by Bernie Su
“I’m just being honest. Saying what I mean.”
Well, I could say what I mean, too.
“It’s fairly pompous of you to think that we would display ourselves for your benefit.”
“Seriously!” Caroline agreed. (Even though she had sort of admitted to me that had actually been the point.) “We should punish you for that.”
I really wish I had just laughed at him. Seriously, his arrogance was so comical, having someone tease him might take him down a peg and make him more bearable. However, that’s not what I did.
“Let’s not,” I said quickly, trying to pull Caroline away. “After all, it would just . . . feed his vanity and pride.”
“Do you mean to imply vanity and pride are weaknesses?” Darcy cocked his head to one side, his mouth turning back down into his characteristic frown.
“I’m just being honest.”
He seemed to think a moment. “Vanity, while a weakness, is not one of mine.”
I opted against pointing out his affinity for the trendy hipster aesthetic typified by newsboy hats and indoor scarves.
“But pride is,” I said, giving up the ruse of walking in a circle and standing directly in front of him.
“Pride isn’t a weakness. Pride is earned.”
“Earned?” I crossed my arms over my chest, not believing what I was hearing.
“One is legitimately allowed to be prideful in his hard work and success.”
“And disdainful of those who refuse to meet the same standard?”
He shrugged. “I am more than willing to give people the benefit of the doubt in the beginning, but yes—if they lose my good opinion, it’s gone. Lost forever.”
“So you’re perfect. And have no faults,” I said sarcastically. “Except for that darn short temper, which goes with the stuck-upness and pride. So at least you have a matching set.”
“I never said anything like that. For someone who prefers openness to restraint in communication, you seem to willfully misunderstand everything I’m saying.”
“You can’t willfully misunderstand. A misunderstanding by its very nature lacks intention—”
“Bing! Jane!” Caroline cried, hearing the front door with her bat-like sonar. “Just in time—we’re starving!”
And with that, Caroline grabbed my arm and hustled me out of the room to meet Jane and Bing in the foyer.
“Oh, my God—I can’t wait to see your video on this encounter,” Caroline gleefully whispered to me, once we were out of the room. But I wasn’t really feeling it.
Maybe we’ve been here too long, maybe my frustration with Darcy has reached a point to which I can either incinerate with rage or let it go, but honestly, that little skirmish was nothing out of the ordinary for him. I know he’s a pompous windbag. I know he and I do not get along. These are accepted facts.
Why harp on it further?
SATURDAY, JULY 28TH
This is getting ridiculous. Having to stay here. But Mom says the contractors keep finding other things that have to be addressed, pushing back the finish date. She sounds pretty upset about it, actually. So instead of being in my own room, comfortable and happy, I get to play the game of Another Saturday, Another Darcy Run-in.
Today’s run-in occurred in the rec room. (Not to be confused with the lounge, family room, sitting room, living room, movie theater, or conservatory.) I needed a big-screen TV. As part of my thesis work I want to compare and contrast my videos with those of other vloggers, so I needed to watch some online media on a big screen in order to be able to analyze it properly.
I would have co-opted the TV in the lounge, but Jane and Bing were in there. They would have absolutely welcomed me in, but I didn’t want to disturb them. They looked so happy together. A fashion show of some kind was on the screen, Jane had her legs over Bing’s lap, and they were giggling over a private joke told at a volume only they could hear.
Bing looked like he was in a bubble of bliss. And Jane . . . Jane looked like she was at home. Like this is where she’s meant to be.
I wasn’t about to interrupt that scene, so I headed to the rec room, where I found Darcy kneeling by the entertainment console.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, and turned to go.
“No, it’s fine. I’m done.” He stood up. I stayed where I was. There was the obligatory awkward standoff. Finally he broke it by clearing his throat. “Did you need something?”
“Just the television,” I said. When he didn’t move or, you know, do anything, I explained. “I need to stream something from my computer to the screen. Thesis stuff.”
He nodded. “I can help you with that.”
“No, that’s all right, I can manage—” But before I could say more, he had gotten the hookup for the computer (my computer being too old and feeble to do wireless streaming) and attached it to the correct TV import.
Then he handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. I plugged in the computer and queued up an innocuous music video, just to make sure the connection was going to work. I was not going to play any video that was even thesis-adjacent in front of him. It could too easily lead to questions about the thesis subject and . . . yeah. Don’t want my videos known. (Luckily, most of my videos and related files were not on this laptop, but on a separate hard drive. I know how to keep my business private.)
I hit play. Cheerful pop music filled the room.
“Does it look and sound okay?” he asked.
I nodded. He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat.
“Hey . . . since you’re kind of into audiovisual stuff, how do you like these speakers? They have a 270-degree delivery system, providing true stereoscopic sound.” His voice became overly boastful. Like he was about to offer proof that he was the be-all and end-all. “I put them in myself.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. “The sound quality? Mediocre at best.” Which it was. Although that may have had more to do with the fact that I was playing an online video than with the speakers, but whatever little thing I can do to take him down a peg is worthwhile in my book.
