Twenty Months

by Alicia Rogers

  "Actually, I'm here with some friends of mine…"

  "Wonderful!" he exclaimed grabbing her hand. "I'll join you!"

  There are just some people one never expects to (or wants to) see again; you grow up – sometimes more physically than emotionally – you move away, you make attempts at starting a life that no longer revolves around biology homework and trendy tables in the cafeteria. And (if a just and loving god exists) you'll never have to think about the bane(s) of your adolescent existence until you grace them with a hotter, richer version of yourself in the banquet hall of some Holiday Inn and Suites ten years down the line.

  This notion was hard and fast for Elizabeth, so imagine her surprise at looking up to find Henry 'Creeper' Collins standing in front of her table and latched onto her best friend.

  Henry had been a constant companion from kindergarten to twelfth grade. With the exception of a chicken pox related reprieve, not a day went by without him declaring his undying love and devotion for her.

  There were the notes ("will you be my girlfriend? Check 'yes' or 'no'), and the G.I. Joe Valentine's Day /box of conversation hearts combo that awaited her every year until they reached an age were such childishness was unacceptable, and G.I. Joe found himself replaced with awful prose ("Oh, Lizzie you've got me in such a tizzy. One kiss from your lips would make me feel dizzy"). And then there were the few occasions where Mr. Bennet was forced to chase him out of the bushes near his daughter's window.

  Lizzie choked on her Sprite, receiving a concerned pat on the back from an unaware Darcy.

  "Elizabeth Bennet?!" Henry was all smiles as he turned to Charlotte, "This is your friend?"

  "What's up, Henry?" Lizzie attempted a pleasant smile and failed miserably.

  This, however, went right over Henry's head; he excitedly pulled out a chair and took a seat (a confused Charlotte following his lead) talking a mile a minute. "Or, I suppose I should say 'Elizabeth Darcy' now."

  His eyes fixed on Fitzwilliam he thrust a hand in the man's face and shook it far longer than what could be considered socially acceptable. "Mr. Darcy it is an immense pleasure to finally meet you, sir. My brother, Bill and I have the honor of working for your noble family; he's Anne's personal assistant and I have the distinct pleasure of being a cameraman on your Aunt Lady Catherine's, show. Oh, she'll be thrilled when I tell her I ran into you! She was just saying the other day how much she longed to see you and Elizabeth…we've just returned from a shoot in Indonesia and Lady Catherine's having 'Welcome Home' dinner, she's had such hard luck with trying to get in touch with you…"

  Before Darcy could get a word in edgewise, Henry was pulling out his Blackberry. "…I'm just going to give her a call…"

  Darcy paled, his eyes widening. "No, no you don't have to do that!"

  "Hello, Lady Catherine! I hope you're having a pleasant – this is, Henry." He paused and a screech of 'Henry who' from the other end of the line was clearly heard. "Henry Collins, m'am. You'll never guess who I'm with at this very moment – your nephew, Fitzwilliam Darcy…yes, yes of course…" he shoved the phone into Darcy's hand absolutely missing the glare of death that marred the man's features.

  "Hello, Auntie," Darcy attempted a pleasant tone and failed miserably.

  "You two know each other?" Charlotte asked, surprised.

  "Oh, Elizabeth and I go way back," Henry supplied. "It's great that we can sit here, two ex's with our current loves, and there be no awkwardness between us."

  Lizzie's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

  "You dated?" Charlotte looked a bit crestfallen.

  "For thirty minutes…in kindergarten," Lizzie said.

  Henry chuckled. "Elizabeth exposed me to the fickle nature of women…"

  Lizzie frowned. "Fickle my ass, you were caught eating paste; that's an automatic deal breaker even at five."

  "You really haven't changed a bit, have you?" Henry let his eyes rake appraisingly over her form. "Except, I suppose the Freshman Fifteen must be hard to overcome."

  Charlotte had the good sense to cringe and silently willed Lizzie to have mercy on Collins's soul.

  Lizzie blinked her dark eyes revealed the contemplation of Murder One, but she bit her tongue. "I'm seven months pregnant."

  "Yes, well Lizzie and I have been really busy, Auntie…yes, I know that's not a sufficient excuse…no, I haven't been ignoring your calls."

