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

by Ari Rhoge

  There was a lengthy pause, then a curt reply — “fine. That's fine.”

  His cousin smiled slowly. “It doesn't bother you at all that I'd be alone with her…”

  “Why would it bother me?” asked Darcy, positively aloof.

  “See, the thing about these girls from out of town,” baited Rich, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt. “They're so easy to take under your wing, you know? Maybe I'd even ask her out to dinner. I think she likes me — what do you think? I think I'm a pretty attractive, sharp-minded guy.” He straightened the edges of his jacket, and trilled off an atrocious English accent. “We'd get along famously — wouldn't we, old chap?”

  “I think you're an imbecile,” Darcy clarified, sharply, avoiding his cousin's eye. “But you can do what you want, Rich. I don't care.”

  Rich nodded understandingly, and did his best to look unaffected. He popped his lips boredly, stared at the ceiling, counted tiles, attempted to think about the weather. Then he promptly gave up, and blurted out, “you are such a fucking liar!”

  Darcy was about to contest this when Elizabeth Bennet could be heard turning just at the corner, mumbling a string of expletives. She was wearing worn jeans and a tee, and was shuffling, barefoot, down the hall. She barely greeted them before she tugged a pair of flip-flops out of her oversize bag. “Hold this,” she said, quickly, hurling the pair at Darcy. He caught one, and dropped the other, reaching beneath an armchair for it.

  By the time Lizzy had wrestled her hair into a bun, dug out her cell phone and rested her shades up at the top of her head, Rich was making a big show out of examining his watch and impatiently holding open the metallic doors of the nearest elevator. She apologized, and entered after him, Darcy following suit. She had even forgotten that she was barefoot until he handed her pair of bright-yellow flip-flops back to her wordlessly. She mumbled a 'thank you' and slipped them on.

  “We should probably get some coffee in you,” advised Rich, punching in a number. “Your motor skills rival those of the living dead.”

  “That would be fantastic,” she murmured, yawning against her fist. She perked up suddenly. “Oh! Do you know if Charlotte's coming?”

  “Afraid to brave the day with just the Darcy–Fitzwilliam cousins?” Rich said, grinning slyly. When she rolled her eyes, he explained, “I think my aunt invited her over. Mostly because she needs an audience there to boast to about her past accomplishments, and the spectacular landscape all around her. You should be thankful we got you out when we did.”

  “I'm very thankful,” Lizzy assured. “I just feel sorry for Charlotte.”

  “Well, she's here for a reason, isn't she?” Darcy said, coolly, meeting Lizzy's eye when she glanced sharply at him from over her shoulder. “You really don't have to look at me like that. I know that Charlotte wants a teaching position. —— I don't think there's anything wrong with it.”

  “I do,” Lizzy muttered, quickly. The elevator doors opened at the lobby and she stepped out.

  A quick run to a corner Starbucks 20 minutes later mitigated Elizabeth Bennet's comatose state somewhat. As Darcy made his way toward a back-corner table, armed with their orders, he watched Rich mumble something in Lizzy's ear, and her reactively cracking up. He caught snippets of their conversation, and rolled his eyes when he realized that Rich was babbling about his heroic endeavors in forcing him out of bed that morning.

  “He sleeps kind of like a bear,” Rich re-enacted, hunching over. “All sprawled out, y'know? It's hysterical. He's such a whiny 'five more minutes, Mom' kind of guy.”

  “Not all of us have the morning-person gene,” answered Darcy, curtly, setting the carrier on the table. Lizzy took her order happily, folding her legs Indian-style on her armchair. She took a sip, and winced. “Actually, I have to agree. I'm downright murderous in the mornings. You got the good version of that today.”

  “That's pretty hard to believe.”

  “Well, believe it.”

  “I wonder what would have happened if I made Collins knock on your door instead,” reflected Rich, curiously. “It's good for a future attempt — don't you think? Almost like a crash dummy. But I'm not sure if he would have been as smooth as I was about the whole underwear thing.”

  “You weren't smooth —— you were annoying,” said Lizzy, looking as if she was actually willing herself not to blush. She rolled her eyes, and set her cup aside patiently. “Okay. I was really sleepy, I thought it was Charlotte at the door, and I had banged my knee into the nightstand on my way up. Excuse me for being mildly disoriented and forgetting my pants.”

