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

by Ari Rhoge

  “We're locked out.” My sister linked her hands neatly in front of her. “We were invited to Charles Bingley's birthday party. Do you know him?”

  “I might,” she answered, curtly, raising the collar of what looked like an absurdly expensive houndstooth coat. Her eyes were narrow, and not very friendly.

  “We're his best friend's sister's housemates.” Janey had to glance up in thought for a moment to make sure she had the 'lineage' of acquaintances correct. I snorted, and she glanced at me quickly, eyes worried.

  The redhead looked apathetic, exhaling smoke daintily through her nostrils. A part of my stomach clenched in slight disgust. I had a thing about smokers — I always thought you could lick asphalt to get the same taste, and it'd be far cheaper.

  “If you can, please tell him that Elizabeth and Jane Bennet are outside?” Jane asked, ever-so-polite. “I promise you we were invited to his party… a week ago. We're acquainted and everything.”

  “Are you sure? Because Charlie isn't having a party tonight,” the redhead finally answered, eyes widened a fraction more. “Maybe you have the wrong date.”

  “No, I'm sure it's tonight,” Jane said, smiling politely. “It has to be. He told me himself.”

  “Charlie's very forgetful, you see,” she said, sniffing, abandoning the cigarette stub and stomping it out with the toe of her heel. “And sometimes his —— 'parties' —— are just ploys to get pretty girls' phone numbers.”

  Jane looked pale for a split second, and I felt a strong urge to spit on this woman. Or break her nose.

  “Carolyn, let them in.”

  Will Darcy stood on the ledge of the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a black button-up with the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, and I really couldn't read his expression — or his affiliation with the woman in front of us.

  “You know them, then?” she asked, as he stepped down beside her. I couldn't help but notice the way she attempted to lean into him — and the way he subtly leaned away.

  “They're Georgy's friends,” Darcy responded, evenly.

  At this, Carolyn's face lost a few shades of color, and she whipped her head back at us. For a second, she looked as if she would burst with anger and resentment. When she finally attempted a polite smile, it seemed like a painful thing to manage — pretty reminiscent of Darcy's own epic failure a week before.

  “This is Jane Bennet, and her sister Elizabeth,” Will muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes briefly met mine, then pulled away. “This is Carolyn Bingley.”

  “That makes so much sense,” I muttered, darkly, ignoring Carolyn's sneer of a response. “Now, can we get inside already, Darcy? I think we're susceptible to pneumonia by now.”

  6

  —

  Vomitrocious

  After an extremely uncomfortable elevator ride (featuring little else excepting silence and slight animosity) we finally made it inside, and the evening seemed to take a turn uphill — especially when Carolyn Bingley disappeared from view.

  Bingley's penthouse was jam-packed with guests, mostly younger, of course. A dotting of ignorant business associates and their dates in bubble skirts and brilliant, clunky jewelry. But among these types you could find those who were distinctly human.

  Charlie Bingley himself was a vivid example. We hadn't even been given the chance to get our bearings before we met up with him. Almost immediately, he took Jane's coat. Then we watched his expression crumble when we collectively told him about our escapades outside, having been locked out due to a faulty intercom system.

  “Oh, no,” he muttered, miserably, peering over our heads toward the door. “I just had it rewired yesterday, too! I'm sorry — I had no idea. You must be frozen solid.” At this, he took Jane's hand for one split second then released it. There was mutual blushing, and I had to fight a grin off my face.

  “Happy birthday, by the way,” I interrupted, pressing a neatly wrapped slip of a package into his hands, which he turned over and over with great care. “It's a B&N gift certificate and a musical card. —— Be impressed.”

  “Thanks for ruining the greatest surprise of the evening, Lizzy Bennet,” Charlie smirked, pocketing the package. “But thank you, nonetheless. Now, come on in and get something to drink.”

  • • •

  An hour later, barefoot (and wielding both flats in one hand), I was quite certain that Jane and Charlie would be the magical, fairy-dust-enshrined stuff of epic poetry. Of course, they were only dancing — and with such modest, well-spaced precision that was entirely too clean-cut for the 21st century. But, still, she didn't see the way he held her. Or how he would lean in ever so slightly to catch the scent of her hair.