“Oh, yeah. Yes.” He nodded, unwilling to be criticized. “Have you ever heard a gramophone? It has a really interesting sound. I actually prefer its authenticity and rustic feel to big speakers like these . . . It’s more personal.”
“If you say so,” was all I could manage. I couldn’t understand why he was still standing there, watching British boy-band members sing their one hit song to well-lit and overly emotional teenage girls on the screen.
“This song is . . . catchy. I hear it’s popular. Good for dancing.”
Well, what was I supposed to say to that? So I just nodded and continued watching.
“You like this kind of music, right? That’s what Caroline said. Not that we talk about you, but . . .” He blew out a breath, unable to comment any further on what he obviously thought was an atrocity of acoustics. “It’s, uh, dance music.”
When I didn’t answer him, he repeated himself, at a slightly louder volume. “I said, this music—it’s really good for dancing. Yes?”
“Oh, I heard you the first time,” I said. “But I can’t decide how to answer. Either you want me to admit that I enjoy this music, so you can make fun of me for liking it and liking dancing, or you want to see if you can get me to reject something I like so as to not raise your ire.”
“That . . . was not my intention.”
“Oh, come on. I know you’re only saying this so you can make fun of my tastes. I’d rather not give you the pleasure, so go ahead and hate me, anyway. If you dare.”
Darcy put his hands in his pockets and looked away. And then he spoke so softly, I didn’t think I heard him properly.
“I wouldn’t dare hate you.”
A throat cleared behind us.
“Hey, Lizzie,” Jane said from the doorway, her hand entwined with Bing’s. “We just came to see if you wanted to use the TV in the lounge.”
“Jane,” I hissed, closing my laptop and walking
over to her. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” Bing grinned at me, and Jane gave a conspiratorial eyebrow raise.
Really, between the Jane and Bing super-team and the scheduled Darcy run-ins, I can’t wait to go home.
Please, please soon.
MONDAY, JULY 30TH
Apropos of nothing, Jane is acting a little strange. While she’s been so happy here at Netherfield (yes, we’re still here. Dear God, it will never end. We’ll have to move in . . . which means Mom’s Convoluted Plan has paid off, and I can never let that happen. It would only encourage her.), she’s suddenly a little . . . withdrawn. I only noticed because I am well versed in the Many Moods of Jane Bennet (™ Charlotte), but a big sign was when she asked Bing to let her drive herself to work this morning. The evening sunset drive was cancelled, and he was mopey all day.
I tried to talk to her about it tonight, but she just said she was getting a little homesick. Which certainly didn’t seem to be the case even yesterday.
Even though I normally enjoy a good mystery, I think I should give Jane her space with this one. God knows, she could be telling the truth. After all, we all have our breaking points. And it’s a testament to Jane’s good nature that she lasted so long.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1ST
We are home! We snuck back in! This morning, Jane did a drive-by of the house and ran into the contractor, who told her we could have moved back in a WEEK ago. So Jane and I hightailed it out of Netherfield and back to our newly redone house.
Which looks an awful lot like our previously un-redone house. Seriously, not even the kitchen cabinets, which apparently offended Mom to the point where she engaged upon this scheme, have been changed.
We didn’t tell Mom or Dad or Lydia that we were coming home until we called them from the house line, a couple of hours after settling in. Which was a fun conversation.
“LIZZIE, WHAT ON GOD’S GREEN EARTH ARE YOU DOING IN THAT HOUSE?” My mother’s voice had reached a pitch only dogs and daughters were capable of hearing.
“We live here, Mom, or have you forgotten?”
“That . . . that house is not finished! It’s dangerous for you to be there! You and Jane should just go back to Bing’s right now! Tell them you were wrong and the house isn’t ready yet—”
“Well, that’s going to be difficult, seeing as how we already unpacked.”
“Lizzie! You! It’s! I . . . !” Mom’s sentences devolved into a series of high-pitched squeaks, until I could hear some shuffling, and suddenly Dad was on the line.
“Well, Lizzie, I take it the house is fine?” Dad asked.
“Yup, except for an empty fridge, everything is normal,” I replied. “But Jane and I are ordering pizza for dinner.”
“Excellent. Pineapple on mine. We’ll see you in a few hours.”
Before he hung up, I could hear the keening wail of my mother’s despair beginning.
“How did it go?” Jane asked as she came out of the bathroom.
“Dad wants pineapple on his pizza. Just be glad we’re not Lydia and forced to be in the car with Mom on the drive home.” I looked up. Jane was smiling, but she had a watery look in her eyes.
“Jane?” I asked, concerned. “Have you been crying?”
“No,” she assured me, waving any wetness away from her eyes. “I’m . . . I’m just glad to be home. Aren’t you?”
Considering that if I’d had to take another evening of Darcy staring daggers at me I was going to do something violent, and this way I get to avoid criminal charges? Yes. I am very glad to be home.
But that wasn’t the reason for Jane’s puffy eyes, nor her sniffles. And when she leaned her head back against the bathroom door, I for once decided to call her on it.
“Jane . . .” I said, approaching with care. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Lizzie,” she replied. “I’m just . . . I’m so relieved.”
