by Ari Rhoge
“I'm serious. I want a dog.”
The intercom buzzed, and Jane sighed, sliding from her chair miserably.
“Fish were so easy, too!” she called, pressing the button and unlatching the door. “Maybe too easy, though, since, you know, ours are dead. Toilet flush, Lizzy.”
“I'm on it —— who are you opening the door for?”
Jane paused, wide eyed. “Shit, I don't know. Who did I just buzz up? Wow, that's stupid.”
“Fish grief.”
“Definitely fish grief,” Jane said, rolling her eyes. “It's probably Mrs. Hill. She buzzed up at 1:00 a.m. last Tuesday — did I tell you? Had no sugar for her coffee. 1:00 a.m. Ridiculous.”
“You told me,” I smiled, wiping up the mess.
Jane flashed me a smile over her shoulder, and opened the door. There was no audible sound for 30 solid seconds, so I finally looked over, and nearly everything dropped out of my hands.
Will Darcy was standing in my doorway, speaking to a dumbfounded Jane. And I heard, very quickly, very quietly, “please don't hate me for this. It's the only way you were going to open this door.”
“What?” Jane gawked at him.
And suddenly, Charlie Bingley, tired and skinny and wide-eyed, showed up behind the hall, and slid inside the apartment before Jane had a chance to slam the door in his face. She jumped back with a yelp, and I wasn't really conscious of much at first.
One minute Jane was shouting and Charlie was apologizing desperately, and the next he was attempting to embrace her and she was beating her fists against his chest weakly. God, he looked so broken-up, and I just stood there, gawking in disbelief.
Jane had her hands pressed against her mouth. She said, very quietly, “get out. Out.”
“Jane,” Charlie begged. “Jane, please. I came all this way to see you. I've been a moron. An absolute idiot. Just let me talk to you about it.”
“It's been five months!”
“I know!”
“Five months.”
“I know,” he repeated, miserably. Charlie took a step forward, and she took a step back, and I noticed that her eyes were glassy. “Please,” he murmured. “—— I love you.”
“You're lying.”
“You know I'm not.”
Of course, she knew he wasn't.
Jane's shoulders fell, and she stared at him coldly, her eyes watering. She opened her mouth and closed it, and it wasn't very clear who had rushed into who. But then her arms were around his neck, and he held her tightly, like he feared she might break.
“You're an asshole,” she cried.
“I know. Believe me, I know,” Charlie said, pressing urgent kisses all over her face. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
I felt somebody tugging on my wrist, and I glanced up blankly to find that I was already halfway out of the apartment. Will had somehow gotten me to follow him blindly, and I was mumbling really shitty protests.
“No, wait, Jane —”
“She's a big girl, Lizzy,” Will insisted. “Come on. He didn't come all this way for an awkward second party to witness this.”
“I don't want to go,” I mumbled, a little disoriented. “Charlie's here, and everything's a mess, and I left Ben Affleck on the counter, Will.” I made an attempt to move into the kitchen, but he held me back. Honestly, it was just bad pet etiquette.
“Lizzy, you can take care of that later.” A pause. “—— Wait, what?”
“My fish… not the actor.”
Will looked at me thoughtfully. “Why is your fish on the counter?”
“—— Jane, I promise… never, ever, ever…”
“Because he's dead,” I answered, starting to realize that I was getting closer to the doorway and he was asking me questions just as a distraction. It was working. Even though I knew what was happening, it was still working. And Will looked really good with five-o'clock shadow. Smelled good, too.
“You're trying to distract me, aren't you?”
“Maybe,” Will said, smiling crookedly, taking my hand. “Let's go.”
“Okay,” I said, meekly, following him out.
25
—
Out of the Frying Pan
“Who is that?” Will asked, following Lizzy out. She turned out tentatively on the stoop, looking upward in thought. There was a tinkering of a jazz melody sifting off into the distance, interrupted by a woman's smoky voice. Lizzy smiled slowly.