  “Oh, look — you've gone all starry-eyed,” Sam Hutton, a scraggly, dark-eyed ex-classmate of Charlie said, elbowing me gently in the side, taking a sip from his bottle. Sam was English, a musician, and a compatible drinking buddy. He was fine in my book.

  “They're adorable,” I assured him, resting my chin in my palm. “And this is only the second time they've met. You can't forge that sort of attraction,” I verified, clinking bottles with him.

  “I'm quite positive you could, love,” Sam assured me, resting his head on the wall behind us. “Then again, Charlie's not one for bullshit. But I've got to warn you that he's had many, many crushes since high school. Deep but short-lived.”

  I shrugged this off. Whatever was meant to happen between them would happen. Hugging my arms to myself, I scanned the crowd. Another Bloc Party song was playing (Two More Years) and I sorely wanted to dance again. But my feet were achy, and Sam was already getting a smidge too drunk. Intoxicated people ideally do make interesting dance partners, but you've got to salvage your toes somehow. And he had squished mine during an incredibly unforgiving Katy Perry song.

  Instead, I took to scanning the crowd, looking for particular faces. Thankfully, I had yet to bump into Will Darcy again tonight. But his sister's absence had me a little confused. Then, I spotted Carolyn Bingley rifling through records at the DJ's table, subtly flirting.

  “Does Charlie's sister resemble a dragon, or is it just my skewed perception of the world?” I murmured to Sam, crossing my legs. We sat just at the periphery of the dining-room table that had been shoved toward the bay windows, and he glanced up at me, teetering at the edge.

  “No, Carolyn's pretty terrifying,” he said, burping softly into his fist. “I tried to ask her out once, actually — ages ago.”

  “Carolyn?” I balked at this, laughing. “Oh, Sam, poor you.”

  “It was brutal, but definitely not a first rejection. I mean, she's beautiful, but a complete ice queen,” he grinned, glancing at her from across the room. “Besides, I think she's been pretty knock-kneed over Will Darcy for at least a few years.”

  I snorted softly at this, brushing the bangs out of my eyes. “I think they'd be perfect for one another.” As if acting in direct coordination with our conversation, Carolyn finally located Will Darcy, by the refreshments table, pouring himself a stiff drink. I watched with vague amusement as she flitted to his side and threaded her arm through his.

  Sam shrugged, raising the bottle to his lips. “No, I'm pretty sure she's not his type.”

  But Will Darcy never pulled away from her. If anything, he let her latch on with stuffy indifference. And indifference — why, that had to be at least a good notch above cold disapproval. Maybe it was his equivalent of affection.

  When I shared this with Sam, he simply ruffled my hair and shook his head. “You read into it too much. She's his best friend's sister, and he's built up an immunity for years. —— Since Charlie's freshman year, at least.”

  “Maybe she's why he's miserable 24/7,” I mumbled, and Sam laughed. “No, seriously,” I gestured. “I've met the man twice, and he always looks like somebody pisses into his cereal every morning. It's depressing.”

  Plus, this man basically butchered my manuscript. But I was willing to set this aside for now and blame it on my faulty j
udgment in shipping it off to W&D in the first place. It had just fallen into the wrong hands.

  Not that my self-esteem was recovered enough to try at Nottingham and Draperies again. It was pretty safely buried in the back of a cramped filing cabinet, where it could stay for the next decade without seeing the light of day.

  “Darcy's a complicated guy,” Sam assured me. “Don't make the mistake of assuming too much before you get to know him. He's been through quite a lot, from what I understand.”

  “What if I don't want to get to know him?” I murmured, tracing the rim of my bottle.

  “Then it's safe to say your opinion's fixed.” Sam smiled, straightening the collar of his shirt half-heartedly. “You're a pretty stubborn girl, aren't you?”

  “Yuh-huh.”

  • • •

  Another 45 minutes, two dances and a straying-away from Sam Hutton later, I realized I had lost my twin. Legitimately lost Jane. Trying to stifle my concern, I calmly searched the crowd for a pretty blonde with a megawatt-smile, but to no avail.

