Sparks Fly, Tires Skid: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Variation Romantic Comedy

by Ari Rhoge

  “Yes? Speaking,” Lizzy tried, patiently, swinging her legs off the edge of the mattress.

  “Oh, good. We met briefly, Elizabeth. My name is Catherine de Bourgh. You were friendly with my nephews at the wedding of William Collins and Charlotte Lucas —— though the latter has been removed from the family.” A sniff, disapproving.

  Lizzy was caught off guard, by both the identity of the caller and the cold-clipped manner in which she spoke. It was all she could do to mumble back, “oh. Hi.”

  “I obtained your number from my niece, Georgiana. In fact, I would not be calling you at all if I had not recently spoken with her. My niece was filling me in on her brother's life, seeing as William doesn't know how to pick up a phone and call his closest relation to ask how she's doing — or if she's dead yet!”

  Lizzy said nothing. But her head tilted, confused.

  Catherine needed no verbal encouragement, it seemed. “I have been informed of something very alarming in nature, Elizabeth — you are in a serious relationship with my nephew.”

  “Um…” Elizabeth scratched her forehead. She snort-laughed. “Lady, is this for real?”

  “I'm very glad you think this is a joke, Elizabeth — it assuages my nerves. Perhaps it is a trifling sort of temporary attraction. —— You must know that whatever you share with my nephew cannot last long. He has been in an off-and-on (hopefully on, very soon) relationship with my oldest friend's daughter, Anne Kowalski. Their combined inheritances, hers from her father's oil business and his from his family's wealth, has been planned for many years. They have been dating since they were both teenagers.”

  Lizzy licked her lips. “Uh, what?”

  “You're a slow sort of girl, aren't you?”

  She, still in her underwear, rose from her bed, bristling. “No — I'm the right sort of girl, Catherine, just this is all brand-new information for me.”

  “What a shame.” Catherine sniffed again — a habit that was starting to grate on Lizzy's last nerve. “So, darling, I believe you and I understand each other at last. I can cross that off my to-do list for today's activities, though I do still have to see to it that our garden is correctly hedged and trimmed. —— You know how it is in these wily spring months.” A light, half-committal cough (Lizzy thought, absurdly, is this really happening?) “We have an agreement that you will not pursue a relationship with my nephew Will — correct?”

  Her face flushed with color. “No. We certainly do not.”

  Another loaded silence. “You are being very stubborn.”

  “The only way I know how, ma'am.”

  “You expect Will Darcy to attach himself to a girl whose sister selfishly made headlines recently? Whose disappearance was done as a stunt to gather attention and embarrass herself and her family? We know the gentleman she was with, even if it was not publicly announced. Those who associate themselves with Greg Wickham are of no interest to us, Elizabeth.”

  Lizzy's mouth gaped open. “First of all, you have no place to butt into my business or the business of my family. Secondly, you don't even know me. You met me once at a wedding, and you were rude and unpleasant. Third, I don't know this business about Will and Anne what's-her-face of Green Gables or some shit —— but I can tell you this — I will take it up with Will. So, fuck off and mind your business, Mrs. de Bourgh. Thanks for calling.”

  “You selfish, disrespectful, in—!”

  She tossed her phone onto a pile of clothes, and fell back into bed.

  • • •

  Lizzy slept a full, dreamless seven hours before the pounding on her door woke her up. Distressed and sleepy, she first harbored delusions that a rapist or a burglar had broken into her home. Of course, she scrambled up to a standing position, and grabbed a clothes hanger, of all things, from her closet. And then she thought for a second that Her Highness Lady Catherine de Bourgh had come to abduct her, decapitate her, and use her head as a flower vase — but this morbid fantasy dissipated quickly, too.

  She unbolted the door, and held the hanger over the threshold. Darcy raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh.”

  “Is this how you greet all your visitors?”

  “Maybe,” Lizzy muttered. She moved to one side, letting him through.

  Will stepped inside, and shrugged out of his jacket. He folded it neatly, and draped it over the blue armchair in the living room. It annoyed her. And then it annoyed her even more when he said, “I'll give you some time to make yourself decent, if you need it. —— Then we'll talk.”

