by Ari Rhoge
“Charlie Bingley?” she inquired, very quietly. There was ice in her voice.
Darcy grimaced, leaning his elbows against the table. He rubbed his temples wearily.
“The very same,” Rich said, eagerly, hiking his sleeves up. “Will totally saved him from this wreck of a relationship two months ago. Charlie's in and out of love a lot. Wonderful guy, but completely blind-sighted. And in comes this flighty, pretty little thing, all coy and indifferent, bent on using —”
Darcy looked up sharply. “Rich. This isn't anybody's business —”
Lizzy held up a hand, her jaw tight. “Don't interrupt him.” Her entire body was tense. Darcy felt relatively nauseous. “Then what happened?” she asked, coolly.
“Lizzy, please.”
“Go on.”
Rich suddenly sensed a change in the atmosphere. But Lizzy goaded him on. He started again, a little apprehensive. “Um, okay. Well, Will basically just showed him logic. I mean, Charlie's pretty loaded. He's a great boyfriend, on paper. The girls who have used him come a dime a dozen, and this one was just going to lead to heartache. So, Will convinced Carolyn Bingley, the sister, who forced him on holiday back to England. That's where they're originally from. London, I believe. Charlie went back — he got his head screwed on straight again.”
Darcy still felt nauseous. And Lizzy? Lizzy Bennet was seething. This was when Rich Fitzwilliam's expression crumbled, showing his realization that he had made a grave mistake. Lizzy's eyes were glassy, and a muscle in her jaw leaped. And then she stood up quickly, jerking the tablecloth so violently that some silverware clattered on to the floor.
“You asshole,” she bit out, at Darcy. “You absolute asshole!” She threw down her napkin, and moved out of the booth before breaking out into a sprint, heading for the restaurant's entrance. Darcy called out and followed, running after her.
It was embarrassing, really. Three chairs had been knocked down, and the commotion had garnered them attention. Darcy sprinted out and into the parking lot, slowing to a jog when he saw her wrenching open the door of the rented sedan. Apparently, Rich had trusted the wrong person with the keys. He barreled toward her, and forced the door open, breathing heavily. “Lizzy, stop!”
“Don't talk to me,” she snapped, icily, jamming the key into the ignition. “I need to drive somewhere and be alone and think about all the ways I should murder you! I actually need to brainstorm. Expect a flow chart.”
“You're being ridiculous,” he said, scowling, reaching over until he snatched the keys out. She gaped, outraged, and he lurched back, holding them out of her grasp. Sometimes clearing off at six feet had its advantages. Lizzy glared, absolutely trembling. “You're acting like a child,” he said, evenly.
She took a deep breath, and nodded, appearing to compose herself. Darcy visibly relaxed.
Then she slapped him. Clean and hard, straight across the face. He recoiled, eyes wide with shock. And she was unfazed, wasting no time in calling him out, her eyes glittering with anger.
“For all intents and purposes, let's forget about Jane for a second. Extract her from the equation. But Charlie, your own best friend?” Lizzy sniped, clenching her fists. “You are such a bastard! I can't even believe that you would do that!”
“I can't believe you just slapped me!”
“As if you don't deserve it!”
Halfway between her hysterical accusations and his smarting cheek, Darcy decided that he was incredibly pissed. “Charlie is my friend,” he said, crisply, folding his arms. “I only had his best interests at heart. Are you actually going to stand here and preach me some bullshit about your sister being right for him? Go on… have a try.”
Lizzy glared up at him. “You were probably just jealous, weren't you? Jane was the center of his universe for a while. And you two being all buddy-buddy — it was threatening —”
“Don't be stupid,” he snapped. “That's beyond ridiculous. What am I? Five years old? I was protecting Charlie. He couldn't see that your sister wasn't as attached as he was. He was setting himself up for a broken heart —— throwing himself away for somebody who couldn't give two shits.” He rubbed the side of his face.
“And what gives you the right to decide the level of Jane's attachment?” Lizzy scoffed. “What, did she confide in you? Because she did with me! And she loved him, Darcy. Loved him. She wasn't unattached or indifferent or coy, or whatever bullshit you told Rich.”