  “Why are you making such a big deal about it?” Rich said, laughing. “I really don't care. You're such a prude.”

  “Because you're looking at me like you just saw me in my skivvies.”

  “I did just see you in your skivvies.”

  “Can you hand me that?” Darcy interrupted, pointing to the abandoned newspaper at the table beside them. Lizzy leaned over and snatched it, dropping it in front of him. She took a long sip of coffee, and leaned in close, inspecting the weather column. She didn't think twice about the fact that she was two inches from his face. He cleared his throat.

  “Damn, 28 degrees in Philly. —— And it's only December.” Lizzy sighed, leaning back in her chair. “In a weird way, I miss it. I always like cold weather when I'm someplace warm, and warm weather when I'm someplace cold.”

  “We're a nation of fickle individuals,” muttered Rich, into his coffee. “Join the club. We have merchandise now.”

  “I should call up my sisters,” Lizzy murmured, to herself, tracing the edge of the table with a fingertip.

  Rich looked up. “There are more like you? Dear Lord… How many?”

  “Four,” Darcy replied, automatically.

  His cousin snorted at him. “Got her entire family tree drawn on your hand, Will? Quick, show me the first cousins.”

  Darcy scowled, and pushed his cup away. Lizzy cracked up. “No, I'm pretty sure he couldn't care less,” she grinned. “He probably just has a super-fine-tuned memory.” Darcy opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and looked down quietly.

  “Not really,” Rich said, mouth turning upward. “He can't even remember the name of the girl I dated for three years.”

  “That's ridiculous. We've been over this three times. It's Tiffany,” Darcy said, clearing his throat.

  “Wrong.”

  “Carla, then.”

  “Oh, just give up,” Rich sighed, rubbing his temples. “You're seriously that proud that you won't admit you forgot?”

  Darcy looked up in thought, suddenly declaring, “it's definitely Sarah. —— That sounds right.”

  Rich grinned widely, brown eyes bright. “That's it!”

  “Really?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “What happened to this nameless girlfriend?” Lizzy asked, taking Darcy's newspaper for herself. When he looked up at her quickly, she gave him an expression between an apologetic smile and a wince, and unfolded it anyway.

  “You mean Tara?” Rich glared pointedly at his cousin. “She fell for one of my best friends.”

  “Oh, that's bleak,” she said, looking up from her article.

  “Yeah, this best friend was a woman, might I add.” Lizzy winced visibly this time, and Rich sighed. “I know.”

  “I don't see why you're riding in the pity wagon,” Darcy mumbled, rolling up his sleeves carefully. “You knew she was bisexual before you started dating.”

  “I like that he remembers her sexual orientation and not her name,” Rich muttered, to Lizzy, pointing. “How messed up is that?”

  “You're probably the same way,” Lizzy said, laughing, and Darcy cocked his head at this rare instance of her defending him. She met his eye across the table, and her glance shifted to the back of his cup. Then she brightened, and snatched it away from him. He gaped at her.

  “You're so grabby,” Rich said, laughing.

  “I'll give it back in a second,”
she murmured, eyes squinted at the fine print in the back of Darcy's decaf. “I always read these.” She pointed deliberately to the itty bit of paragraph under the heading The Way I See It #204. “I collect quotes, so these tend to come in handy. They're on the back of every cup.”

  Rich looked at the back of his own cup, made a face, and set it aside. “Mine's some shit about education. Let's hear Will's.”

  “Hmm,” Lizzy skimmed through, trailing the text with a finger. “You can choose between being a victim of destiny or an adventurer who is fighting for something important,” she finished, narrowing her eyes. “Paulo Coehlo.”

  “The Alchemist,” Darcy said. Lizzy looked at him, so he clarified, “I read one of his books.”

  “I can't deal with that shit at nine o'clock in the morning,” Rich complained, slumping in his seat. “I don't like preachy motivation with my coffee. What's next? You must be the change you wish to see in the world,” he declared, emphatically, clutching his chest.

  “Don't knock Gandhi,” Lizzy warned.