  Elizabeth glanced at her reflection, mirrored back at her in the powered-off TV screen — messy hair, plaid pajama top, black polka-dot panties, and tube socks. She looked back at him. “Nope, I'm good. What if I wanna talk in my underwear? Is that such a big problem, Will? It's my house.”

  Will frowned at her, puzzled. “You're not drunk, are you?”

  “Fuck you. I just woke up.”

  “Fuck me? Lizzy, if anything, I should be angry with you. You bolted out of my apartment at some ungodly time in the morning, took off with Charlotte, and ignored all my phone calls. I had to call your sister just to find out if you were okay.”

  “Oh, how terrible for you.”

  “You're being childish.”

  “You are.” A beat. Will stared wildly at her, and Lizzy thought, oh, God. I'm a mess.

  “Is it something I did?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I don't want to talk about it, Will. Can we just leave it alone? I'm sorry that I worried you — it was selfish and stupid, but I just couldn't stay there. And now your aunt just called me and freaked me out—”

  “My aunt called you?”

  “Yeah!” Lizzy shouted. “Essentially told me to back the fuck off because you're seeing some girl named Anna, or whatever — and is that true? Because if you're dating another girl you're gonna come clean to me right now before I break your face—”

  “No, Elizabeth. I'm not seeing anyone but you. Aunt Catherine is delusional. She's been trying to set me up with Anne Kowalski, Laura Whitmore–Kowalski's daughter, practically since high school. She wants to see a merging of estates, because she's a backward aristocrat who thinks it's 1875.” Will was on edge now, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh.” Lizzy pursed her lips.

  “Why did she call you?”

  “I don't know — something your sister said!”

  Darcy crossed his arms over his chest. “Now you're mad at Georgie? The girl adores you…”

  “No, of course I'm not mad at Georgie. I'm mad—”

  “At me?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, weakly. “No. I just need some time to figure stuff out, all right?”

  “Are you freaking out because of last night?”

  “What about last night?”

  “I don't know, Lizzy — you tell me!” Will argued, angry and hurt. “Because I don't think I did anything wrong, to be honest. I've been racking my brains for hours, trying to see how I fucked up by letting you and your best friend stay the night at my place. If you could let me know, that would be fucking great.”

  “Well, I'm not gonna talk to you like this, okay?” Lizzy crossed her arms, affronted. “You sound like a condescending asshole.”

  “I'm frustrated, Lizzy. —— You take off in the middle of the night—”

  “I apologized!”

  “I'd like to know why!”

  “I don't want to talk right now! I just need some time to think, okay, Will? You have to respect that. Please leave. —— I'll call you in a few hours.”

  Will began to pace the room. “You are being so difficult, Lizzy…”

  “You know what? Fine. —— You stay. I'll leave.” She stormed past him, and had the door thrown open when he caught her arm and pulled her toward him.

  What turned into a struggle to keep Lizzy away from the door turned into a ridiculous rencounter to decide who was stronger than the other — it escalated into the kitche
n, where Lizzy had him for about a millisecond when she tripped him — but then Will caught his footing, and effortlessly won by pinning her against the fridge.

  “You pinned me against the fridge,” Lizzy said, dryly. “What, in case I wanted a snack?”

  Darcy searched her face, her tiny wrists shackled by his hands. “You are probably gonna be the death of me.”

  “Yeah — that's very likely.”

  Then Lizzy grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and pulled him toward her for a kiss. Will's hands cupped her behind, which was perfectly fine by her, especially when he lifted her up and sat her down on the countertop. It was an interesting advantage, being face-to-face with him now. Lizzy hitched a bare leg over Darcy's hip, and his fingers slid under the hem of her T-shirt, their lips fumbling heatedly. He bit her bottom lip, and Lizzy drew back with a gasp.

  “Too much?” Will asked, breathless.

