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

by Ari Rhoge

  Will looked surprised — he didn't say anything.

  “I might, like, cut it out and glue it between a couple of Emerson's quotes. Maybe Twain's.”

  Will smiled, perfectly aware of what I was avoiding. God, he could look so smug. Was my face beet-red again? It had to be. I babbled on:

  “Maybe Thoreau. Whatever floats your boat. I have a good Hemingway one, but he killed himself. It's not that chipper. Like, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber? It's not that happy.”

  “Lizzy.”

  “You like Atwood, so maybe —”

  “I'm probably going to kiss you now, okay?”

  “Maybe I could even choose —— okay.”

  Then he pulled me close, and I laughed like I knew I would, thinking it all so ridiculous. He apologized, probably because there was nothing else he could do.

  “Don't you want to know my response to the message? Or do you want it in written form?” I asked, skeptically. “Or do you know it already?”

  “Honestly?” Will winced, hands dropping into his lap. “I'm just trying to make the best out of a situation. If you already know that I adore and love you beyond any measure and you're not running in the other direction (or, you know, slapping me across the face) then it has to be a good day. I'm counting my blessings here.”

  “I don't know if that's arrogant or plain stupid.”

  “What about romantic?”

  “It's too stupid to be romantic.”

  Will winced sharply, laying a hand flat against his chest. “I'm hit. Ouch. Ouch.” I laughed, and he grinned, taking my wrist and yanking me forward. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and buried my face into his shoulder as his hands drew wide, comforting circles against my back.

  “This is going to sound kind of corny,” Will murmured against my hair. “But I really like holding you. —— Is that weird? You're so warm.”

  “I love you.”

  Will's arms tightened around me, and I raised my head so I could look at him, hands laced around his neck. He kissed me softly, and murmured, smiling, “can I get that in writing?”

  27

  —

  Epilogue

  Waves lapped up on the dark shore, the spray of foam whipping through the night air. We were so close to the water that I couldn't really understand which sounds were really which — when did the melody from the reception behind me stop, and when did the sound of the current begin? Maybe I was just too out of it. I sleepily watched him carve nonsense into the sand with driftwood, absently tracing shapes and faces. Will glanced over his shoulder and smiled at me, mussing my hair a little.

  “You look totally and completely smashed.”

  “Not true.” I yawned, stretching out on the blanket, hands folded beneath my head. “I always get sleepy on beaches.”

  “Some fun you are,” he murmured, scooting farther across to sit beside me. At some point, our bodies adjusted, and I laid my head in his lap, looking up toward the sky.

  “Don't judge,” I said, laughing quietly. “I don't see you skinny dipping or anything.”

  “It would be inappropriate, don't you think?” Will mused. “My sister's a few feet away. They have therapy sessions for this kind of thing.”

  “Excuses, Mr. Darcy.”

  He grinned, turning away to look at the water.

  I smiled, watching him. It was typical of us to steal away from the party. Pretty hypocritical on my account, too. I've never been one to insist upon changing people, but when I first started seeing Will a year and a half ago, I promised that I would make him less of a social retard (a title he's since fully accepted, by the way). And what happened instead? He made me see the great, inconvenient and beautiful thing about private moments.

  “You suck,” I mumbled.

  Will snorted, and looked down at me, surprised. “Thanks?”

  “Seriously,” I said, laughing. “I can't even be assed to get back to my own birthday party. You stole me away from my family and made me not want to go back. I used to like people before you came along.”

  “That's right — blame the misanthrope for all your troubles,” he muttered, tracing the goosebumps on my arm.

  “Misanthrope,” I repeated, giggling. I didn't know why I found this so funny. It sounded familiar. I reached upward with a hand, brushing something off his collar. He looked down at me and cupped my cheek with his hand.

  “I have a question,” I said.

  “Shoot.”

  “A year ago…”

  “Yeah?”

  I didn't know why I was blushing. Will teased me about. I laughed, and shook my head. “I don't know. I was just thinking about it. I remember when I started feeling different about you. It was after Rosings. And I guess I was just wondering… when did…”

  “When did I?” Will finished, thoughtfully. I nodded. He looked up, and, in thought, watched the water, rubbing the back of his neck. I had the feeling he was about to answer. He looked down, and opened his mouth, then a deep, guttural sound of disgust interrupted us.

  Rich was looming nearby, condescendingly, Georgy by his side, arms crossed tightly over her chest. I grinned up at how silly he looked, his dark hair (in need of a trim) windblown. Georgy was smirking.

  “Just as I suspected,” Rich sighed, drawing himself up. “He's converted her into a hermit, Georgy. Nothing can be done in this case. Diagnosis over. We need to buy them a DVD player to complete the metamorphosis.”

  “Funny.” Will rolled his eyes.

  “Lizzy, your sister's looking for you,” Georgy smiled, kicking some sand absently.

  “Which one?” I murmured, sleepily.

  “The one you shared a womb with,” Rich interjected.

  “Oh, that one?” I laughed, propping myself up on an elbow. “Last I checked she was dancing with Charlie.”

  “Are we talking about the same Bingley?” Rich asked, shrewdly. “Charles Bingley is asleep by the dessert table. On three chairs. Jane's dancing with conscious people now, like me. I think I deserve it… I've commuted the farthest to be here.”

  “Charlie's always been a lightweight,” Will said, distastefully. “And you live in New York now, Rich. You can't play that card.”

  “Still,” Rich sighed, looking out toward the night sky.

  Georgy suddenly seized his arm with excitement, blue eyes, that matched her brother's, wide and devious. “Oh, Rich! Let's go draw stuff on his face. I have Sharpie pens.”

  Rich's grin grew wide. He slung an arm around his cousin and pulled her close, sighing lovingly. “Lord. She's a child after my own heart. Race you.”

  “I'm not going to race you.” She rolled her eyes, black hair whipping against her face with the breeze. She brushed her bangs back impatiently. “What am I, five?”

  His shoulders slumped. Within a moment, Georgy sprang to her feet and sprinted back toward the tented reception, laughing. He muttered under his breath and ran after her, and Will and I watched as they ascended the hill. She tripped him and Rich face-planted into the sand.

  I started laughing, sitting up. I brushed some sand from my dress, and got up, searching around for flip-flops. Will looked up at me, disappointed. “What? You're going back? It's been five minutes.”

  “Sorry, Gramps. There are still some dances that need wrecking. You don't turn 21 every day.”

  Will rolled his eyes, then looked up at me. “Gramps? Seriously.”

  I grinned at him and ruffled his hair. “Big bad law student going to get me for that one?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Come on,” I said, laughing, taking his hand and wrenching him up to his feet. He grumbled something under his breath but then sobered, and we made our way back to the party, sticking out in all its bright, white opulence in the middle of the shore.

  Leave it up to Charlotte to throw Jane and I some big beachside shindig, tented and dimly light and beautiful, and not even show her face. I didn't really blame her. Half of not showing up she blamed on student teaching. Th
e other half was Rich. Because, let's face it, when you're on-and-off-again dating, awkwardness tends to result.

  Yeah. Charlotte and Rich. Crazy, right? They're actually kind of perfect for each other. In the dysfunctional, crazy, I-adore-you-now and I-can't-fucking-stand-you-today sense. Give them time. They'll probably have five kids. Not really. Well, maybe. Who am I to judge?

  “There you are!” Mom flitted over to my side, tossing her hair. She had gotten extensions recently — I didn't really know what possessed her to. Will gave me a look that distinctly says grin and bear it — and I sighed, smirking.

  “Stealing one of the birthday girls away, are we?” she said, scolding Will, and yanking me into a hug. I laughed, and kissed her cheek. Mom actually adores Will. It's really weird. Adores him. She's offered to do his laundry before.

  We live two hours away.

  “No, Mrs. Bennet,” Will said, patiently.

  Dad's pretty friendly, too. In a way, I think he respects Will. He never says it, but it's a way he looks at him. He trusts him. There's a layer of understanding there.

  Charlie, on the other hand? No. I'm not sure why. It's hysterical, though. If you ever want to see the great Charles Bingley II get restless and a little purple-faced, you stick him right in front of John Bennet. Then again, I'm half convinced Dad just wants to see if he can make a millionaire piss himself.

  I spotted Dad all the way at the table, which was cluttered with long-emptied plates. He was talking with Marin, whose shock of auburn–pink hair had gone tame into a lovely, pulled-back chestnut. She kept slapping his hand halfheartedly, probably because he was lurching for a rib-eye. Heart-healthy diets reigned supreme in the Bennet household. Well, unless Mom had a fat day. