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

by Ari Rhoge

  I would really have to exchange cell numbers with her soon. Something was up and I didn't feel like being grilled by her ass of a brother in the future.

  7

  —

  Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part I

  I've decided that Will Darcy is a douchebag.

  And, okay, I realize that making this statement now implies that I actually entertained a thought of him being otherwise at one point — I haven't. But it seems to me that the more and more I spend time with this guy the more points he seems to rack up on the epic douchebagery scale. I think he's aiming for gold.

  Key Components that Have Helped Our Asshole Climb His Way to the Top Within the Last Four Hours:

  1 — Arguing against Charlie's (epically sweet) suggestion to have Jane stay over, on the basis that she might spread something around to poor unsuspecting victims. So, Will Darcy's under the impression that my sister's suffering from the bubonic plague carried over by sewer rats. No big;

  2 — Sulking fantastically when Charlie insisted (while being epically sweet, might I add) that I not drag my slightly tipsy ass on a midnight train excursion back to our home to gather necessities for Jane, in heroic fear of sketchy muggers and rapists and such;

  3 — Sulking even more when Charlie egged Will himself into driving me back instead. Fail;

  4 — Oh, and being a car-stereo Nazi. Billy Joel's Greatest Hits can be endured only for three tracks, and, then it's time to heave ho. I mean, really.

  In the end, Darcy grumbled something unintelligible (a cross between “I'll be outside,” and “fuck my life,”) snatched his keys from the end table, and promptly left the apartment, trying to contain a hissy fit that could rival that of a five-year-old. We all watched onward in vague confusion or amusement. Carolyn was the only one even remotely sympathetic. It's nice to know his fan base has at least one member.

  The thing is, I was obviously not thrilled to have him as my driving companion for the two-and-a-half-hour drive back from Philadelphia — it's 150 minutes of my life I'll never get back. But public transport was sketchy this time of night, and the glossy black Lincoln Navigator parked snugly just at the corner seemed a smidge more reliable. I mean, he had managed to get the rental from the airport to Charlie's in one piece, hadn't he? Maybe permanent moodiness didn't translate to reckless driving.

  Thankfully, this was the case. As we sat in unbelievably awkward silence and Darcy gunned the engine, we pulled smoothly away from the curb, clicked our seatbelts, and were on our way, two very unhappy members of one party. I stole a glance at him once or twice, and his expression was absolutely fierce.

  Not Tyra Banks fierce, but more along the lines of “I hope my glaring melts the flesh from your face” fierce. I decided to attempt reaching out:

  “Look, I realize that you're pissy about driving me,” I said, frankly, attempting to crank open a conversation. Usually when somebody says something like this, they're hanging on the limb that the other person will grin back at you with something like, “oh, nonsense, Lizzy! I'm happy to drive you. I would never put you at an inconvenience… and my only wish is that your darling twin sister makes a happy, healthy recovery!”

  Yeah… no.

  Will Darcy clutched the steering wheel a fraction tighter, and glanced over at me for the barest second, not even bothering to deny it at first. After a moment, he muttered, “it's fine,” and trained his eyes back carefully on the road, jaw tight.

  This is when I punched the stereo's power button, praying for a distraction. 150 minutes. One-hundred-fifty minutes. Probably more. Billy Joel helped some, until We Didn't Start the Fire was about a minute in.

  “Could you please stop that drumming on the dashboard?” Darcy scowled, glancing over. “It's really annoying.” He changed lanes, weaving in and out of traffic.

  “I'm barely making any noise —— do you have sonic bat hearing?”

  “It's a fingernails-on-chalkboard principle,” Darcy stated, sharply. “Please stop.” And so, I stopped tapping my fingers in rhythm to the song's bass line. Sometimes you just have to compromise.

  “Fine. But you've got to have something better than Billy Joel,” I muttered, taking his iPod, from its nook beside the gearbox, to peruse its contents. Darcy whipped his head back at me fiercely, attempting to snatch it back, keeping an eye on the road.

  “Do you mind? That's mine.”

