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

by Ari Rhoge

  “You've been crying,” he confirmed, quietly. Miserably.

  Lizzy pinched the bridge of her nose, and sniffed loudly, just once, before she straightened up and said it all very bluntly. “Will, my father was taken into the emergency room around three hours ago. Jane says he went into cardiac arrest, I —— I… the rest I'm not sure about. I've barely gotten in contact with my mother, and it's too late to call the Gardiners. I've called a cab, and I'll get to the bus station. My sneaking off has nothing to do with you or Georgy — I just thought it would be more convenient this way. I don't want the drama. But I have to go now.”

  Her voice was soft and controlled, but she probably didn't realize that her reserve had splintered a little — tears were rolling slowly down her face, and Will found his hands moving without any thought, wiping them away. He kept his hands on both sides of her face, and she looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

  “It's my fault,” she barely said. “It's my fault. I didn't listen. He's so stubborn. And I didn't read between the lines. It's my fault.”

  “It's not,” he soothed.

  “It is,” she said, and then she wouldn't listen to him anymore. She clutched the handle of her suitcase, and Will wrapped his hand around her wrist, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Lizzy, I'll drive you.”

  “It's a long, long way, Will. I don't want you to.”

  “I don't care. I'm driving you.”

  “Will —”

  “I'm going outside to get rid of the cab driver. Get your things. I'll come back inside for you.”

  So, he paid off the cab, and loaded her bags into his trunk, leaving quick word with Bea. Within 10 minutes, they were on the road, and Lizzy was curled up in the passenger seat, trying desperately to get her mother and sisters on the phone. He caught snippets of her conversation with one of the younger ones (Marin, was it?), picking up familiar words like bypass and heart attack and angioplasty and coronary artery. His mouth felt dry, and his hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. He had lost his own father only two years ago.

  Lizzy had her head tucked between her legs, and Will didn't prompt her with any questions. He assumed that if she needed to speak she would. And he was right. She turned and said, “the doctors say Dad's had several small heart attacks within the last couple of months without any medical treatment. He's written them off as anxiety attacks. He's at St. Mary's now.”

  “How's he doing?”

  “He needs bypass surgery. They have to stop his heart.”

  And they had been fine for 20 (tearless) miles, but, as soon as the words left her, Lizzy choked back a great hiccup of a sob, and pressed her hands against her mouth, her shoulders shaking with little spasms. And Will was torn between looking at the road and looking after her. His hand found hers.

  “I'm sorry,” Lizzy said, tears streaming down her face. She sniffled noisily and wiped them away with the back of her sleeve, knees tucked against her chest. In this light, she looked like nothing more than a scolded child.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Lizzy.”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said, laughing weakly, sniffing. “Do you have a tissue?”

  “In the back seat,” Will said, watching her with concern. She unbuckled, and got up on her knees, stretching behind until she found a box of Kleenex. Then she repeated what she had said inside, about believing her father's blatant lies about anxiety and her own stupidity for doing so. He counted the word 'dumbass' seven times in one sentence.

  They rolled up to a stop light, and Will was given the chance to face her. She was dabbing under her eyes with a tissue, and he sighed. “Lizzy, this is not your fault. You keep saying it, and it isn't. You have to understand that.”

  “But I could have prevented it if I was just a little more perceptive.”

  “But circumstances shape everything. Shit happens. When are we always perceptive?”

  “You don't understand.”

  “I understand a lot more than you think.”

  She didn't say anything, and he curled his fingers underneath her chin, tilting her face up to his. Her eyes were watering again, and Will opened his mouth to say something. Obviously, the usual rakes one's mind in a time like this. He'll be okay, just you wait and see, or don't worry, or he's in good hands. Will grimaced, and the words were all mind-numbingly familiar — trite and cold and empty. Maybe it was insensitive, but still.

  Fuck, I don't want to potentially lie to her.

  So, he didn't say anything, either. Maybe Lizzy just needed somebody to be there. He laid his hand against her cheek, and Lizzy leaned into it, closing her eyes. She looked absolutely exhausted by emotion alone. When the light turned green, she shrank away, and, a few minutes later (by his recommendation), she had fallen asleep.

  The first thing Will did was call back home to Georgy. He apologized for waking her up, and kept the explanation to a bare minimum, promising to explain later. Then he asked, patiently, “Georgy, can you find something for me in my study? It's in a Manila folder of the filing cabinet, the very last drawer. It's the only one in there.”

  “Got it,” she mumbled with sleepy concern, and he could hear her rummaging. Her voice sounded dull with surprise. “Oh. Dad's old file. University of Pennsylvania.”

  “Good,” he said, casting a quick glance at Lizzy. She was leaning against the window, her chest rising and falling slowly with her breathing. “I think it's the second paper, or the third, but tell me when you see the emboldened name, Dr. Allen J Shaw. —— It should be stapled to old medical records, underneath the nurse practitioner, one of his —”

  “I've got it,” Georgy said, quietly. “Head of Cardiology. Will, this was Dad's —”

  “I know who he is. I need his number, Georgy.”

  “Promise to tell me what's going on afterward,” she insisted. Then he waited until reaching a slow intersection to ask for her to read off the numbers. He quickly scribbled them down on the backside of a receipt he had found in the glove compartment. And then Georgy asked, quietly, “how is Lizzy doing?”

  “It's her Dad. And —” He glanced furtively at her and back. “— She'll be okay. She's tired, and worked up.”

  “Is she crying?”

  “She's sleeping.”

  Georgy sighed heavily. “This is awful. Just completely unexpected. I don't know if it's worse to see it from the sidelines or from up close.”

  “Up close,” Will sighed, too. “Trust me, up close. It wasn't that long ago.”

  “You're right,” she muttered, upset. “Keep me up to speed. And, Will… take care of her.”

  “You really have to ask me to do that?” he said, incredulous.

  “No,” Georgy answered, and he heard the smile in her voice. “I know how much you love her.”

  She hung up, and Will pocketed his phone in exchange for another. He was wincing as he scrolled through Lizzy's contact list, wondering how exactly she would threaten him if she were to find out (which caused him to take another look and make sure she was asleep).

  But he had to do what he had to do. Will highlighted a name, suppressed a cringe, and dialed.

  • • •

  Nine-and-a-half hours of driving was an outstanding record time for a young man who hadn't so much as taken a road trip since college. And even that hadn't been half of a road trip. It was a mistake, and it involved the Las Vegas strip, a little too much alcohol, an incredibly pissed off drifter, and Richard Fitzwilliam. Nothing else really needs to be shared to that extent.

  Excluding bathroom breaks and the occasional stop for gas (or, maybe more importantly, shitloads of Red Bull), Will Darcy found his over-caffeinated mind jittery and distracted, and prone to indulging in sad FM radio. It was Celine Dion who woke Lizzy up, just outside Baltimore. She gasped, and shot straight up, hair sticking in interesting directions, remnants of eye makeup impossibly smudged. She didn't seem to know where she was, so, naturally, Lizzy lunged at hostility.

  “Why the fuck ar
e we listening to Celine Dion?”

  Will could've hugged her. He stared at her helplessly, and she took in the purplish shadows under his eyes, the wired twitch to his fingers, the state license plates ahead of her. And Will recognized comprehension on her face, and her shoulders slumped.

  “You okay?” he asked, looking at the road.

  “Yeah,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. “But you didn't answer my question.”

  “We're listening to Celine Dion because she stimulates anger, and anger keeps me awake.”

  “Let me drive.”

  “No,” he said, crisply.

  She looked up at him guiltily, attempted to say something, then thinking better of it. Words weren't all that useful. Instead, Lizzy stared at her phone and reached forward for it. Will startled her.

  “Your mom called. It must have been three in the morning. They've transferred him to U of Penn.”

  Lizzy gaped at him. “Seriously? Why? How?”

  “She didn't say,” Will said, adjusting his rear-view mirror.

  She was quiet for a moment. “Do you know how he's doing?”

  It was his turn to look at her and gauge the reaction. “Lizzy, he's in surgery.” When disappointment flickered across her face, he responded with, “you couldn't have expected to make it there on time before the procedure.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  “But you wanted to,” he realized, knowing he would have, too.

  “Yeah,” she looked up, nodding. He half-expected her to start crying again, but she was quiet, except for the occasional dabs at a running nose. Will was thankful. It killed him to see her as she was the night before.

  After a moment, Lizzy watched him skeptically. “I can't believe you talked to my mother. I mean, thank you, but you must have got a heckling for it.”

  Will shrugged, taking a gulp of his drink. “Not really. I mean, you set me up to have this genuine fear, but it wasn't so bad. She's a little hysterical, though. Kept talking on and on about being too young to be a widow, and some girl in the background was telling her to shut up. One of your sisters, I'm guessing.”

  Lizzy was scowling at her mother's ridiculous theatrics, but she smirked a little. “It was probably Marin. She's at the end of her rapidly fraying rope with Mom. And, really, who can blame her?”

  “She sounded kind of like you.”

  “Mom did?”

  “No. Marin.”

  Lizzy snorted, leaning her head back. She watched cars stream by for a little while, then turned sideways to look at Will. He was gripping the wheel with one hand, and adjusting the radio dial with the other, his brow creased, his jaw tight. He looked so goddamn tired. She filled with guilt.

  It took two hours, but approximately 90 miles later Will got her there in a relatively good time overall. And, because she seemed weak in the knees and shaken, he insisted on being with Lizzy at least until she was with her family. Nerves were a sketchy thing. They flared up and down and hot and cold. One minute she was calm and accepting, and the next she was on the verge of tears. It depended on the surroundings, on what visual reminders triggered what. He didn't want to leave her.

  A flurry through the front desk, a brief call to the mother, and they were ushered to the cardiology unit past the seventh floor, Lizzy counting the linoleum tiles and clenching and unclenching her fists as they walked down the hallway. Will rubbed her shoulders, and murmured comforting words, and she nodded tensely, even though they both knew that she couldn't really hear what he was saying. It didn't matter. He was there, and she wouldn't let go of his hand.

  A turn around a sharp corner to the waiting room, and then somebody blonde and pretty (despite her exhausted frumpiness) launched herself at Lizzy, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Lizzy's arms wound about Jane numbly, and she hugged her sister tight. When they separated, Lizzy wiped away errant tears from her twin's face, and Jane sighed gratefully, squeezing Lizzy's hand. “Oh, thank God you're here. Mom took Marin and Kit and Lydia to the cafeteria for something to eat. We've been starving the entire night. Not much use for us now. We have another hour of surgery to go, and I'm about to shoot myself from anxiety alone.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Four hours, generally, but given the…” Jane trailed off. She was looking past Lizzy's shoulder, at Will, who stood awkwardly to the side, arms folded across his chest. She opened her mouth, looked between both her sister and the man she had come with, and said, simply, “oh.”

  Lizzy struggled for an explanation. “Oh. Right. Jane, you remember Will.”

  Jane raised her eyebrows, and the message was clear — really, Lizzy? Really.

  “I… er, yeah.”

  Her sister must have sensed that no rational explanation would come at that moment. So, she pushed back all feelings of resentment, and looked up at Will. “Do you want coffee, or anything? You look…”

  “No.” He shook his head, thanking her. “I'm okay. I should probably go now, I just wanted to see her inside safely, and… yeah. I'll just —— bye.” He turned on his heel and left the room, and Jane's eyebrows were so high that they nearly blended in with her hairline. Lizzy shifted her footing, and after 30 seconds remembered something important.

  She excused herself to Jane, and apologized, then darted out of the room and sprinted down the hallway to where Will was waiting around the corner for an elevator, his posture rigid and anxiety-riddled. “Wait up!” she called, and he looked up sharply with surprise.

  “Lizzy?”

  “Uncool,” she said, glaring at him. “You didn't even give me a chance to thank you.”

  “You don't have to.”

  “But I want to,” she said, sincerely, her eyes locking with his. She shook her head, and he got the impression that she wanted to say a lot yet didn't know exactly how to. Lizzy bit her lip. “I really wish I could tell you how grateful I am, but I'm not forming logical thoughts right now. I mean, that was one, but I'm not sure how many are left before I burn out. I'm running purely on coffee right now.”

  “I think that's noticeable,” Will smirked.

  “I want to say thank you,” Lizzy said, softly, meaning it with all of her heart. Her hands shook.

  And Will frowned, brushing a hand against her cheek, collecting tears. “You're crying again.”

  “Nerves,” she said, laughing, but it was watery, and garbled a bit. She rubbed at her eyes, and sniffed. “This has been like one big whirlwind. I don't even want to think about what's going on, on that operating table. I just… I can't…” She tasted salt on her lips, now.

  “Have some faith,” Will murmured, and she closed her eyes. Then neither knew who had really embraced who, but it didn't really have all that much significance. She hugged him around the shoulders, and his arms linked around her waist, her head tucked under his chin. It was fleeting, but it was warm, and she felt his lips move against her hair — and what scared her was her own reluctance to let go.

  Then Will promised to call her later that day, and she watched him step onto the elevator. The doors closed behind him, and she had caught a glimpse of his face, bright-eyed despite the exhaustion, a flicker of a half-smile lingering. Lizzy stood in the hallway for a couple of minutes, took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, turned on her heel, and marched back to Jane.

  23

  —

  Would You Like Fries with Your Crazy?

  It's really my personal belief that one of the greatest agonies in life is to wait. It's not really a physical agony. You're not getting your fingernails pulled off, or being crushed by massive stones in Salem, Massachusetts (circa 1692, I thank you). But waiting — that infernal method of existing right in the middle of a crisis? It spurs all kinds of insanity. And everybody handles it differently.

  You have the quiet types. Jane, of course, curls up into her little Jane-bubble, only interrupted by foodie breaks and your occasional tabloid magazine to fend off boredom. Mom fusses and musses and runs around and stalks the doctors outsi
de the OR. Kit sulks. Marin decides it's a good time to distract everybody with how brilliant she is (“they saw through the breast bone and unsnap it like a three-ring binder, squelch open, insert a tube right in around the chest wall”) and Lydia snaps back something intellectual in response (“Marin, shut the fuck up”). We all have our ways.

  I enjoy hospitals as much as I enjoyed the SAT, I've got to say. I've always been the impatient waiter. I'm the restless one, the girl drumming the fingernails and pacing every five minutes until one of her sisters yanks her arm and commands her to sit down or face imminent doom. And I'm not the greatest person to be around during such a time. I'm twitchy, and when my weepy phase passes, the fidgeting inches into borderline Tourette's.

  To tell you the truth, I didn't really know what was worse — Will Darcy seeing my weepy phase or his sticking around to see me lose basic muscle control. It's a toss-up. But I leaned toward the muscle thing because at least there would be no unattractive snot involved.

  Speaking of you-know-who, Jane had been giving me discreet little glances about him since I came back. You know her shtick. The whole pursed-lips, big-eyed I-won't-say-anything-until-you-do thing. It's such bullshit. So, I tried to see how much tiptoeing around the subject would get her to crack open and ask me about him already.

  “How are things at home, Jane?”

  “They're fine, Lizzy.”

  “Not too much work, I hope.”

  “None at all.”

  “You look a little pale.”

  “Just a headache.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Don't worry yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  “What the hell was Will Darcy doing here?”

  Lydia looked up at the raised voice. And even though life was generally sucky at the moment, I couldn't help but crack a smile at how predictable Jane was. She didn't think it was so funny. Her lip was curled indignantly, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Something told me she wasn't angry with Will per se — just, you know, my lying ass. This is what happens when you avoid conversations with your twin for three months.