by Ari Rhoge
“Nothing, Jane. Will just drove me.”
“Yeah, I got that,” she said, impatiently. “But, um, can you clarify how you left with the Gardiners and came back with Will Darcy, of all people?”
I winced at her. “SparkNotes version?”
“No,” Jane said, narrowing her eyes. “Full-text version.”
I sucked in a breath. “We drove through the Carolinas, I heckled Benny into visiting Georgy up near Ashcroft, the Gardiners went off to Myrtle, I stuck around with the Darcys. You called, and Will refused to let me not let him drive me.” I frowned, drumming a finger against my mouth. “That's… pretty much it. If you got that. —— Because my wording is a little shitty.”
Jane was looking upward, attempting to process information. She repeated several things back, and I nodded. She finally scowled. “That was SparkNotes. Definitely SparkNotes.”
“Tough shit,” I muttered, leaning my head back against the wall. I was suddenly grateful that I had gotten all phone calls out of the way. The Gardiners had been called off the bat.
“Who are you talking about?” Kit asked, curiously, craning her neck past her twin's shoulder.
“Nobody,” Jane murmured, waving a hand. “Some guy we know. It's not important.”
“Was it the one Lizzy was hugging by the elevators?” asked Lydia, innocently, and I gasped. She smiled slyly. “You know. Tall. Lanky. Less-than-clean scruff, but kind of pulls it off from a distance?”
My mouth was hanging open, and Jane thoughtfully pushed a finger under my chin and closed it.
“We see all,” Kit said, ominously, wiggling her fingers at me. She dropped her hands. “Well, actually, you just happened to be walking to the waiting room and we were running up from the cafeteria. Rubber noodles didn't agree with Lyddie. She spent half an hour in the bathroom.”
“Kit,” Lydia said, hotly.
Marin snorted.
But Jane didn't let that distract her. “What exactly is going on between you and Will Darcy?” she asked me.
“I was thanking him,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “He didn't have to drive me —— and he spent, like, 11 hours on the road, just to get me here.”
“He wants to get some.”
“Lydia, be quiet,” Jane said, stoutly. “But why?”
“I just told you. He wanted to drive me.”
“Yes, but —” Jane struggled for a reason behind her logic. “— But he's Will Darcy.”
“So?” I said, kind of astonished at how quickly I had jumped to defensive. “Aren't you all for seeing the good in people, Mother Theresa?”
“Not after what he did to Georgy and Wickham,” Jane snorted, doubtfully. “You definitely convinced me of that man's character.”
“Well, I was wrong,” I murmured, tracing circles on my jeans. I wouldn't look at her, and she knelt a little lower to make eye contact, her brows knitted together in confusion.
“Lizzy?” she asked, tentatively. “What's going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on, Lizzy,” Lydia whined, leaning her elbows against her knees. “This has been one of the more miserable days of our lives. Give us a reason to gossip.”
“You're making a big deal out of it,” I said, shrugging. “He just dropped me off.”
“So, you're friends?” Kit asked.
“Wait a minute,” Marin finally spoke up, her eyes narrowed at me. “Darcy.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, the jerk-off who trashed your book?”
“What?” cried Lydia, delighted. “That guy? Dude.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” I muttered, sitting straight up. “Our father is in the middle of a life-threatening surgery, and this is all you can talk about?”
“In our defense, Dad's all we've been obsessing about for the last few hours,” Kit muttered, under her breath. “What good is obsessing going to do when all we can do is wait? This is our way of handling trauma, Lizzy. You don't think I'm scared? Of course I am. We'd just like to think about something else for three minutes, thanks very much. You weren't there when Dad collapsed. You found out about it all much later than we did, and you weren't even in state. So, please don't spin this off like we don't care.”
Jane and I looked up at her, vaguely astonished.
“Don't give her that look,” Lydia frowned, slinging an arm around her sister's shoulder. “Katharine Bennet has her moments.”