  "Oh," Henry laughed, "congratulations! Boy or girl?"

  "We're leaving that a surprise," Lizzie answered curtly.

  "That's wonderful! I wish more couples had the patience to do that these days; my brothers and I were pleasant surprises for our parents."

  Lizzie grinned wickedly. "I'm sure."

  "Yes, we'd love to come…wouldn't miss it for the world…" With a heavy sigh, Darcy handed the phone back to Henry.

  "I take it Charlotte and I will be seeing you two at the dinner?"

  Darcy made a noise somewhere in the back of his throat and the little vein on his forehead began to dance. "Absolutely."

  "Excellent; I can't wait to properly catch up with you, Lizzie and to get to know you better, Mr. Darcy." After committing Charlotte's number to his phonebook, Henry placed a kiss on her cheek and made a ridiculous show of bowing in Darcy's direction before taking off.

  The silence at the table was chilling and Charlotte found herself laughing to keep from crying. "So, I uh…I met a guy."

  Chapter 26

  Future Foe Scenarios

  Unbeknownst to Lizzie and her stoic paramour, Mr. Collins's more ridiculous attributes did not go unnoticed by Charlotte; instead it was a simple case of her not caring very much.

  Prince Charming and his shiny, white horse was something that happened to girls like Jane: those wispy, gentle-natured creatures that somehow remained ignorant of their staggering beauty and its power to drop a desirable man (Mr. I come complete with a car, a bank account, and a home mother-free) to his knees. Or, Mr. Perfect, Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, Conveniently Rich and Well-Endowed preferred the manic-pixie girls like, dear Lizzie; the sort of females that were all wit, quirkiness, and "fine eyes". Charlotte, however, belonged to the 'comfortable old shoe' lot of women – the type who seemed to have been broken in from birth. The 'old shoe' would make a perfectly respectable companion throughout life and a man would come to regard its faithfulness, its ability to have dinner on the table by six and have 2.5 fat, mealy-mouthed kids tucked into bed by ten, despite the shoe's plainness, its holes, and its grass stains.

  Charlotte never dreamt of great, passionate love that inspired sonnets or insanity, or very possibly both. She was convinced she wasn't the type of woman that could ever produce such feelings in a man and never entertained any thoughts to the contrary (self-delusion, she thought, looked rather stupid on her). If Henry Collins offered her comfort and security, and 2.5 awful children, well then, he would simply have to do.

  Though her mind was thoroughly made up on the subject, Charlotte listened quietly and intently to her friend's numerous grievances against the man:

  "The Collins's are the reason there's no Bennet's left in Sun Valley. There are four others just like him, if you can believe that genetic joke. His older brother, Billy, thought the sun rose and shone out of Jane's ass, and he collected strands of her hair to make a doll. The dude made a Jane hair doll, Charlotte. Seriously. Dad upped and moved us all to Reseda after I graduated because getting stalked by a Collins was becoming a bizarre Bennet right of passage."

  And, "Just be thankful you don't have any bushes, Charlotte."

  When Lizzie colorfully ended her tirade with, "Henry Collins is like a two-scoop sundae of suck and fail topped with dumbass sprinkles," Charlotte looked up from the vanilla sludge that used to be her milkshake and said with a weary sigh,

  "Are you done?"

  "Not quite; you're way too good for him, Char – what the hell are you thinking?!"

  She bristled. "Okay, I admit Henry's a bit much."

  "A bit much?" Lizzie snic
kered. "The man is a fool."

  "He's my fool!" Charlotte snapped and after taking the moment the newfound awkward silence had afforded her, she said, "At least, I may want him to be. Someday. But, Christ on a cracker, Lizzie, you act as if I'm betrothed to the guy and we haven't even been on one goddamn date!"

  Lizzie shook her head. "But, you don't know what he's really like."

  "I want to know," Charlotte said, "and I want you to support me. Please, can we not argue about this? Can you just be my bestie and let me make my own decisions?"

  "But…" Lizzie began and a small nudge from Darcy's elbow put an end to her protest. She sighed heavily before taking one last bite of her fries. "Fine, I'll be supportive. Really, I just want you to be happy, Char – truly, happy."