“I doubt it was love. She made every appearance of being totally unaffected,” Darcy said, hotly. “It was completely obvious, Elizabeth. Charlie would drop everything for her, and she barely seemed to notice. It was more of a convenience to her, to be with my best friend. Don't lie and call it something else.”
“She's shy,” Lizzy bit out. “She's extremely protective of her heart. It doesn't make her cold and unloving. And, for the record…” She pointed. “What convenience? Jane doesn't need Charlie's money. She's perfectly capable of being independent! That was never a factor. Good Lord, you could fill books with the amount bullshit you're saying!”
Darcy was quiet for a couple of moments. Then he said, quietly yet intensely, “what I did, I did for Charlie's best interests. I've seen him get hurt time and time again by dozens of girls, and I was always there to help him pick up the pieces. You can't blame me for being careful. You can't blame me for being a good friend.”
“I can blame you for being stupid,” she glared. “And ignorant!”
He rolled his eyes, sneering. “If the situations were reversed, if it was Jane that needed consoling and protection, you would've done the same.”
Lizzy faltered and glared, glancing away.
“And part of me thinks that you're just using this situation with your sister to put distance between us,” Darcy continued, folding his arms. “I mean, I get that when I kissed you it might have taken you by surprise, but I think I was pretty clear with my behavior this past couple of days.”
Lizzy glanced upward, eyes wide with shock. “Sorry?” she said, laughing coarsely. “Clear? … Clear. That's rich, really. Tell me, what were you trying to be clear about?”
Some of his anger dissipated a little. He loosened his arms, and rubbed the back of his neck unsurely. “You honestly don't know,” Darcy said, blankly, feeling a little hurt.
“At this point, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you were possessed when you kissed me,” Lizzy said, pointedly. “Because you couldn't possibly feel —”
“I love you.”
All at once, it seemed like Darcy had released a giant boulder from his back, while simultaneously being kicked in the gut. The second part probably stemmed from the expression of the girl he loved. Complete shock. Complete shock, and something that seemed a lot like disgust.
“That's insane. You don't love me.”
“No, I actually do. And it's ridiculous, because you're nowhere near my type,” he rattled off, scowling. “You're rude and outspoken, and I have no idea how you were raised or what you plan to do with your life. You have no goals. You really don't have any filter between your mind and your mouth, and sometimes it's just embarrassing.”
Lizzy gaped at him, and closed her mouth.
His expression softened, and he sighed. He continued quietly, desperately, eyes locked with hers. “And I tried to tell myself that you were no good for me, but the more I did that the harder I fell. I just fell in love with everything about you, and I couldn't help myself. Everything about you just sucks me in. I don't even care anymore — I'm so sick and tired of beating myself up for it… of fighting against it.”
She blinked at him several times before she asked, very warily, “how long have you felt this way?”
“I have no idea. It's not something you wake up with and realize in one morning,” Darcy scowled.
And, to his horror, Lizzy actually slapped her hands to her mouth and began to laugh. Not that she was really amused — there was bitter anger and shock in her tone when she finally said, �
��listen to you — you talk like you have an affliction! That's, you know, flattering. Really. God,” she moaned, passing a hand over her eyes. “I can't believe this.”
“I guess it's obvious how you feel,” Darcy said, icily.
“What did you expect?” she asked, desperately, eyes wide. “I'm sorry. I actually am really sorry that you seem to have deluded yourself into thinking I felt the same way. That's probably why you kissed me to begin with.” She looked up at him and asked, softly, “how could I possibly return those feelings, Darcy?”
“You make it seem so obvious,” he glared, wounded. “Enlighten me.”
Lizzy pressed her fingers against her temples, closing her eyes. She sighed. “God, I might actually need a flowchart. Jane, for one, we've been through. Maybe also because you're selfish beyond belief! I think I made up my mind about you the moment we met. You're one of the most arrogant men to walk into my life. Nothing is ever good enough for you. Who wants to be with a person like that?”