  10 minutes later, I was panicky.

  Taking a seat down the corridor beside the powder room, I dialed her number on my cell, only to reach her voicemail. “Janey — where the hell are you? Seriously,” I mumbled fiercely into the receiving end.

  “Lizzy?”

  My phone clattered, and I stared at the powder room door, slightly bewildered. Tentatively, I pressed my ear against it and jostled the handle. “Jane? Is that you?”

  “Oh, Lizzy.” A sniffle. “I feel awful.” This declaration was followed almost instantaneously by the sound of retching into a toilet. I winced, and tried at the handle again, coaxing her to let me in. “No, I'm fine, really. It was just those fucking shrimp puffs,” she moaned, weary, behind the door. “Three hors d'oeuvres and bam.”

  “Let me in,” I urged. “The hors d'oeuvres should be fine, Janey. I even heard Carolyn Bingley bragging earlier about the 'fresh' catering. And, believe me, I couldn't have cared less at the time — but still.”

  “Then why am I cramping too?” Jane muttered, softly, and I attacked the handle again. “This feels like the food poisoning I got on our 17th birthday. Remember? Outback Steakhouse, I spent three hours in the bathroom.”

  “Then Lydia ate your slice of birthday cake.” I shook my head, smiling softly.

  “And you shoved her face into yours,” Jane said, laughing weakly, before I heard a retching sound hit porcelain again.

  “What if you have the stomach flu? That's going around,” I suggested, attempting to unlock the door again. “If you let me in, we can at least get you into a cab and back home, where you could rest up. —— Or even the hospital, if you feel that shitty.”

  “No, believe me.” She paused. “I just need 30 more minutes with this toilet and I should be fine. Please don't tell Charlie I'm in here. I'm mortified, as it is, for ditching him to puke.”

  “Jane,” I smiled. “I'm sure he doesn't care. And I'm sure you look adorable post-vomit, even so.”

  “Lizzy.”

  “Fine,” I sighed, resting my head against the doorframe. “I'll be right here if you need me, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  But the problem with hogging up the only powder room in a party with 40 or so other guests is that a line (full of complainers) will eventually threaten to form. People have to pee at some point. Almost ironically, Charlie was the first to scope out the problem, a little surprised to find me seated by the door, legs crossed at the ankle, playing solitaire on my cell phone.

  “Lizzy?” he asked, perplexed. “Is everything alright?”

  “I think so.” I nodded, wincing. Glancing toward the powder room's door, I murmured. “I have to tell you something I'm not supposed to tell you… so if you can get a little closer I'd be really appreciative.”

  Charlie's eyebrows rose, but he obeyed, squatting beside me. “What's wrong?”

  “Jane's in there barfing up a storm,” I told him, pretty plainly. “I'm not supposed to tell you this, because, well, it's embarrassing. But some of your guests are being dicks about using the bathroom — if you can direct them toward another, that'd be ideal.”

  “Of course.” He nodded urgently, concerned. “What's wrong with her? Is she sick? Should I get someone?”

  “I personally think it's a symptom of the stomach flu or something,” I considered. “She thinks she has food poisoning, but I don't think so. Not because I'm trying not to insult your food selection — I'm just saying that, logically, it's been ruled out.”

  This didn't seem to quell Charlie's slight anxiety. When he returned a few minutes later (having directed some irritating guests toward his bedroom's bathroom) he wielded an plastic bag in his hands, packed full of everything from Advil to Phazyme.

  “Again, an emergency storage… I'm not a pill-popper,” he warned, dropping the bag into my hands. “But maybe there's something in there that could help Jane. I feel really awful that this happened.”

  “It's not your fault,” I assured him, rifling through the bag's contents. “I think she just has a virus or something. Probably needs to be back at home with lots of tea and a good night's sleep. Did she mention anything about feeling crappy?”

  Charlie chewed on his lower lip in thought, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We were dancing and she got a little dizzy and had to sit down. Other than that, no.” He paused. “And, Lizzy, if she's not able to get back home, my bed's open.” A second passed, and he flared beet-red. “Oh, God, that sounded really bad…”

  “No, I know what you meant.” I couldn't help but laugh. “Charlie, it's fine. That's really sweet of you. She already feels pretty crappy for hogging up your bathroom, so I'm not sure how much more of an imposition we can both be tonight.”