  “No, I got that. It's engraved with a 'to' and 'from' on the back.” I flashed the back at him, grinning. “That's adorable… your younger sister bought you an iPod.” I scrolled through his artist selection.

  “Are you in the habit of stealing personal belongings?” he said, grimacing, his hands settling back on the wheel. “It's really rude. —— It's beyond rude.”

  “You would know 'beyond rude',” I muttered, ignoring the heated stare he fixed me with next. “You know, I don't think you get much use out of Georgy's present. You can always tell by the back — if it's scratched up or not. Yours is practically perfect.”

  “I usually keep it in a leather case,” he vilified, sitting straight. “I lost mine on the flight. Can I have it back now? We can compromise on a song. Or even no music. I honestly don't care. Just give it back.”

  Darcy's like one of those uptight classmates at recess that would freak out if you even took a glance at one of his action figures. I could picture seven-year-old Darcy going psycho on account of Captain America. Shitfits would be thrown.

  “The 'no music' option is ruled out,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, usually I can go without, but I've got to be honest when I say that this car will implode with the awkward silence that would follow. And I'm not good in awkward silences. In fact, I have temporary Tourette's in awkward silences — it's messy.”

  “Good to know,” he mumbled, exasperated.

  “Hey, you have Citizen Cope,” I said, smiling slightly, continuously scrolling. “And Bowie. And AC/DC. But I'm starting to think that Georgy went control-freak on your iTunes and did it for you. Because I spotted some Natasha Bedingfield, and you don't seem like a fan.”

  “Are you honestly giving a musical analysis of my playlists?” he snorted, incredulous. “You realize that's ridiculous, right? I mean, do you do this with everybody you meet?”

  “You mean steal their belongings? Or invade their iPods?”

  “Both,” he answered.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  He shook his head, glancing back at me. “Well, maybe my sister's immune to invasion-of-privacy, then. She seems to like you well enough.”

  I rolled my eyes, settling back into the seat. “Georgy's normal and tolerant. It's more than I can say about other people.”

  “Am I supposed to read into that?” Darcy asked, carefully, adjusting his rear-view mirror.

  “You can if you want.” I yawned into my fist, watching cars pass. “It's open for personal interpretation. But I don't think you're going to cry yourself to sleep every night if you find out that I don't like you.”

  A second passed where he looked at me abruptly, eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, damn. Cat out of the bag… look, there it goes.”

  “I won't lose sleep over it — don't worry,” Darcy muttered, breaking eye contact. After a second or so, he retaliated, his voice a little softer. “I can't believe you just went out and said that. Usually people keep things like that to themselves.”

  “You don't.”

  “I never said anything like that,” Darcy emphasized, raising a hand.

  “You're right,” I said, wincing, and drumming my fingers against the dashboard again. “You like artfully despising people. You're all for the subtlety in glares and sulking and moody pouts. Oh, and one-word answers — don't forget those. They're golden.”

  “Wow, thanks for summing me up on the basis of two evenings,” Darcy said, rolling his eyes, and grimacing. “I love finding out that I'm composed of one shallow layer, and this coming from a girl who's only known me for a handful of hours. How much do I owe for thi
s psychoanalysis?”

  “Free of charge, and you're welcome.”

  We didn't speak to each other for over half an hour after that, but I could tell he was clearly on edge. We had moved beyond awkward, and into open, mutual glowering. But he did keep looking at me every couple of minutes. It was unnerving. I could feel his eyes on my face, expectant, and settled for watching traffic lights stream by.

  When we finally took the appropriate exit, it dawned on me that I was going home. Y'know — home. Where Georgiana Darcy was, supposedly, according to Darcy's secured opinion. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sensed another bailout coming on, and quickly asked Darcy for his cell phone.

  “What? Why?” He eyed me sharply. “Something to keep the filched iPod company in your collection?”

  “Funny. —— No, listen, I need Georgy's number,” I mumbled, rubbing the back of my neck. “I want to ask her about something. I left the stove — the iron — on.”