“About what?”
“I finally got my period.”
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1ST—AGAIN
It’s late at night and the house has finally settled. I have finally settled. Because I finally got the chance to talk to Jane.
Of course I wanted to question her immediately after that WHOA statement she made. But unfortunately, she made it right before a knock on the door. Charlotte had seen our cars in the driveway and had pulled a U-turn to see if we were home. And I could have handled it if it were just Charlotte, but she’d had her little sister Maria in tow, who pigeonholed me into a conversation about the latest season of Doctor Who. Then the pizza came. Then Mom, Dad, and Lydia came.
Mom of course was not happy to find us in residence, pizza in hand, upon her return, but she also knew the jig was up, and thus gave in to us living in our own house again with only the expected amount of disappointment.
Little did she know.
Then we had to put the house back together. (Half of the kitchen stuff was in our bedrooms. I have no need to be awoken tomorrow morning by my mother searching for her waffle iron.) So after catching up with the family, finding out what kind of havoc Lydia got up to while away—apparently those stickers Jane sent her came in handy—manual labor, and our own unpacking, everyone was saying their good nights by the time I finally got Jane alone again.
“It’s no big deal, Lizzie,” Jane whispered, smushed up between pillows on her bed.
“Excuse me, I think it is a big deal—or it very easily could have been,” I replied—and not in a whisper, causing Jane to shush me.
“Sorry.”
“Just so you know, we were always careful,” Jane said.
“I would never think that you wouldn’t be,” I said. Bing’s a med student. Of course he’s going to insist on being safe. And Jane is Jane. She’s too considerate of herself and others to get swept up in condomless passion.
“But I was expecting my period on Sunday, and when it didn’t come, I got a little worried.”
A little worried. Worried enough that on Monday she decided to drive herself to work, leaving Bing out in the proverbial cold. Worried enough that this morning, she took a detour to the house, to see if we had to stay at Netherfield any longer.
“But it doesn’t matter now,” she continued. “Because it turns out there’s nothing to worry about.”
“What would you have done?” I asked after a moment. “If . . .”
Jane looked to her window. “I’m very happy I don’t have to think about that.”
“What did Bing say?” I said. “Did he try to pressure you or—”
“No. Of course not.” She chewed on her lip. “I didn’t tell him.”
I blinked in surprise. “Are you going to?”
“I don’t think so . . . I don’t think he could process it right now.” Before I could ask what she meant by that, she shrugged it off. “Besides, there’s nothing to tell. I was a little worried for seventy-two—no, forty-eight hours. That’s all.”
But Bing had noticed the worry. He’d asked me about it. I’d written it off as Jane’s good nature with having to be a houseguest finally wearing thin, but it turns out I was just projecting my own feelings of overstaying our welcome onto her. I should have known it would have taken much more than that to unsettle unflappable Jane.
“I understand,” I said. “I would have been freaked out, too. That’s definitely not what I want out of life—to be single and knocked up and living with Mom.”
Jane smiled. But then she shook her head. “That’s not what freaked me out, Lizzie. I mean, that’s not what I want out of life, either. At least, not right now. Maybe in a couple of years . . .” She let the thought trail away, before shaking it off. “Right now, I want to work, and see places and meet interesting people. But what scared me the most is that . . . if it was going to happen, I’d want it to happen with Bing.”
“You would?”
“Yeah.” She smiled wide, admitting her deepest secret to me. “He’s so . . . he just fits. Does that m
ake sense?”
I nodded, since I was pretty much unable to speak.
“So, if it did happen, it would be scary and change everything, but it would also be okay, because it would be the two of us going through it together.” She sniffled a little, her eyes going watery again. “I didn’t realize it could happen so fast. This . . . feeling. And that scared me a little.”
Wow. Jane’s in love. All the looks, all the speculation I’d gleefully been engaging in, were nothing compared to this confession. She’s in love with Bing. Not even forty-eight hours of worry could temper that. In fact, it made it grow.
I had no response (which is highly weird for me), so I simply leaned forward and hugged my sister.
“I hope this isn’t a pity hug,” she said into my shoulder.
“No, this is a happy hug,” I replied. “I’m happy about your feelings for Bing, and really happy your forty-eight hours of worry are over.”
She chuckled. “Me, too.”
We stayed like that for a while, finally breaking apart when her phone buzzed.
“It’s Bing,” she said, glancing at her phone. “He probably just wants to say good night.”
I didn’t ask her again if she was going to tell him. Jane had already made up her mind about that.
“I’ll leave you alone, then,” I said, standing up from the bed. “Good night.”
“Good night, Lizzie.” She smiled. “But, can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” I replied, my hand on the doorknob.
“Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone about this,” she said, the phone still buzzing in her hand.
“Of course not!” I replied. If I told Mom, she would freak out and start planning the wedding. Lydia would tell everyone under the sun. I’m not sure I could even trust Charlotte with this one, and I trust her with everything.
And forget about mentioning it in my videos. The world doesn’t get to have every piece of the Bennet sisters. Some things are too personal, too important, for mass consumption.