  That was the thing about Lizzie, she wanted so badly for her friend to hold onto fairytale notions ("we'll be great actresses"/ "one day, I swear we'll both be swept off our feet. No more losers, Char – only the most worthy, most perfect guys will get to monopolize our time from here on out") that she would cling to those dreams for the both of them.

  "I know, honey," Charlotte said softly.

  * * *

  She should have slammed the door in his face while belting "fuck you very much, buddy!" at the top of her lungs, but all Danny had to do was give her puppy-dog wide eyes and say:

  "I've really missed you, babe."

  Sarah was putty in his hands.

  "You won't believe what my life's been like for the past couple months," Wickham put on his best defeated voice as he pushed his way inside her apartment, "I lost my job, my apartment, I'm still dodging the repo-man when it comes to my car, and I guess you know how unsympathetic Sprint can be when you stop giving them money. This city's had my balls in vice grip – I just had to get out of here, you know, clear my head."

  Lips pulled into a tight, thin line, she nodded. "So, where did you go?" she asked in an unsteady, quiet voice.

  "Oh, uh…" Wickham flopped down comfortably on the couch and made a show of putting his feet up on the coffee table, "Kansas. I stayed with my Nana for a while which was just great; she's a remarkable woman, still feisty as all get out at eighty-nine years old." Smiling, he gestured for her to have a seat next to him. "C'mon, then…I know I've been a total asshole, disappearing on you like that, but the thought of you seeing me at my lowest, Sassy, it tore me apart."

  What little resolve she might have possessed broke at that moment and Sarah found herself enveloped in his arms. Breathing in his scent, encircled in his warmth, his fingertips on the bare skin of her arm, this feeling was one she'd thought she would never experience again.

  "You could've told me," she said burying her face in the crook of his neck. "I could've helped you."

  He dropped a kiss on her forehead. "No, sweetheart, this is my mess. I couldn't ask you to do that."

  "Well, where are you staying?"

  "Um, nowhere at the moment; I've only just got back into town and I had to see you before I made any sort of plans." He gazed at her with soft, longing eyes. "I was afraid I'd really fucked up."

  Sarah giggled. "Oh you definitely fucked up; lucky for you, I'm the forgiving type."

  "Lucky indeed," he said squeezing her tightly.

  She sat up and looked him squarely in the eye. "You're staying here until you're back on you're feet – no objections."

  "Sass, I don't want to impose…"

  "What did I say about objections?" She playfully swatted at his shoulder. "I mean it and saying no to this offer is not an option."

  "Look at you," Wickham laughed, "taking charge and everything. It's very sexy."

  Sarah beamed and made a move to get up from the couch. "Let's go get your stuff…"

  He grabbed her wrist. "There's time for that later, all I want to do right now is lay here with you in my arms."

  Though her heart was sufficiently melted she couldn't help but notice the splint on his finger. "What happened?" she asked with a curious tilt of her head.

  "What? Oh," Wickham shrugged with a lopsided smile when he caught her eye line, "screen door accident at grandma's."

  * * *

  In spite of the civil understanding reached at the end of their lunch, the car ride back to Darcy's place in the Hills was a tense one. Charlotte had unsuccessfully tried to defuse the situation by putting in she and Lizzie's favorite mix with the hopes that a Britney, Beyonce, and Backstreet trifecta would get her friend to smile and dance her way out of being so utterly disappointed. Instead, it provided an inappropriately upbeat soundtrack.

  Lizzie focused her eyes on the blur of cars passing by, Charlotte kept her gaze straight ahead and made a point to grip the steering wheel with both hands, and poor Darcy, caught in the middle of all this awkward, languished away in the backseat.

  Sighing, Lizzie pulled the vibrating cell phone out of her purse:

  From: Darcy

  Collins wrote you poetry? Should I follow his example?

  Her eyes snapped up from the text message to the visor mirror; Darcy's reflection was lazily slumped against the door and staring out of the opposite window. The corner of her lips jerking upward, she replied:

  To: Darcy

  Only if you never wish to get laid again.