  “Well, which one was it?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “The stove or the iron?”

  “I think the iron.”

  God, Georgy owes me.

  Sighing, he fished his Blackberry from within his blazer and tossed it my way. I scrolled through his contacts until I highlighted her name, and called. Two rings later, she answered, slightly breathless but definitely not distressed. In fact, she was with company.

  “Georgy?” I asked, tentatively.

  “Lizzy?” she answered, clearly puzzled. “Why are you calling from my brother's phone?”

  “Hey, guess who has a more relevant question? Go on, guess,” I muttered, as we slowed to a stop at a traffic light. Wonderful, now Will Darcy could gawk critically at me. I looked discreetly back at him, and he looked away. “So, how's studying going? You know — at home.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Georgy sighed. “Lizzy, I'm sorry. I have an explanation for skipping the party, I promise.”

  “No, I know that,” I said, laughing for good measure, eyeing Darcy quickly. “I just want to know if you're in the kitchen right now. Just curious.”

  “The kitchen?” Georgy sounded pained. “Lizzy, I'm not at the house. I'll probably be there in a couple of hours.”

  “See, I left the iron on, so I was hoping you could turn it off in the kitchen,” I emphasized. “I mean, I'm coming home now with your brother, anyway, and I don't want the house to shoot up in flames…”

  There was a murmuring of, “iron? You didn't leave any —” then a pause, then a shrill, “you're what! No. Lizzy, no — Will thinks I'm home.”

  “Don't worry about it,” I told her, quickly. “I'm just grateful you turned off the iron before you went out for a quick run.”

  “Quick run?” Georgy echoed. “At RiteAid? For a toothbrush. Tell him that —— it's plausible. Mention feminine products — he won't argue. You think it'll work?”

  “I think so.”

  “Lizzy, I owe you so much,” the younger girl cried, gratefully. “I promise to explain as soon as I can.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why are you with Will, anyway?” Georgy asked, skeptically.

  “Jane's infecting Charlie's apartment with viral plague and I needed a ride back to our place to pick up some of the essentials.” I paused. “Viral plague probably meaning stomach flu… but, you know. We're most likely spending the night.”

  “Oh, that's awful,” Georgy sighed. “Keep me posted.”

  “I would say the same for you, if I knew you were capable of it — y'know, sharing stuff.” Darcy was preoccupied in changing lanes for a split second, and I found safe boundary for that moment.

  “Ouch.”

  “Well, it was deserved,” I said, shrugging.

  “No, I understand — extremely deserved.”

  I sighed, and ended the call, tossing the Blackberry back into Darcy's lap. He glanced up at me and pocketed it. “Well?”

  “Iron's off,” I murmured, gauging his reaction. “But your sister isn't home. She took a late-night run to RiteAid to buy some things. I won't go into detail. Girly things. Things you insert —”

  Darcy blanched, cut me off quickly, and left the topic distinctly untouched.

  Success.

  • • •

  “I can't believe we're locked out of your own home,” Darcy scorned, towering above me as I crouched down to jam my key into the lock. It budged slightly, but required force. I blamed the dwindling temperature. It had been five minutes since we had parked at the driveway, and I wasn't very keen on staying outside.

  “We are not locked out,” I muttered, pointedly, ramming my shoulder against the door to will it to move. A crack was heard, followed by a whimper. “Okay, that was my shoulder.” I rubbed at it, knowing for sure where a bruise would blossom the next morning.

  “Let me,” he said, attempting, all but shoving me aside and taking grip on my personal set of keys. “You're obviously not strong enough.”

  “Because I drank so much alcohol,” I mumbled, heatedly, shoving him back. “Hey, you mind not pushing me? Thanks much. And get off my keys. They're not yours. You don't have a SpongeBob keychain.”

  “Suddenly personal possessions mean something to you,” Darcy sneered, shoving his hands into his pockets. I glared at him over my shoulder, forcing my weight against the door. “Look, we'll shove it together, okay? Your house is falling apart at the seams.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. We counted from three, and applied dual force against the door. It gave way, and swung sharply, hitting the Picasso print on the left wall of the foyer — and sending Will Darcy flying into me.

  “I think your elbow landed between two of my ribs,” I said, wincing, shoving myself out of the tangle of limbs and ignoring the fact that he smelled good. Darcy pulled away quickly and collected his bearings, straightening the collar of his shirt. He flinched once, but only because I reached over his head to prod the light switch.

  “Relax, Jumper,” I muttered, kicking my flats off by the closet. I was already making a mental checklist of what to get Jane as I walked into the kitchen to search the cabinets. It wasn't until I was elbow-deep in Zicam and varying models of old thermometers that I sensed someone breathing over me, and whipped around. “What the fuck?”

  Darcy looked uncomfortable — which was not uncommon — and shrugged. “I'm just waiting, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I'm all for that, really.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “But don't wait so closely, okay? I need my personal space intact.”

  “Trust me, I don't want to invade your personal space,” Darcy snorted, rolling his eyes. He took particular interest in a photo frame just on the kitchen counter, placed it back, and looked around. “Your house is so —”

  “Cute?” I offered, collecting what I needed and marching toward the bedroom. “Charming?”

  “Small,” Darcy elaborated — and, to my annoyance, he was following me, clearly without anything better to do. For a small fraction of a second, I pitied him. He hadn't even wanted to go in the first place. But the feeling evaporated quickly. This was Will Darcy… I didn't really give a damn.

  Plus, he had just insulted my house, and was standing in the doorway of the bedroom in which nearly a week ago I had bitched about him. I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with that.

  Sighing, I rifled through our dresser drawers and chucked some sweats, clean socks, undergarments and Jane's pinstriped pajamas into an oversize Tiger Schulmann duffel bag. Chewing on my lower lip in consideration, I dug out our stash of travel-size shampoo, a hairbrush, and a pair of sneakers.

  “You just about done?” Darcy muttered, glancing at his watch. “I really don't understand why this is taking you so long.”

  “Look, just chill out.” I rolled my eyes. “Utilize that iPod — take a seat on the beanbag. I don't give a fuck. But we came this way, and I need to get what Jane needs.”

  Darcy grumbled his irritation, but, out of the corner of my eye, I watched him take an experimental seat at the neon-green beanbag by the closet.
He sunk into it, and quickly pulled himself upright. “What the hell is the point of this? It doesn't even support you.”

  “It's comfy,” I muttered, folding clothes.

  “I can feel my ass in the floor,” Darcy stated, standing. “—— Seriously, how much longer are we stuck here?”

  He had taken a hop and a skip from moody silence to bitchy nagging. And neither sat well.

  I rolled my eyes, really wanting to shove him out, but lacking the time. “I just need to pack my stuff real quick, and I'll be good to go. Go wait in the car. Something.”

  But Darcy looked genuinely surprised, then, asking hesitantly, “wait a minute — you're staying over at Charlie's too?”

  “My sister's sick — of course I am,” I stated, plainly, challenging him. As if there was seriously any other option. Besides, it wasn't as if Will ran Charlie's own apartment. In fact, Charlie himself had invited us both. I opened my mouth, then closed it, not knowing why I felt the need to justify this.

  But Darcy just stared at me pointedly, looked away, and left me to finish packing.

  15 minutes later, we were back on the road, and silence reigned once again.

  8

  —

  Sore, Blunt Tongue: Part II

  Getting three hours of sleep kind of has the effect of zombifying your daily actions the very next morning. Every movement is half a step more sluggish, and every facial expression seems forced if you don't have any encouragement from caffeine. Actually, it kind of feels like you were hit with a Greyhound bus and were casually rolled back into your queen-size in the middle of the night, limbs flailing and all.

  I was the first one up in the Bingley household. I had embarked on the courageous hunt for coffee filters in the kitchen's granite marble counters and wooden cupboards. Zombified Lizzy was on the prowl, and all Charles Bingley seemed to have was shitty caffeinated herbal teas.