I sighed, and looked ahead, trying to avoid my sisters' eyes. I understood them. Really, I did. Waiting gets a little easier when you have something else to occupy your mind. It just wasn't what I wanted to occupy my mind. This whole ordeal with Will Darcy — hell, it was just confusing at best. It didn't help that I kind of still smelled him on the sleeve of my shirt. Creepy, right?
No, not really. It was probably from hugging him. And he had this really subtle, woodsy, clean scent. I liked it. I didn't realize I had my sleeve pressed to my face until Lyddie gave me a look that was all raised eyebrows, and I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat, scowling at the wall in front of me. What the hell is wrong with you? Father, operating table. Health crisis. Possible life-threatening situation. And who are you thinking about? Will fucking Darcy.
Yes, but Will fucking Darcy got me to U of Penn to begin with, didn't he?
You would have made it by bus.
You're such an ungrateful little bitch — it would have taken so much longer.
Don't call me a bitch. This is like a new level of self-loathing.
I didn't even know that I didn't like myself.
Well, you learn something new.
“Lizzy, are you okay?” Jane asked, looking up from her magazine.
“No,” I mumbled, pressing my hands against my eyes. “I'm a bottle of crazy sauce.”
• • •
Recovery is an interesting process. If you're in a hospital, well it's some damn good news. So, when she burst into the waiting room with tears streaming down her cheeks, Mom had accidentally dragged the nurse practitioner with her and one of the residents. The funny thing was that they didn't really look fazed by the maelstrom that is Faith Bennet, which probably means that they've been taken hostage in waiting rooms by various other enthused family members of patients before. Good sports. Mom may have attempted her own end-zone dance, and failed miserably, but we had to give her slack.
This happened a week before. Yes, there was a lot of hysterical sobbing involved, and much more twitching than previously warranted. Mom spent three nights at the hospital by Dad's side. That Saturday, she had to pull strings at his job and run errands, so I warmed the armchair next to his bed for the day, playing dominoes and Battleship, and catering fruit salad, and homemade chicken-noodle soup, and lasagna with green beans, his favorite.
That wasn't to say that the mood had miraculously lifted. I had to blink back several times just when I was looking at him. He was… Jesus, he was ungodly frail. Deathly white, and his cheeks were sallow, and he looked exhausted and thin. They urged him not to speak much, and you couldn't get him excited, but, God bless him, nothing could stop that flicker of a smile from flashing on his face. My father was very grateful. Very aware of his stupidity, very remorseful for the pain he had caused us, but also very grateful for a second chance.
He had collapsed in our house after a cleaning session to Kit's blaring iTunes. And he's a sick man. Really, he is, because he got a huge kick out of telling me that the song playing at the time was that Blinded by the Light cover by Manfred Mann.
“Wow, Dad. Only you,” I muttered, aligning a domino by his abandoned lunch tray. He arched an eyebrow at me, and smiled. “Seriously, don't tell me anything more about it. I wish I was there — but, still, it's a little bit fucked up.”
“Elizabeth.”
“Messed up. Sorry.”
He took my hand across the bed and squeezed it, and I looked up at him. His eyes were glassy. “I'm sorry.”
“What?” I asked, softly. “Dad, come on.”
; “I'm so sorry.”
I looked at him, then had to look away, dabbing at my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I laughed. “God, I thought I had stopped the weepy phase, but there it goes again. —— Dad, I don't want to talk about it anymore.”
“Fair enough,” he murmured, craning his neck. I noticed that he looked uncomfortable, so I adjusted his pillow for him, and he patted my hand in thanks. When I sat down again, he smiled. “My Lizzy's such a strong girl.”
I shook my head and looked up at the dangling IV chords, the steadily beeping monitor. “No,” I muttered, folding my arms. “No, your Lizzy's a bit of weakling. A dumbass, actually.”
“Hey,” Dad warned, quietly. “That's my girl you're talking about.”
I smiled, shifting a domino. “Hey, is there a four? I saw it a second ago.”
“Right next to the seven.”
“Oh, yeah,” I murmured.