“Nina Simone,” she said, taking a seat at the top step. “Kris, two houses down? —— She plays Nina Simone in the evenings. Sometimes Billie Holiday, but this happens to be Nina Simone.”
“That's so…” He struggled for a word, leaning against one of the posts as she stared up at him. “Retro — I guess. Like you know all of your neighbors' names and mannerisms. It's like Cheers, but not in a bar.”
“No,” Lizzy said, laughing, fiddling with her hair absently. “Actually, most of my neighbors are douchebags. I know two. Kris, one house over, and Mrs. Hill. She's a little senile, so Jane ropes me into helping her with groceries when she can't remember when she bought groceries.”
Will laughed.
“Yeah.” Lizzy cleared her throat. “She actually woke us up at one in the morning a couple of weeks ago to ask for sugar for her coffee. And I guess there is a necessity for sugar in coffee, but who beyond working professionals and students really requires caffeine at midnight?” She laughed. “I mean, she has to be in her mid-seventies, at least. I wonder if she has kids.”
Will looked at her strangely, unable to contain a smirk. She was being extremely chatty — self-consciously so. And she must have realized it because she looked up at him, tinged red, and looked to the side where lamplight was flickering at the corner of the block.
Lizzy looked different. Grinning and challenging and bright-eyed and hopelessly pretty, as always. But something was different about her. He couldn't really put his finger on it. She had taken up an especially recent habit called blushing, lately — maybe that was it. He watched as her hair whipped against her face in the wind, and she hugged her arms to herself. She was inching away a little. And it suddenly struck him how uncomfortable he was making her.
Will cleared his throat. “I know this was really unexpected. Sorry for catching you off guard.”
“Yeah,” Lizzy mused. “But, you know, anything but spontaneity probably wouldn't have worked. Jane would have never agreed to an arranged meeting.”
“She seemed upset.”
“She's happy,” Lizzy said, softly. “She just doesn't know it yet.”
Will sighed, and took a seat next to her. She looked at him quickly and back, and he asked, “you think Charlie's back in?”
Lizzy made a face. “Honestly? Probably not. Jane needs time, and he has to renew some trust. There's some work ahead of that. And my sister isn't stupid — a little naïve, perhaps, but not stupid.”
“But you think they have a chance.”
“I think they have a chance,” she murmured, absently pulling a thread from her jacket sleeve. “I think it helps that they both love each other very much.”
“Yeah. That's usually a good thing,” he said, meaningfully.
Then she wouldn't look at him. And Will couldn't account for the way his fists clenched and unclenched anxiously. He was nervous.
“Will,” Lizzy sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. He sensed more to the address, but she didn't say anything. And as cool headed as he had been since they arrived, he felt rather like a little boy, now, wringing his hands together and waiting for some kind of verdict.
God, why couldn't she just look at him?
“I have this theory,” Will suddenly said, and she looked up at him warily. “Just hear me out, here. I know this may be the wrong thing to say. But I have a feeling that we were able to talk a lot easier when you still hated me.”
“Is that your theory?”
“That's my theory,” he answered, resting his elbows on his knees. She laughed, and shook her head, and he grinned.
“So, judging by the suckish quality of the conversation, and by the number of awkward silences, I'm going to go out on a limb here and maybe guess that you don't hate me anymore?”
“I don't hate you,” she agreed.
“Thanks for the elaboration, Lizzy.”
“You're welcome, Will.”
He muttered something under his breath and she laughed at his frustration. Will straightened. “You're an extremely tough girl to talk to.”
“I think you're doing a pretty good job.”
“Lizzy.”
“Why did you pay for my dad's hospital bills?” Lizzy suddenly asked, clear-cut and straightforward. Will gaped in surprise, and she continued, “why didn't you tell me that you were the reason he got transferred to U of P?”
He couldn't gauge the reaction. She was serious and stony-faced, and he couldn't decipher any other emotion. So, Will sighed, and tugged on his collar fitfully, muttering, “your mother told you, didn't she? I don't know why I expected her not to. No offense to your mother or anything, but she is, after all, a mother —— from what I hear, this is typical.”
“You're avoiding my question.”
“No, I'm avoiding the answer.” He shook his head, none too pleased.
“I have to pay you back.”
“Oh, for God's sake — this is why I didn't want to say anything.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her brow creasing. “Elaborate, Will.”
“Because, Lizzy, you have this skewered, feministic outlook on everything. You would have never let me do it if I offered. And, let's face it — I have connections. If there's an opportunity to put somebody in better hands, why shouldn't I? You were miserable. I couldn't just sit there and watch.”
Oof!
She was hugging him again. And he didn't mind at all. And, through the small cloud of surprise, he was able to register that this was a very nice improvement from a slap in the face. In fact, he wondered if it was going to be a regular occurrence. And then she pulled back, embarrassed at herself.
“I'm sorry — was that like physical Tourette's?” he asked her. “Because it's happening a lot lately. And I want to say it's voluntary, but the look on your face makes me think it's just a spasm.”
“It happened once before.” Lizzy rolled her eyes, crossing her long legs out in front of her. “Don't milk it, Darcy.”
“Your hair smells really nice.”
She looked up at him, then looked away, blushing slightly. And then Lizzy shoved him angrily, and he blinked at her. “Um, what was that?”
“You didn't tell me. You lied. You said Mom called you.”
“Didn't I just explain my thought process behind that?”
“Still,” she muttered, dabbing at her eyes briefly.
“Dear God, you're not crying, are you?”
“Allergies.”
“Do you even have allergies?”
“No,” she said, quickly, standing up.
“Wait a minute,” Will said, laughing. “Where are you going?”
“I want to get back inside,” she said. “It's cold out here.”
“I'll give you my jacket.”
“Don't give me your jacket.”
“You want to get away from me,” he said, slyly, folding his arms across his chest. Lizzy opened her mouth, and rubbed the back of her head, sighing with frustration.
“It's difficult to explain, Will. I'm not even sure if this is entirely about you,” she sighed, kicking some dirt with the toe of her slipper. “Maybe it's just me. See, you should know, I'm a little fucked up. I'm a pretty fucked-up girl.”
“No, I know.”
Lizzy narrowed her eyes, turned around, and hesitated by the doorknob.
“You do realize that they're probably still inside duking it out like World War III, don't you?”
Lizzy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Damn it, that just occurred to me.”
“Is it that horrible to spend time with me?”
“Don't make this about you,” she said, laughing, her brown eyes meeting his.
“You're really uncomfortable around me, aren't you?”
“I'm sorry.” Lizzy took a step down, crossing her arms. “Who are you… Kyra Sedgwick? What's with the interrogation? God forbid I walk inside my home — it suddenly means that I'm uncomfortable?”
“You're fidgeting.”
“Fine, I'm uncomfortable,” she groaned, running her fingers through her hair. “Goddamn it, Will. It's awkward, okay? Everything about you and me is awkward. Has been awkward. If we lived together, we would live at the corner of Awkward Street, in Awkwardville, population two.”
Will paused thoughtfully. “Are you suggesting we live together?”
Lizzy's eyes widened. “No. Is that what you got from that?”
“I'm going to pretend that you're not blushing for the 70th time this evening, and throw a suggestion at you.”
“I'm not living with you.”
“Okay, not what I meant.” Will raised a finger. “Why don't you just say thank you about your dad, and we could go and order takeout, or something?”
A pause.
“As friends.”
“Friends are good,” Lizzy said, slowly.
“Friends are good.”
“Give me a second — I'll get changed,” Lizzy nodded, sprinting up the steps. She paused, then, and lingered on the highest one, leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against his cheek.
Will stared up at her, shocked.
“Thanks for my dad,” Lizzy explained, fleetingly, then disappeared inside.
He snorted, and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, taking a seat at the stoop. God, if this was an evening with her, he would take it. He sighed, and leaned back, his head touching something solid. Will turned around. She had forgotten her bag, and at the edge of an open zipper, a sharp corner of her purple notebook jutted out. Lizzy's quotes. Will smiled to himself.