  “Fuck no,” she said, and kissed him again, aggressively. She felt him laugh against her, and held him tightly, letting warmth and butterflies (but mostly endorphins) surge through her veins. Will pressed his mouth against the curve of her neck. He slipped a hand into her panties, and Lizzy arched against him before he tugged them off. She yanked his gray T-shirt up over his head, cursing when it got caught.

  They left a modest pool of clothes behind them as they stumbled toward the couch. Darcy rammed into the coat rack on the way — he hissed against her mouth in pain, and Lizzy pulled away, laughing before he swept her up in his arms again.

  Fuck it.

  29

  —

  Hand Covers Bruise

  It was four in the morning. A square patch of moonlight marred the hardwood floor, and Darcy made shadow animals in it. Lizzy chuckled quietly, her head resting on his bare chest, her arms snug around his waist. He brushed his lips against her hair. She smelled nice — like vanilla, or lavender, or something else floral.

  Fuck if he knew shampoos.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No,” Lizzy murmured. They had stolen the plaid fleece blanket from the living room couch, and were now properly cocooned in it. Her eyes closed sleepily, then opened when his low voice stirred her awake.

  “You should have told me,” Darcy murmured.

  Lizzy looked up at him, and hesitated. “I'm sorry. I didn't want to burden you with my problems.” Her voice was strained, wording her feelings carefully. “It's just that… I know guys freak out, especially in light of my fucked-up emotional disabilities — nobody wants to hear that shit.”

  “Hey, don't generalize us. I want to hear,” Will said, softly, hooking her hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her cheek. “You would never be a burden to me, Lizzy. —— You make everything better. Believe me.”

  “Do you always say the right thing?”

  He chuckled. “Only recently. —— And only when you're around, it seems.”

  “Oh, really?” She giggled, turning. “Tell me.”

  “Well, I Skyped with Georgie yesterday, because she wanted my opinion on a dress she bought — I gave it, and then she hung up on me.”

  “You said something bad, didn't you?” Lizzy glanced up at him.

  “Only that I heard that horizontal stripes make a woman look heav— what?” He laughed, grinning.

  She stopped giving him the stink-eye. She kissed his cheek, then moved to rest her head against his chest again. Will's hand curved under the blanket, and rested on the small of her back, touching her lightly. His face turned inward to the curve of her neck, and he marveled at how soft and warm she was. And his — Lizzy was his.

  He had fucked it up. Will had been arrogant, presumptuous, had inadvertently shoved her away when he had felt so much for her. And now the girl he wanted was sleeping in his arms. Notwithstanding her fears and attachment issues, Will considered himself the luckiest man on Earth.

  He decided he would give Lizzy as much time as she needed — what mattered was that she was by his side. If she needed anything, he would drop everything and give it to her. Whatever she wanted was hers.

  God, am I in trouble.

  Sometimes his heart felt full to the point of bursting.

  Will said her name again, but Lizzy had fallen asleep, curled up against him, her breathing slow and even. Content, he himself drifted off.

  • • •

  17 miles away, Charlie Bingley sat fretfully in an armchair, his right leg jogging up and down with nerves. His hair stuck up in ginger tufts, his pale blue eyes alert and fixed on his reconciled girlfriend. Jane was watching an episode of Pretty Little Liars, but would occasionally turn to throw a popcorn kernel or two at him. “Stop staring at me, Charlie! You make me self-conscious.”

  He relaxed, distracted by her absurdity. “What does a girl like you have to be self-conscious about?”

  “Loads,” Jane said, miserably. Charlie grinned, and shook his head.

  Then he remembered the tremendous weight in the pocket of his hunter-green sweatshirt, and felt anxiety rush into him in one fell swoop. He fingered it now, the smooth gold band and the delicate round-cut diamond in its center. His grandmother, Genevieve Bingley, had given it to him five years ago. “For when you find the right girl…” He recalled her honeyed voice, her wink.

  Then he had tossed it in his bureau and gone out to a club with his friends.

  But now… well, everything was different.