“I'm glad your mother was finally able to leave,” Dad sighed, settling a hand on his chest. “This environment is very conducive to her hysteria. Maybe you may have noticed.” When I agreed, he sighed gloomily. “I hate hospitals. I really, really hate hospitals, Lizbear. I have these fine surgeons to thank for the fact that I'm still breathing, but, still, I've always stayed away. Actually, St. Mary's was tenfold worse.”
“Yeah —— I was surprised when I heard you had been transferred.”
“Your mother's doing,” Dad said, fondly. “I didn't even know that we knew any cardiologists. Especially at U of Penn, of all places. Your mother told me he pulled some kind of favor. He was at a convention in Pittsburgh. Wheeled around straight for me.”
“How come?” I asked, curious.
Dad looked puzzled. “I can't remember what your mother told me.”
I shook my head. “Don't stress yourself. I'll heckle her later.”
“Go easy on her,” Dad said, softly. “She's a trooper, and I love her very much.”
“That's always nice to hear,” I replied, smiling.
Dad grinned and laid his head back down, his eyes sliding closed. It was clear that he wanted some rest. I took his tray, and pressed a kiss against his cheek, drawing the covers up around his waist until he teased me about it and called me 'Nursey' in a way that was nothing short of patronizing. Then I left his room and promised to be back in 20 minutes — from the cafeteria, because I had forgotten to eat anything the entire day.
• • •
Early April in any intercity airport was, quite frankly, the seventh circle of hell. It was the end of that sweet, caramel-filled week called Spring Break, the mother of all shitfits for any overprotective parent. As a result, the terminals were jammed with uniformed high-school kids, and gaggles of teens and college students very apt to staying true to the What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas marketing catchphrase. Thankfully for Fitzwilliam Darcy, he had agreed to meet one very pissy Brit outside the terminal. Besides, it was lovely outside, with only one quarter the noise level.
So, when he spied a shaggy redhead fitfully tugging on suitcases, he slid out of his car and helped him stow away the luggage in the trunk, being extremely cautious not to brush hands or hold eye contact, or even suggest a fist bump. That is, if he still wanted to hold on to the ability to procreate. Darcy cleared his throat awkwardly and tugged on his collar, and Charles Bingley II finally made an effort to look at him for the first time in the 10 minutes they had been reunited.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Hi, Will,” Charlie said, amiably.
Wham!
A fist had connected with a jaw, and Will Darcy, in his stunned state, began to think that it was his car that was responsible for the bout of bad luck with physical violence. Because he had gotten slapped in front of it only four months ago.
24
—
Knocking Me Sideways
Will Darcy was pretty sure he had whiplash, but, thankfully, his former best mate was willing to drive. Of course, he wasn't exactly sure how they were going to get across the Walt Whitman Bridge with his SUV in one piece — Charlie seemed manically eager to dent the Lincoln.
“Do me a favor —” Charlie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, looking straight ahead. “— I want you to imagine the biggest mistake in history. —— Just picture it, okay?”
“Charlie.”
“Do it.”
“Do you have to be such an asshole?”
“Hey.” Charlie lifted a finger. “Our agreement still stands. You dicked me over by ruining my relationship and I still have three more minutes of shitting on you.”
“But it's been two hours.” A scowl, then a sigh. “Goddamn it, fine. I'm picturing it.”
“Wonderful,” Charlie grinned. “Hit me — what's the biggest mistake in history?”
“I'm between those guys on the Titanic being all 'meh' about the iceberg and —”
“No.”
“Okay, that, or Hitler's father forgetting to wear a cond—”
“Wrong.”
“I guess he could have pulled out —”
“Stop.” Charlie winced. “I was going to say you, but now I'm so disgusted that my insult isn't even meaningful anymore.”
“Charlie,” Will said, thoughtfully. “I have to be honest. You've called me a motherfucker, an asswipe, a shithead, and, questionably enough, a whore, all in the last 45 minutes. This was after you punched me in the face. The only thing meaningful about this ass-kicking is the fact that I let you kick my ass.”
