you for not being the miserable and gloomy one of the bunch.”
“Jane's never miserable.” I smiled.
“I've been upset,” my sister reasoned, looking out ahead of us. “But I figure misery's only for people who have a reason to be —— miserable… you know? What right do I have? I live a charmed life. Did you know that people in —”
“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Charlotte moaned, covering her ears. “Mother Theresa, make it stop.” Jane (rightfully) glared in response, and rolled her eyes. But even she couldn't resist smirking at herself. Charlotte often painted the picture of my twin being a tad too self-righteous among us mere mortals, and it was expected by now.
“Leave Jane alone,” I said, laughing, shoving Charlotte playfully. “She's happy. And Charlie really is a wonderful guy.”
“He's inviting us for Thanksgiving — did I tell you?” Jane suddenly swerved on her heel, positively beaming. “At his parents' house.”
“All of us?” I balked, stopping in the center of the mall. I tried to rally up numbers in my mind, failing for a second or two.
“Even Charlotte,” Jane said, smirking at the redhead. “It took some begging to convince him you weren't psychotic, Char — but you're in.”
“Oh, thanks,” Charlotte said, laughing, rolling her eyes. “Still, that's almost absurdly nice. Much appreciated. So, I guess you're meeting his parents?”
This phrase usually brings on a slight twinge of panic, but Jane seemed pretty composed. After a moment, we found out why — “no, his parents won't be home. Apparently, they take this extended holiday in the Caribbean every Thanksgiving on down to New Year. They've been doing it for years. Charlie jokes that his mother always comes back pregnant.”
“That's disgusting,” I pointed out.
“I think he was joking,” Jane said, wincing. “In poor taste.”
Well, they can't all be handsome, generous, sincere, wealthy, and effortlessly funny. Something has to give.
“Anyway, it leaves their house in upstate New York completely free. And I've seen photos on his computer. It's ridiculous looking,” Jane shook her head as we slowed to a stop by a cart. “It's this secluded, expansive property — and it's absolutely breathtaking.”
“Do you mean ridiculous as in fun-house ridiculous?” I teased, inspecting a row of cashmere scarves. “House-of-mirrors, creepy-ass clowns kind of thing?”
“No, more along the lines of 10 bedrooms, winding gardens and more acres of land than I can count ridiculous,” Jane clarified, smiling in wonderment. “Just saying. It's in this private borough called Netherfield Park.”
“Hey, I personally love living in a one-bedroom walk-up,” Charlotte murmured, unhooking a bracelet from one of the shelves. “Close quarters make me more reflective and more aligned with my inner chi. It's Bingley's loss in this case.”
“I think we've located the bitter one in the bunch,” I said, grinning at Jane, and draping a turquoise scarf loosely around Charlotte's neck.
She untangled it, and grinned at me, folding the fabric. “Lizzy, you could give me a run for my money — and you know it.”
“I'm not bitter… I'm a realist,” I said, pointedly, pausing for a second. “Well, and a romantic. So, these might be two conflicting ideals.”
“Wow, you're a romantic realist. Give it up for Elizabeth Bennet, the girl who doesn't understand herself,” Charlotte muttered, smiling slyly at me.
“Shut up. I was having a crisis of identity for a second there,” I elbowed her.
“Well excuse me, Jason Bourne.”
“Lovely, guys. Can I continue?” Jane asked, sharply, rolling her eyes. “I know Georgy's going to be at Charlie's for Thanksgiving — also his sisters, Carolyn and Lyssa. So, basically, just let me know if I can RSVP for you both, and if you want to bring dates.” She looked at me purposefully, a smile pulling at her mouth.
“I could invite George,” I said, impulsively, actually delighting in the idea for a good moment or two. I would be throwing caution to the wind while simultaneously experiencing sadistic delight in forcing the casual Mr. Wickham into a dress shirt and slacks. But this all simmered down within a few seconds, and I swore, upon realization, “oh, fuck — Georgy will be there… which means Will Darcy will be there.” Which meant I was screwed.
Will Darcy was a name I had successfully avoided thinking about for a solid couple of weeks, starting at the exact moment that I watched Charlie's Prius disappear into the distance that Sunday evening, with an irritating headache and the singular thought of “good riddance” on my mind. It had all seemed ideal. Until now.
Jane considered this for a second. “Well, he'll probably be there. —— Will is Charlie's best friend.” But then her expression shifted, as she understood my trepidation. I had told Jane last week about George Wickham's story. She still didn't have as much faith in it as I did, but I pegged this to my not personally knowing George as well. Charlotte, on the other hand, was a pretty firm believer. Or she seemed to be.
“I doubt George will care,” Charlotte murmured, inspecting a price tag. “And neither should you, by the way. If anything, it'll grate on Will Darcy a bit. But, then again, I don't think you're out to salvage his tender feelings or anything.”
“No, definitely not. He can storm out if he wants — I don't give a shit,” I snorted, rubbing the back of my neck. “And I don't think Charlie knows anything about George and Darcy, so he'll probably be open to my taking a plus one.”
“He's actually encouraging it,” Jane shrugged. “It's why I brought up the date thing. He believes in crowded tables and full houses on Thanksgiving.”
“That's cute.” Charlotte smiled.
“But, Lizzy,” Jane turned to me, blue eyes exposing her worry. “Maybe this whole thing with George and Darcy is a bit overblown, don't you think? I know I've said this before. I'm not doubting that George was wronged — but you don't know what kind of gaps self-pity could create in a person's story. Are we really willing to believe Wil
l was capable of this? Think of his sister.”
“Georgy and Will aren't the same person. And, judging by past conversations and experiences, Janey?” I glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “I'd have to say yes — he's capable of it. George had him pegged to a tee in his description. Only more detailed, but he was dead-on. You can't have such good faith in everybody, Jane. Supporting both of them is kind of like cheering on the Philadelphia Eagles and the Dallas Cowboys — it's not going to work.”
“Is Will Darcy a Cowboy in your analogy?” Charlotte asked, taking the turquoise scarf from its shelf again. “Because I'm actually a closeted fan.”
“This is why our city will never embrace you, Charlotte Lucas.”
“Look, maybe you're right,” said Jane, pulling me back into the more important issue at hand. “I'm just trying to give Will the benefit of the doubt, here.”
And this was probably what marked my sister from other people. She was genuinely open-hearted, and most of us were left gawking in her presence simply thinking that ribbons should be awarded for this particular brand of kindness. Unfortunately, it sometimes bordered on naivety.
“Honestly? He doesn't even deserve it, Jane.”
• • •
The weeks that passed were dull in the sense of being chock-full of uninteresting things. Classes, mainly, and some juggling of work shifts. A couple times, Jane and Charlie would come visit me, and Charlotte would allow me to take short breaks to speak with them. Such a time came on a rainy, Friday evening, two hours before closing — we had gathered at the corner table by the magazine shelves, a shady table affectionately dubbed The Nook. Charlie's hand was laced in Jane's — and this reduced onlookers like yours truly to quivering puddles of goo with stupid, dreamy smiles plastered on their faces.
“Do you get free coffee?” Charlie asked. “Just wondering.”
“Are you asking for some, Charles Bingley?” I smiled, considering this. “Actually, I have some at my place I can give to you… your apartment is sorely lacking. And the answer is yes. Either a pound of beans a week, or a box of tea likewise. But I'm personally not a fan of tea. Except Earl Grey.”