“That's ridiculous,” he sneered. “I am not —”
“Oh, really? Take this confession of yours!” she said, heatedly. “It's like, 'well, every essence of your being absolutely sucks — but I kind of love you, even if that makes me fucked up'.” She scowled at him, eyes narrowed. “Notice how you manage to insult me, even when you tell me you love me. How fucked up is that? You're just an asshole, bottom line. You didn't even stop to consider how I felt. You don't care about the people you affect, just how you feel about it.”
He was silent awhile. Maybe it was the equivalent of getting punched in the stomach with a drop kick. He wasn't certain, but, suddenly, his throat felt very constricted.
And she wasn't even finished.
“Oh,” she said, raising a finger. “And don't think that I buy into Rich's spiel about you being this loyal friend, okay? George Wickham, our mutual unmentionable? You completely dicked him over. So much for loyalty,” Lizzy sneered, eyes narrowed. “Apparently, loyalty to you is framing a good friend for pot possession and getting him kicked out of college when he takes the blame. Yeah, bravo. Really. And loyalty is also letting a sibling make their own decisions, not taking complete, totalitarian control of their life,” Lizzy said, darkly. “You didn't even let Georgy choose for herself.”
She might as well have shot him. His eyes widened, and he might have turned various shades of interesting colors, before he realized that he was fresh out of patience. Fresh out of tolerance for this. He was exhausted, and he had never been so wounded or humiliated in his life. So, there was so much to say, and not enough breath with which to say it.
Darcy took a step forward, and said, very coldly, very slowly, “there is so much you don't know. —— So much.”
Lizzy glowered at him.
“And, just for my personal records,” he continued. “I'm arrogant, selfish, dishonest, and conniving —— this is basically what you've gathered over the course of a few months.”
She looked conflicted for a moment, closed her eyes, and said, evenly, “longer. I think I made up my mind about you this past summer.”
Darcy was confused. They hadn't known each other then. He opened his mouth, but she elaborated, “I sent a manuscript to your company in late May. You sent a pretty scathing rejection back. I'm all for criticism, I guess, but it just seemed more like a personal attack. Ironic, yes, but it didn't help you in my book.” This was all said very quietly.
He had no idea. She wasn't looking at him anymore. She was holding her arm, at the elbow, and kicking a bit of gravel. His mind was blank. He couldn't even remember a manuscript that could have been hers.
“Are we finished?” Lizzy asked, faintly, brown eyes downcast.
“I think you've made yourself clear,” said Darcy, very softly, eyes hard. “I'm sorry for wasting your time. I hope you have a good evening.” At that, he turned on his heel, and walked back into the restaurant, where Rich was watching, just at the entrance. Lizzy watched him go.
• • •
I've never really been one for rational reactions. If this was a different case (and a different girl) I'm not really sure what the normal, textbook response would have to be after an argument like that. Probably to sit numbly on the armchair in your starched hotel room, and attempt to sift through the emotions of the man who had just professed his love to you a few hours ago. Maybe heartfelt little sighs would be incorporated, along with troubled frowns and that tiny twinge of something else. Mostly confusion.
I came back around seven o'clock, after hours of walking around town to clear my head. The first thing I did after busting into my hotel room was snatch the Post-it Sheraton stationery from the nightstand. I kicked my shoes off, piled my hair up, hiked my sleeves up, and began writing.
The first seven sheets of sticky notes included various things I found wrong with Will Darcy, ones I had brewing for a long, long time before I had even known how he felt. They're easy to guess — arrogant, controlling, overly confident, overall douchebagery, shitheadness ——
I stopped after realizing that I was on the verge of pulling made-up words out of my ass. The next 15 Post-it notes consisted of things I'd do rather than being with Will Darcy. I don't know why I did this. It was redundant and exasperating, and strangely cathartic. I wanted to convince myself that what I was thinking was right.