  She relished in watching a huge grin break out on his face and a moment later her cell buzzed with his response:

  From: Darcy

  Poetry is supposed to be the way to win a woman's heart. WTF kind of female are you?

  She giggled:

  To: Darcy

  A complicated one that doesn't like her name being rhymed with every word that ends with an –izy.

  From: Darcy

  In his defense, it's hard to rhyme Elizabeth.

  "Who ya talkin' to?" Charlotte jovially asked her.

  "Jane," Lizzie answered quickly. "Charlie's trying to convince her to watch A Nightmare on Elm Street and she's close to giving in."

  From: Darcy

  You sit on a throne of lies.

  Covering her mouth, Lizzie shook silently with laughter.

  "Oh, god!" Charlotte exclaimed. "Talk her out of it! She'll be up for months – you know how sensitive she is."

  "Yeah…she still can't handle the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. I can't believe she's even considering it."

  To: Darcy

  I don't want her to know we're talking about Collins.

  From: Darcy

  Who's talking about Collins? I'm trying to find the best way to woo you.

  From: Darcy

  … roses are red

  violets are purple

  I like you a lot, but, damn, nothing rhymes with that.

  To: Darcy

  Collins will be happy to know that he kicks your ass when it comes to prose. That was super lame, Fitzie.

  From: Darcy

  Unappreciative wench.

  She laughed loudly earning a look from her friend. "Jane actually thinks she's safe because Johnny Depp's on screen." Lizzie shrugged with a lopsided grin. "It's precious."

  "She's gonna make me go through the whole apartment with a bat later on. I fucking know it." Charlotte shook her head.

  From: Darcy

  The story of us…

  Jack and Jill went up a hill,

  to have a little fun.

  Stupid Jack forgot his cap,

  and now they have a son.

  (or daughter) :)

  To: Darcy

  LOL. You've totally wooed me now. Take me, I'm your's!

  From: Darcy

  You can't type LOL when you're not actually LOLing! I can see and hear you, remember?

  To: Darcy

  Oh believe me, I'm laughing on the inside. Hard.

  From: Darcy

  So, you feel a bit better now?

  Lizzie caught his eye in the mirror and smiled.

  To: Darcy

  A LOT better. Thanks, Jack.

  Chapter 27

  I am Trying to Break Your Heart. Part one

&nbs
p; The early days of sharing a general living space with the former Miss Bennet had produced in Darcy a laughably false impression that she was one of those neat as a pin, keeps quietly to herself type of roommates. When he looked back on it, it was easy to see that Lizzie's whole phantom housemate routine was due in large part to her adjusting to new surroundings, her loneliness, and her deep hatred for his face. Now that their relationship had practically barreled around a corner Darcy once didn't dare to dream was possible, her increasing comfort level uncovered some buried traits.

  Neat she most certainly was not. His desk had fallen victim to Lizzie's organized chaos; its once pristine, cherry-wood surface was stacked high with cd's that hadn't quite made the transition into her iTunes and various issues of Nylon, Parenting Magazine, and college brochures ("I'm in the midst of an existential crises, Darcy. I've got to find my purpose."), respectively. The sleek monitor of his Mac was littered with post-its bearing hastily scribbled reminders of doctor appointments, and occasionally a plate of half-eaten food made an appearance.

  Her underwear didn't always make it into her hamper, and it seemed as if she'd issued some sort of silent challenge to see just how many stacked dishes in the sink it would take to make their housekeeper's head explode – though, Lizzie always apologized profusely and took to draining the remnants of her own bank account to leave a sizeable tip.

  She kept odd hours which Darcy would've chocked entirely up to pregnancy if Jane hadn't mentioned their father jokingly suspected Lizzie was a vampire ("Lizard manages to remain terribly pale in Southern California and barely sees the sunlight? Your mum birthed a Daywalker."). She was a notorious hogger of covers, and while Lizzie didn't snore, she made up for it by drooling in her sleep.

  Darcy found himself ticking through all of these things and then some, as he lay next to her pretending to still be asleep. Lizzie sat quietly, her hair charmingly styled in the sort of way that only eight hours on a pillow could produce, her nose deep in the pages of a book, while merrily munching away on peanut butter crackers (the crumbs coming to rest on his Egyptian cotton sheets).