  “You're just not a very motivated person,” said Darcy, ducking artfully when his cousin flicked a tattered piece of used napkin at him. It bounced off the back of his chair and right in front of an elderly woman at the table behind them. Will cleared his throat, and apologized, reaching across to retrieve it. Lizzy snickered.

  “Wait a minute,” Rich said, suddenly realizing something, and raising an eyebrow at Lizzy. “You collect quotes? What the hell's the matter with you?”

  “I like being motivated,” she said, cheerfully. “Well, not really. I have a notebook, and it's jam-packed with stuff I've listened to and wanted to write down. You won't find any Dr. Phil or Deepak Chopra in there. It's not my cup of tea.”

  “Cup of coffee,” Will said.

  “That's pretty weird,” Rich teased. Lizzy rolled her eyes, and reached over toward her bag, digging through it. She pulled out a purple spiral notebook and clunked it right in front of Darcy, who looked up at her apprehensively. She urged him to open it, and so, he did.

  He rifled through a couple of pages and realized that about three quarters of the notebook were completely filled with her tiny neat scribbling of quotes. All sorts of them. Ones from films were prevalent, along with song lyrics, and those of comedians, actors, and political figures. The margins were practically brimming with them. Darcy found a particular one by Mark Twain and the corners of his mouth twinged upward.

  “I thoroughly disapprove of duels,” he read. “If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.”

  Rich made a face. “Okay, also not something I'd like to hear with my morning coffee.” He took the notebook from Darcy and leafed through, raising an eyebrow. “You can tell a lot about a fellow's character by his way of eating jellybeans — Ronald Regan. —— Lizzy, what the fuck?”

  “I like that one,” she defended. “It makes me smile.”

  “You have a ridiculous amount of U2 lyrics in here,” he mumbled, flipping a page. “And Dave Matthews. —— It's almost sad.”

  She snatched the notebook back, and glared. “You don't have to be an asshole about it. You're the one who asked.”

  “Don't get me wrong — it's cute in an exponentially pointless and time-consuming way,” Rich said, dully, but Lizzy just rolled her eyes.

  Darcy asked to see it again, and she handed it back. He revisited ones she had starred, most of which by Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson. He spent the next couple of minutes reading in silence before his cousin interrupted.

  “Okay, my young'un philosophers,” Rich said, getting up from his seat to stretch. “Let's blow this popsicle stand. I already reserved three tickets at Pickwood, and they are not going to waste.” When nobody felt like budging, he sighed. “I mean it! Trash your coffees, please and thanks.”

  • • •

  Pickwood Theme Park was one of those rare slices of land that hadn't been demolished and replaced by shiny new condos, as you would often expect of parks that have been looming around in California since the 1970s. The fact that Rich and Darcy had spent childhood summers there was kind of cute, too, but it gave me the impression that I was treading on some well-tracked nostalgia here — not that Darcy would let on. In fact, the Ferris wheel alone had him looking pretty green. We had to bypass that straight from the beginning.

  “It's not like a corkscrew rollercoaster or anything,” I murmured, waiting with Rich as Darcy was at a kiosk up ahead, buying bottled water. “I think he's just being paranoid.”

  We had been at the shoddy theme park for a little over an hour, and it reminded me of a knock-off, poorly recreated version of Coney Island back in its heyday. It was kind of adorable in all its mediocrity, and the weather was warm, and I was enjoying Richard Fitzwilliam's company. Maybe even Darcy's. It was hard to say. He was being remarkably… nice. Selectively mute, perhaps, but there had been no crossfire of insults and comebacks. Maybe we had built a bridge and walked over it. Or maybe Richard had that mediation effect like Jane, that knack for being a catalyst for peace.

  Thinking about Jane sent a rush of homesickness, deep in the pit of my stomach. I tried to ignore it, and Rich distracted me.

  “Hoh, boy, you're going to feel bad in a second,” Rich explained, grinning secretively. “It's not that he's paranoid. Will actually had a full-blown childhood incident.” He pointed out across the maze of rides, out to the looming Ferris wheel in the distance. “See, that thing is really shitty and mangled. The day it got jammed, Will was 13 and visiting the de Bourghs with Georgy here many summers back. He was at the very top. Nearly scared him to death. I think they were stuck for an hour.”