Some Post-it notes were rational. Most of them were plain stupid. I think halfway between “I'd rather lick sand,” and “I'd rather gnaw my own arm off,” I realized that another wire in my brain had snapped, as they usually do. I was exhausted, furious, confused, and didn't even realize that I was crying until Charlotte pointed this out to me. My face felt hot.
Anyway, poor (poor, poor) Charlotte had an extra card to my room. She came in at dinner time and found me hanging upside down from the bed, bare feet in the air with dozens upon dozens of Post-it notes scattered across the room. Most of them covered the wall. The “sand” one was on my forehead. “I'd rather live in the arctic tundra for six months” was on my right knee — she unstuck it gingerly, and took it with a grain of salt.
“So,” she said, taking a careful seat at the edge of the mattress. “I have this best friend, right? I love her to death. We might as well be sisters. Now, tell me. What would you do if she pulled a One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest on your winter holiday and left without saying a word?”
“—— I'm not crazy,” I mumbled, covering my eyes with my hands.
“Hush, Lizzy. This isn't about you,” she grunted, yanking me up by the arm until I sat — rather slumped — against her side. “See, this friend —— we'll call her Bizzy —— Bizzy's not normally off her rocker, y'know, excluding consideration of events at a New Year's party a year ago. But something's been bubbling up today, and I'm a little afraid for her well-being.” She peeled the note from my forehead as she spoke, and I winced.
“I think you should give Bizzy three Advil tabs, and call her in the morning,” I grumbled, under my breath.
“Bizzy also ran out in the middle of lunch, did I mention?” Charlotte murmured, brushing my hair back. I wanted to apologize for not answering the 13 missed calls on my cell — but she suddenly added, “and you'll never guess who followed after her, according to my source.”
“I can,” I said, very quietly.
“Then you'll also guess that he left you a note,” she answered. I looked up, astonished, but Charlotte was already digging through her purse to retrieve it. A blur of white, and then she pressed an envelope into my hands — on it was a handwritten address I didn't feel like recognizing. I immediately wanted to trash it.
Looking back, I understand why he wrote a letter. An email was too impersonal, a voicemail was too brief, and in-person was out of the question. I would have refused to see him, and he probably knew this.
When I glanced back up at her, Charlotte's expression was stoic. She said, softly, “I don't know what happened in the parking lot, Lizzy, and you don't owe me any details.” A pause. “But I don't think I've eve
r seen Will Darcy look so crushed in all the months of my knowing him. The least you can do, I think, is read this letter of his.”
The edges were damp from where I pinched it. I hated that Charlotte told me how Will Darcy had looked when he delivered it. I hated that I managed to make him look that way. But I think I hated him the most for making me feel even remotely sorry to begin with. I hated that I was fighting back angry tears.
Without any warning, I was distracted by a sharp, stinging sensation on my calf — I cried out, slapping a hand to my leg.
Charlotte had just peeled off another Post-it note, brandishing it casually. “Lizzy, I hope you're not serious about this whole I'd-rather-sell-my-liver-on-the-black-market nonsense.” She squinted at the note. “I happen to like your liver. You don't have to have a complex about it.”
I smiled, rubbing my eyes. Charlotte Lucas had the remarkable capability of jumping from serious to effortlessly soothing in the course of 30 seconds. I needed it. I needed gentle jokes and the subtle questioning of my sanity — or lack thereof.
“Okay, Bizzy,” she mumbled, tucking a strand of my hair behind an ear. It was such a Jane mannerism that I had a rush of homesickness, an ache deep in my gut. She patted my hand, and made me promise to call in the morning. And then she left, and I felt more alone than I had before she had come in.
When I heard the door click shut behind her, I got up and carefully unglued the notes from the stucco wall. I shoved them into the bedside drawer, and went and got a glass of cold water from the tap. Then I brushed my teeth and avoided looking at Darcy's letter through the bathroom mirror. I settled under the covers with a cold washcloth and laid it over my eyes.
A whole three minutes later, I decided that I was going to pop a blood vessel from curiosity alone. I sprang up from bed, snatched the letter from the dresser, and quickly unfolded it, taking in too many words at once.
