by Ari Rhoge
• • •
“Red Robin had better fries the last time I went,” Lizzy said, pleasantly, walking along the stone steps outside that paved the landscaping, as Will watched her nervously. She noticed his apprehension, and extended her arms out like a plane, teetering at the edge. “I won't fall, don't worry. I have a pretty beastly sense of balance. And it's not like this plastic kiddie cup is filled with a strawberry daiquiri instead of a Diet Coke.”
“I have a height issue, remember,” Darcy sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Ferris wheels?”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, sipping from her straw. She jumped off the rock and to her feet. “That's hardly a Ferris wheel. That's probably two feet from the ground.”
“I thought you weren't supposed to tease me about that.”
“But you're such an open target,” Lizzy insisted, a smile playing on her lips.
Will grinned. Dinner had been a very good idea. They weren't completely out of “Awkwardville, population two” yet, but she seemed more at ease with herself and with him. And, really, this was all he could ask for. Well, actually, this wasn't true. But what he truly wanted was probably something she couldn't easily give him. He had told himself to be ecstatic at the hopes of an extremely uncomfortable, borderline-bitter friendship. It had its perks as well.
“So, why did Carolyn Bingley call?” Lizzy asked, as they walked to the parking lot. “Have you taken a lover?”
“Do you seriously want me to upchuck my dinner? Because it won't be pretty.” Lizzy laughed, and chewed on her straw, and Will slumped his shoulders. “God knows. She wants to keep tabs on Charlie. Probably furious about Jane, but, really, who cares?”
“Can you just imagine her coming here to stalk her brother?” Lizzy snorted. “You'd see her get off the terminal with an army of designer-label skanks. Armed with Chanel No. 5.”
“Her version of Mace?”
“Oh, definitely.”
Will smiled, and turned to look at her. Lizzy was taking extra care to walk inside the lines of each parking space, toe-to-heel almost, and sipping her drink absently. He suddenly had the urge to take her hand and see how she would react, but, at the last moment, decided not to. Why ruin a perfectly good moment with potential violence? From her, of course.
But, still, she was troubled. Her brown eyes met his thoughtfully, and she stopped in the middle of her tracks.
“What is it?”
“Carolyn was able to call you,” she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. Will folded his arms across his chest, and asked her to elaborate. At that, Lizzy rolled her eyes and took the straw from her mouth. “Well, gosh, there's a reason I've waited this long to thank you about my father. You're a remarkably difficult man to get in touch with, Mr. Darcy. I even left word with Georgy, and no dice. So, I guess it's official — you've been screening my calls.”
Will looked at her seriously. “You tried to call me?”
“That's not funny.”
“I'm not joking,” he said, laughing. “First of all, don't ever leave messages with Georgy. Her memory is something atrocious. Secondly, I actually haven't had a properly working phone since last Friday. Georgy and I were on one of those family plans, and we wanted to trade service providers. Some mishap with AT&T. I have my number now, if you'd like it.”
Lizzy's eyes were still narrow. “A likely story.”
“Oh, come on. Why would I screen your calls?”
“I don't know,” she murmured, absently kicking a bit of gravel. “I had this overwhelming, life-orbiting hunch that you secretly hated me. It would be kind of fitting.”
Will stared at Lizzy as she fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. It wasn't until he got close that she looked up at him. And, even then, it was mostly with shell-shocked surprise, because at the next moment he brushed a hand across her cheek (decided “fuck it”) and kissed her, six feet away from the Lincoln.
He felt Lizzy tense against him like before, but it was (thank God) quite different the second time around. It was different in the sense that, once the shock dissipated, she happened to kiss him back, so softly that he wasn't quite aware of anything else at the moment. Will cradled her face with his hand, and the other tangled itself in her hair, her hands linked around his neck. And suddenly Lizzy was pressed against the Lincoln, not quite able to decipher through the haze of thought just how they had managed to stagger this far.
“You know,” Darcy murmured, pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth. “I can't help but notice that you're not pushing me away. Maybe you're possessed this time around, but you actually are kissing me back.” Lizzy pulled away jadedly, and cleared her throat, straightening the collar of her blouse.
“Was,” she corrected, turning around toward the car so that he wouldn't see her face. “Was kissing you back. —— Past tense.”
“Lizzy.”
“It's the daiquiri. I can't think for myself.”
“You had a Diet Coke.”
“That's what you think,” Lizzy insisted. He watched her shoulders slump with a deep, agitated sigh. Then she turned around to face him, a blush warming her face. “I thought you said we were going to be friends! You know, awkward, bitter, emotionally constipated friends. It's a notch up — good territory.”
“Awkward, bitter, emotionally constipated friends, who occasionally kiss.”
She shoved him, and he started laughing. “That's not funny!”
“Okay, fine. We'll just forget it ever happened.”
“Fine. Sounds good,” Lizzy agreed, stoutly, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. There was a lengthy pause, and Will shoved his hands into his pockets, his jaw tense and his back pin-straight. She looked at him from the corner of her eye.
Then Darcy threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “For God's sake, Lizzy.”
“Fine.”
Then she grabbed a fistful of his collar, and pulled him into a kiss. And he had no objections, really (except for the butterflies in his stomach that might be ulcer-inducing). That is until she started giggling against his mouth, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it all. “I can't believe I just grabbed you. Honestly, it's a little domestically violent, don't you think? Who does that? I think only Humphrey Bogart can do that. —— Or Clark Gable. I'm pretty sure I meant Clark Gable.”
“Are you trying to suspend the kissing until you're 100% sure of how you feel about me?”
Lizzy looked up at him guiltily. “Yes.”
“—— I'll drive you home.”
“Okay.”
He pulled away, and unlocked the SUV. Lizzy walked to the other side, attempting to slough off the pulsating, light-headed feeling that had come over her. She buckled up, and he closed the door after himself, gunning the ignition. Some Diana Ross song was playing from the FM Radio, and they both sat in silence for a moment or two. Suddenly, Will pressed a quick kiss to her mouth, then turned back, shifting the gear into drive.
“Sorry,” he apologized, and Lizzy laughed, grinning.
• • •
It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am an extremely shitty sleeper.
Made even more complicated by the fact that the evening was nothing close to boredom. The stint with Charlie was one thing. When I arrived home, you had your standard, tatty pile of Kleenex, and, to my mild surprise, a broken vase. It wasn't that big of a deal, really. The vase was from the Phillipses, and, let's face it, nobody likes the Phillipses. Even Mom probably doesn't like the Phillipses.
Charlie was asleep on the couch, and Jane was steeping Earl Gray in a teapot by the kitchen counter. I wanted nothing more than to slink off into my bedroom, collapse under the sheets, and barricade myself against any thoughts of Will Darcy or his mouth. But Jane is Kyra Sedgwick. The interrogator.
“Lizzy?” Jane called, softly, and I noticed her voice was coarse and raw. The way it gets when you've invested a lot of energy or possibly spent the entire evening arguing over why your adorable, absolutely wonderful
English boyfriend happened to leave you high and dry five months ago. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, you know,” I murmured, drumming my fingers against the countertop. “Out and about. —— What happened with you and Charlie? I wanted to stay, but Will wouldn't let me.”
Jane sighed, and tucked a blonde tendril behind her ear, absently stirring her cup. “I forgave him. But, Lizzy, I'm not sure if I can take him back yet.”
“Janey,” I soothed, rubbing her shoulder. “That's okay. You don't have to figure everything out all at once.”
“I love him,” she said, quietly, looking over her shoulder. “He loves me.”
“When did he fall asleep?”
“Sometime between a third argument and a kiss.”
“I hope the kiss came after.”
“It did,” she said, smiling, a blush coloring her cheeks. “I do love him. And, Lizzy, he told me everything.” Jane looked at me seriously, then, those blue–gray eyes ever soul-searching. “And I want to talk to you about it, but you look exhausted. Why don't you go off to bed?”
“Sensational idea.” I yawned against my fist. I kissed her on the cheek, and bent down to take off my shoes, kicking them by the foyer. Jane turned to me, then said, “oh, where did Will go?”
I paused. “Hotel nearby.”
“You should have invited him in.”
“No,” I said, urgently, and Jane cocked her head. “I mean,” I straightened. “He already has a room, downtown. It's not that big of a deal. He's been in Philly for a few days now.” Jane raised an eyebrow, but nodded nonetheless, disappearing back into the kitchen.
I sighed, and slumped against the wall, pressing my hands against my eyes. God, why did I let him kiss me? Now he has the wrong idea. Now things are going to be so supremely fucked up because I am the motherload of fuck-ups, personified.
Well, why did you kiss him back?
Because I wanted to.
Why did you want to?
He's really a superb kisser.
Bull to the shit, Lizzy “the Liar” Bennet. Think of a better reason.
I just wanted to. I couldn't help myself. What is this, am I officially schizo, now?
I think you love him.
I slumped against the wall, and rested my head between my hands.
“So, I'm in love with Will Darcy.”
26
—
Birds Flying High, You Know How I Feel
“She looks dead.”
“Poke her.”
“I'm not going to poke her. You poke her.”
“What, me? She's your sister. —— Does she normally fall asleep with clothes on?”
“Don't judge Lizzy.”
“I'm not —”
Bickering voices, a guy's and a girl's, dragged me out of sleep. Actually, it wasn't so much sleeping as losing consciousness. I was still in jeans and a hoodie, three quarters of my hair out of its clip, eyeliner smudged, and mouth halfway open. I sat up groggily, and cringed. Charlie was leaning against the doorframe, stifling laughter. Jane sat at the edge of my mattress.
“Sweetie, you've got a line of drool.”
I touched my mouth, and winced. “Oh, gross.”
Jane arched an eyebrow, watching me. I realized that she was on her way out. She had her hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, and was wearing a cotton dress and a cardigan, her handbag slung over her shoulder. Charlie was holding his car keys.
“You guys going somewhere?”
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat timidly, blushing a little. Maybe she was embarrassed. Charlie matched her. The air was far from cleared. “We're just going to grab some lunch together.”
“Oh, okay.” A pause, then a squeak. “Lunch?”
“Late lunch,” Charlie said, smiling. “It's 1:30 p.m., Lizzy.”
“What? No! Fuck my life,” I started, jumping out of bed. “Why didn't you wake me? I have class in an hour.”
“I'll give you a lift,” Charlie added, helpfully. “How long do you need to get ready?”
“About a century,” I whined, running about. I started to unbutton my blouse, paused, and decided that it might be best to actually look for clothes first. I opened my dresser cabinets.
“Give her 15 minutes,” Jane said, grinning at Charlie. She got up, and kissed my head. “I'll get you tea and toast. Oh, and remember — Mom wants you home for dinner tonight.”
“Right, right.”
Being a long-time fan of the snooze button, I've always been an expert at getting ready in short time intervals. You learn to multitask — brush your teeth in the shower, use a wet-to-dry straightener for bangs, pull hair back, wolf down toast, pour scalding tea into a Starbucks Thermos. Some rules are relaxed. Mismatched socks usually result. Also, household accidents.
I tripped over the corner of the coffee table on my way out.
“I'm okay!” I winced, getting up. Jane ran over from the kitchen, and helped me, touching a spot on my forehead tenderly.
“Ow, ow, ow.” I pulled back. “Janey, stop. You'd think the first 'ow' would give a hint, or something.”
“Sit down — I'll get you some ice.”
“No time!” I said, sliding into the kitchen. I ripped apart my toast, popping pieces into my mouth. “I swear, I'm not concussed.”
Jane sighed, and pivoted her hands on her hips. “If you pass out during class —”
“It'll be because of the professor or the material, not a possible concussion,” I assured her, grinning. “I zone out, anyway. Jankowsky is about as amusing as Ben Stein. It's typical.”
Besides, how the hell am I going to think about calc when I can't beat Will friggin' Darcy out of my head?
I cringed a little, and turned on my heel toward the kitchen cabinets, searching for an empty Thermos. It really sucked. I had gone through 10 minutes of uninterrupted thoughts, and then he had to wedge himself between them again. My mind was a constant battlefield.
I should call him.
I unscrewed my Thermos and poured water from the kettle in, glancing over my shoulder. Charlie was waiting patiently by the door, talking with Jane. He faltered, touching her shoulder fleetingly, as if waiting for some kind of permission, like some schoolboy chastised for misbehavior. Jane smiled hesitantly, and I watched her take his hand. It was subtle, but it tugged at heartstrings, and Charlie failed at smothering a grin, his eyes brightening.
I felt the corners of my mouth turning up.
I should call him.
God, I wanted nothing more than to sit at home and dig out a blanket from the closet, mulling over it all. It's the sucky thing about life, really. It's like a conveyor belt in constant motion — it doesn't give you time to think and dissect emotions and decide what's best. You just have to get on and trust where it leads you.
I stared at the phone from the corner of my eye, nervous energy jittering through me. I wrung my hands together.
How in the hell could I be in love with Will Darcy?
Shoving forth all rational reasoning, I could come up with nothing but reasons not to love him. He was smug. He was assuming, and judgmental. He talked out of his ass. He was complicated and moody. Arrogant and prejudiced.
And yet he had brought out nothing but the sharpest reactions from me. What kind of person makes you want to break their nose and simultaneously tackle-hug them? I wanted to punch him in the shoulder and kiss him, all at once. I wanted to tell him just how grateful I was for all that he had done for my family, and maybe thump him upside the head for not telling me about it in the first place.
If it was love on my part, it was a tugging, consuming, cracked-out love based on dichotomies. I grinned into my cup, almost laughing. It fit.
If Will still felt something for me, that is.
Who knows? Maybe that kiss was just a result of parking-lot mood-lighting?
Okay… no, it wasn't.
It was inconvenient and really shitty timing to have Will Darcy bombarding my thoughts. It especially sucked because C
harlie took the time and effort to drive me through morning traffic to the HU campus, and with such expert timing that I actually arrived three minutes before class even started. Only to get dazed, and zone out, and think too much.
After 45 minutes, I couldn't handle it anymore.
I collected my bags, raced out of the lecture room, and sprinted across campus with full intention to track Will Darcy down. Just as I pulled out my phone to dial Georgy's number (I had still forgotten to get his), my phone started ringing in my hand, and I flinched back, yelping.
A group of students forming a study group at the steps of the Wilhern building looked over, and I cleared my throat. “Uh. Lack of sleep. Strange reactions. Bye.” I took a seat at the farthest step, and slid my cell open.
“Hello?”
The voice that answered was clipped and cool, and strangely familiar. “Elizabeth Bennet?”
“Speaking.” Wow, I missed Caller ID completely.
“This is Catherine de Bourgh. I am in your town. Are you available for early dinner? 3:30 p.m.”
I gaped so long that she actually asked me if I was still on the line. “Oh, uh, yeah. Are you sure it's me you want, though? I have Charlotte's number.”
“I'm perfectly sure,” she retorted, borderline snappy.
God, menopause must be a bitch.
“Uhm, okay. I'll call you. I guess.”
“Good. I'll be expecting it.”
Click.
I stared at my phone. And first place for most awkward phone conversation goes to…
My plans were temporarily put on hold. Self-deluded royalty was calling.
• • •
Catherine de Bourgh wasn't extremely thrilled at my selection of Macaroni Grill at Oxford Plaza. I personally thought they could do no wrong. You had a lovely Sinatra selection, create-your-own-pasta, and you could draw on the tablecloths. Plus, it was across from a Starbucks and an Ulta. Cool beans.
We sat down in a booth, and she sniffed, folding her hands primly in front of her. She was tan, having just come back from vacation, apparently. Something she kept mentioning every five minutes, as if hinting at something I clearly didn't understand.