  If anybody had told the poor fool that three weeks ago he would be in a position of proposing to Jane Bennet, Charlie would have had a violent pitch of emotions that would most likely have ended in a combination of laughing and sobbing. But seeing her sister at Pemberley had filled him with a vague albeit steady hope. And hope was what had taken him to Jane's residence, on a gray day, holding a bouquet of daisies at her door, smiling dopily yet earnestly.

  She took one great hiccup of a gasp, and shut the door in his face.

  • • •

  15 minutes later, Jane creaked the door open again.

  The boy she had split with many months prior was sitting slouched against the opposite wall, his head in his hands, the bouquet of daisies between his feet on the ground. He looked skinnier than ever, sleep deprived, and pale. “Charlie?” she mumbled.

  Charlie's head snapped up. He scrambled to his feet. “Jane. Hi. —— These are for you.”

  She took the bouquet, and stood staring at the daisies awkwardly. “Thank you. Do you want to come in?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Jane's brow furrowed. Well, he certainly wasn't off to a very fine start.

  “No — this can't wait,” Charlie said, in rushed exhalation. Then he launched into the greatest tangent known to man — too loud, too fast, and right in the middle of her apartment hallway. Jane's face turned bright pink, and she tried very hard to focus on his words amid all the wild gesticulations and the fact that Charlie was, quite literally, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “—what I mean to say is I was an idiot because, really, what kind of half-wit listens to the advice of his friends when it's his own intuition he should be following —— and every reason and every emotion I felt was pulling me toward you, so who really gives a flying fuck if anybody disagreed? It's my life. It's our lives. I should have knocked any naysayer's goddamn teeth in, or, at the very least, curtailed communication —— because I'm really non-confrontational in nature, and violence actually makes me a little woozy, and blood makes me dry-heave… but the point is—” Charlie took a deep breath, and Jane stared up at him wide-eyed, having had the distance between them shorten by at least half. “—I've never loved — nor will I love — a girl more than I love you —— and I miss you so much, Jane. I am such a mess without you — I just don't work right. All the important parts are missing — several screws and bolts and what have you. You just make me right. I love you. Just please let me back into your life, even if it's, like, as an escort to social events, or that awkward friend who does your taxes every April — I don't care. I can't bear to not h
ave you in my life anymore. —— I give up.”

  Jane was speechless and unblinking. It took several minutes, a pot of tea and some more conversation for his words to sink in. At the end of it all, Jane sat on the arm of the sofa, examining him over a cup of Earl Grey. “If we got back together,” she said, slowly, experimentally. “You would have to promise me one thing.”

  “Anything,” Charlie said.

  “Full communication.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don't make that face! You don't have to text me from the toilet telling me you're on the toilet. —— But if you're upset, you vocalize it. If you have questions, you ask them. If we need to talk, we talk! None of this tip-toeing-around-our-feelings bullshit — you hear me? It's enough, for the both of us, I mean. We have to be able to trust one another, and the only way to do that is to be honest with each other.”

  Charlie was nodding. “So, no texting from the john…”

  She, smirking, hurled a cushion at him. “I did miss you.”

  “I missed you more,” he murmured, closing the distance between them. He rested a hand against her cheek, and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. And then Jane kissed him, perhaps a little more passionately and aggressively than she had done all those months ago.

  Charlie caught himself smiling now, and rubbed his jaw to conceal it. Jane looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes narrowed. “You're being weird.”

  “How so?”

  “Quiet. And your foot keeps shaking — it's setting me off.” Her face became grim. “Wait — did something happen?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” She turned her head slowly back to the TV, then back to him. “Tell me what's going on.”

  “Nothing!” He laughed. “Gosh, Janie, you are paranoid.”

  Her eyes lowered to Charlie's fingers, which were drumming fitfully inside the trapezoid-shaped pocket of his sweatshirt. She frowned, and her voice lowered. “You're not still smoking, are you?”

  “No,” he promised, solemnly. “No — I haven't done that since I got here.”

  Stress smoking was his only vice — a leftover habit from college that resurfaced when his nerves got the better of him. He had smoked a lot in her absence, and the nicotine withdrawal had been a nightmare. But now that he was with his girl again, he had hardly cared to notice it anymore. Still, Jane was unconvinced.