• • •
Carolyn Bingley was in such a state of crisis that not even the latest episode of Gossip Girl and a dry martini could possibly assuage her nerves. It just wasn't her day. Honestly, could life be any worse? Forget starving children in desolate African tribes — her life was a living hell. A lunch date at a hip downtown restaurant had resulted in absolute scandal when she had found arugula in her garden salad after explicitly alerting the waiting staff that dietary restrictions forbade her to eat arugula. Then, an afternoon Pilates session with Marcus had turned to worldwide tragedy when she discovered that her $3,645 Hermès Birkin bag was missing from her locker. And then, oh, boy, the kicker. She had discovered that her dearest brother, Charles Bingley II, was actually flying across seas for that American tart, Jane Bumblefuck Bennet.
And, honestly, what good was buying your baby brother the latest iPhone when he didn't bother to pick up?
Carolyn rolled her eyes and paced her bedroom fitfully, phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear. If she had known that Charlie had been serious about his plans, she would have attempted to do more than laugh in his face and ask him if he had a cigarette on him. Now, she was pissed. “Bloody idiot,” she snapped, hurling her Blackberry onto her mattress. “I've tried to set him up with plenty of girls, but, no. I can't date that one, Care — she seems too focused on worldly possessions, and I can't be with a woman like that,” she mimicked, shrilly. “It's called class, for fuck's sake.”
She collapsed onto her bed, and sighed, wondering if it was worth the energy to lean over, pick up the remote, and spend 10 minutes searching digital cable for something suitable to watch on TV. Just as she propped herself up on an elbow, Carolyn caught sight of her phone again, and paused. A slow smile spread across her face. “Of course,” she murmured. “He would know.” A quick snatch, a rifling through a contact list, then the steady, monotonous ringing.
“Hello?” Will Darcy's voice was easily recognizable. All deep tones, and slight edge at being interrupted. Carolyn cranked up the charm.
“Will, dear, it's Carolyn Bi
ngley. I do hope I'm not interrupting you.”
“You are… I'm having dinner,” he said, without much warmth. “And isn't it midnight in London?”
“One in the morning, actually,” she said, counting the time on her fingers. “And for God's sake, Will — dinner so late in the evening?”
A sigh. “What do you want, Carolyn?”
“I was wondering if you've heard from Charlie. I can't get in touch with him at all.”
“I haven't seen him.”
“Oh, come on, Will.” Carolyn let out a tinny laugh. “I'm not stupid. You expect me to believe you're not in Philadelphia right now?”
“No, actually — I expect you to hang up. Sometime soon would be nice.”
“Temper, Will,” Carolyn teased, a little too insistently.
She suddenly caught light, girlish laughter from the other end of the phone, and then Will was speaking distantly — “Lizzy, give me that!” A laugh. “You should have ordered it when you had the chance.”
The smile slid from her face, and collected in a puddle. “You're with Lizzy Bennet.”
“I'm having dinner.”
“With Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Carolyn, are we finished?”
Carolyn drummed her fingernails on her nightstand, and felt rather like grinding metal. “Tell me, apart from the cloud of mediocrity and average looks, do you think she would win over your aunt? Maybe it wouldn't mean much to you, but I've personally met Mrs. de Bourgh, and she has outlined what a particular lady in your life would need to possess in order to be considered —”
“Lizzy, for God's sake, stop calling our waiter Billy Bob — he looks nothing like the actor.”
“Darcy!”
“What? —— Oh,” Will sighed. “Carolyn, I have to go. Thanks for calling. Actually, I don't remember giving you my number. Either way, bye.”
Click.
Carolyn squeaked, outraged.
Son of a bitch.
One in the morning or not, she resolved to do something about this. And, after 15 minutes devoted to calling receptionist and personal assistant after personal assistant, Carolyn Bingley was finally able to locate the number of a particular Ritz Carlton hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and leave one sugary message-full-o'-fun with the concierge to deliver to a vacationing, SPF-slathered Catherine de Bourgh.