  “Believe me, it's no imposition,” he said. “The last thing I want is for Jane to feel worse.”

  “Lizzy?” Jane's muffled voice asked, from within the bathroom.

  “I'm right here,” I assured her. “You going to let me in or what?”

  “No,” she paused. “Can you steal me something to drink though? Water, maybe?”

  “I'm on it,” Charlie murmured, turning on his heel and disappearing.

  “You should know that I told Charlie, by the way,” I said, wincing, and leaning my head against the door. “Before you argue, just know that it's better that I told him. This way, we've avoided bathroom lines and the prospect of you being MIA.”

  “Lizzy,” she moaned. “Oh, this is mortifying… kill me, really.”

  When Charlie returned, she unlocked the door slightly and let me roll the water bottle in (as well as Advil, for good measure), before quickly closing it and muttering embarrassed apologies to our host through the door.

  Charlie said it was nothing, of course, and continued to stand by my side, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. I really appreciated how caring he was being. It said a lot.

  Unfortunately, a host can go missing only for so long. A short time later, Carolyn Bingley weaved down the corridor, impatiently tapping her heels. “God, Charlie, where have you been? Some people are leaving and you're not even around to say goodbye.”

  She stopped in her tracks, and glared down at me, eyebrow raised in question.

  Charlie sighed, gesturing toward Empress Bingley herself. “Lizzy, this is my older sister, —”

  “We've met,” I interrupted, smiling cheerfully. “Carol, isn't it?”

  “Carolyn.” She rolled her eyes, resting her hand on her hip. “Honestly, Charlie —— what's going on?”

  “Nothing that really concerns you, Carol.” I squinted up at her for good measure. “I mean, this definitely isn't your party, is it?”

  Carolyn reddened slightly. “Excuse me?”

  “Hey, Lizzy.” Jane was knocking, and I immediately turned toward the door. “I think I'm feeling better. Or —— better enough to leave the bathroom, anyway — but you might need to follow me around with a wastebasket.”

  “That's
disgusting,” Carolyn sneered, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “No problem,” I assured my sister, ignoring Carolyn. “Just tell me when, okay?”

  She needed 10 more minutes anyway. When these had passed, I had shooed the Bingleys off, mostly out of feeling sorry for keeping Charlie away from his own party (and partly for getting Carolyn the hell away). I was really getting tired from it all, and about five minutes later I felt myself nodding off.

  This was, of course, before Will Darcy scared the living shit out of me when I awoke, towering above me, brooding as always. I flinched violently, and hit my head against the handle, seething.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  I rubbed my head fiercely, glancing up at him. “What?”

  “I just wanted to ask you how my sister is,” he said, plainly. He looked away for a split second, and shoved his hands into his pockets. God, he was awkward.

  “Your sister?” I muttered, still feeling sore. “How the hell should I know?”

  Darcy looked down indignantly. “You live with her. How's her project coming along?”

  “Project?”

  “Do you really have to repeat everything I say?” He rolled his eyes. “It's like you're suffering from short-term memory loss.”

  “No, I just have no idea what the fuck you're talking about,” I muttered, fiercely, glaring at him.

  “Her project —— the one she had to finish tonight,” he emphasized, growing exasperated. And, just as his expression looked doubtful, something clicked in my mind — Georgy had never arrived at Charlie's party.

  “The one she missed this party for?” I egged on, carefully, and Will nodded. I cleared my throat, avoiding his eyes. “She's been working on it really hard. She's almost done the researching phase, but she's kind of knee-deep in books.”

  “It's for one of her theology classes, isn't it?”

  “… Yes.”

  The hell?

  Luckily, Darcy sensed that there was nothing much to talk of after this, and quickly left, much to my relief. But I couldn't believe his sister. Georgy had played a double-lie. I sighed, leaning my head against the doorframe. It seemed unlike her. I didn't know whether to be concerned or confused. Or both.