“You think you don't deserve it?” Charlie said, bitterly. “Jesus Christ, Will. I still love her. I really do. I don't even know why I'm back in the city. There's no way that somebody as lovely, as wonderful as she is would actually still be available,” he sighed, miserably. “And, even if she is, the chances of her even looking at me after the way I behaved are hopelessly slim.”
“You don't know that,” Darcy argued back.
“Oh, please,” Charlie muttered, clearly upset.
Will sighed. “Are you going to forgive me at some point? —— You could have chosen not to listen to me.”
Charlie shot him a death glare, his bright eyes narrowing. Will apologized. It was an underhanded attack. He and Carolyn had practically cornered Charlie into making this decision, carping at Jane for weeks.
“You're a prick,” Charlie snapped. “You don't even understand what the last few months have been like for me. You have no idea.”
“I'm just saying,” Will mumbled, resting his hands in his lap. “I don't know how many times it's supposed to take me to let you know how sorry I am. I've been tortured enough for it. And you weren't even here when Lizzy Bennet slapped me across the face.”
Now Charlie was all ears, eyes wide. “Sorry?”
He sighed, sensing a needed explanation. “She found out about my interference with you and Jane. Screamed at me. Slapped me. Humiliated me.”
Charlie paused in thought. “I love this girl.”
“Hey, me too,” Darcy muttered, under his breath.
Again, inhumanly wide eyes. “What?”
Will rubbed his face, sighing. “Forget it. I'm so damn exhausted. And, Jesus, Charlie — stay in the lane!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, red brows knitted together in confusion. “Okay, am I imagining things? Or did you just admit to loving Lizzy Bennet?”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“No, you weren't.”
“I know.” Will slumped in his seat, watching cars pass by.
“Holy fucking shit,” Charlie said, laughing. “Thank God.”
Will looked over curiously, trying to gauge this reaction. “Excuse me?”
“Well, honestly,” he said, with a slight grin. “What good is it being in love when you don't even realize you're in love in the first place? I'm glad you actually figured out that you were smitten with her. You don't wear denial too well. Not your color.”
“You knew?”
“Everybody knew. Except you. I think I started to have my suspicions
just before Thanksgiving, and then it was pretty much a lock after that. Maybe it's because I know you too well. I know how tense and awkward you get when you really like somebody. It's kind of funny, though, because your version of flirting kind of reminds me of constipation. Or unbearable pain. Like a root canal.”
Will Darcy's mouth hung open in shock.
“Did you tell her how you feel?”
“… In a way.”
“Damn. You mean in your way,” Charlie said. “Was this before she slapped you?”
“Yes. Maybe during. I can't remember.”
“Dear Lord. Say no more.”
Will smiled crookedly, turning back to the window. “No,” he murmured. “I don't think things are quite that hopeless yet. She visited Georgy last month, and, well, things were nice. More than nice. I mean, I think I have a shot, at least,” he sighed, slouching. “Whatever. If she doesn't want me, I'm okay with that.”
“No, you're not.”
“I know. But I'd rather be her friend than not have her in my life at all,” he said, softly, tracing shapes on the windowpane. “I don't think I could handle that.”
Charlie watched him, and sighed. “Will —”
He looked over suddenly, interrupting him. “By the way, you should know something. It's about Jane's father.”
• • •
“What a long winter.”
“You have no idea,” I murmured, sprinkling a pinch of salt into the garden salad, another half-assed addition for dinner. Jane smirked, and checked on the roast chicken in the oven, and the scent wafted through the room.
One of the benefits of being back home for the past few weeks was having a fully stocked kitchen. As a result, we usually got tapped for dinner duty, but it wasn't much of an issue. We were enjoying home. We were enjoying Dad's recovering health, and old family squabbles, and spring just on the periphery. So far, April had just brought on a slew of showers. We would usually dash inside laughing, wringing water out of our hair. Jane made an effort to buy freshly cut tulips from the market two miles away. She took to wearing sundresses. It was cute. Leave it to Jane to bring seasonal bliss up a notch.