  “God,” I muttered, folding my arms. I couldn't even imagine what fear of heights could be sparked from that. And I hated Rich for actually managing to make me feel like a shithead. “That's terrible. Imagine how Georgy felt.”

  “She was five,” a deep voice said, starting me. Will Darcy had joined us again as Rich was explaining, and he handed a bottle of water to his cousin. He was smiling ironically. “Georgy was five years old and she puked on me. Not that I blame her — she was petrified. And now I have a really embarrassing phobia as a souvenir.” He was pensive for a moment, glancing out toward the rides.

  “Elevator shafts,” I suddenly blurted out. Darcy stared at me peculiarly and I cleared my throat. “I'm terrified of empty elevator shafts. Sometimes I have dreams that I fall into them and they never end. I never rode in elevators until I was about 12.”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better about being scared shitless about a tame amusement-park ride?”

  A pause, then, “is it working?”

  “Kind of,” Darcy said, smiling.

  He had a nice smile, too. That was the thing. You get so used to seeing somebody sulk that anything else is something entirely unpredictable. At that moment, I probably found him good-looking for the first time in a couple of months. He was relaxed and the light was hitting his eyes strangely, and the longer I thought about it the more uncomfortable it made me. I cleared my throat, took a sip of water, and asked what we were going to do next.

  “I have no idea,” sighed Rich, leaning forward on his knees. “I planned up until Pickwood, and I'm starting to realize just how crappy all the rides are. It's so different when you're a kid. They did have a pretty bitching House of Mirrors back in the day, if you're still in.”

  “It sounds groundbreaking, Richie,” Darcy sighed, taking a seat between us.

  “Richie?” I repeated, cracking up. When he cast me a strict warning glance, I couldn't help but say, “what is this? Happy Days?”

  “Funny,” he mumbled. “As if I haven't heard the Richie Cunningham cracks for the majority of my life.”

  “It could be worse,” Darcy reflected. “People could be calling you Dick. I personally think that's more appropriate.”

  “I personally think you should be quiet.”

  �
�I personally think you should make me,” Darcy muttered, under his breath, taking a sip from his own water bottle. Rich did his best to serve him a death glare, failed miserably, and settled for socking him weakly in the shoulder. Darcy raised an eyebrow, and snorted. I smiled, shook my head, and looked out again toward the horizon.

  Soon enough, we decided to ditch the park and head back to the hotel. It was half past three, and I still wanted to catch up with Charlotte, shower, and have dinner. Maybe settle into bed early with a crappy rental, and phone Jane. I had been avoiding my phone to stave off the homesickness, but it was still coming at me full-force. It wasn't even for my house. It was just for Jane, who arguably was my home. I wanted to know what she was up to.

  But, because I have some freakish affinity for being lulled to sleep by car vibrations, I might have lost consciousness on the way back. I couldn't help it. One moment, Rich was arguing with Will up front about the correct lyrics to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song — and the next, my head was softly padded and I was lying out across the back seat. When I finally woke up, I gathered that we were parked right at the Sheraton's rotunda. I made out, just above my own, Darcy's face looming — quizzical, blue-eyed, and upside down. I sat up very quickly, which unfortunately brought on a dizzy spell I could have easily avoided.

  “What are you —— ow,” I snapped, pressing my hands against my forehead. He knelt down my by side and frowned, and I explained, “I sat up too quickly. It's one of those spinny, vertigo things. Give me a second.”

  “Focus on my face,” Darcy suddenly said.

  “Sorry?” I glanced up sharply, about to laugh. Doing so only made it worse. “Damn it.”

  “Look at me.”

  “How is that going to help?” I argued, clenching my eyes shut.

  “Lizzy, just look at me,” he ordered.

  Grudgingly, I glanced up. I met those absurdly blue eyes, and stared for a good 15 seconds, and he didn't look away. When I tried to, he steadied my head with both of his hands on both sides of my face. I felt strange, and his hands were warm, and my face heated up, but I think this was mostly out of embarrassment. The corner of his mouth pulled upward, and he advised, “oh, and breathe. That would be good.”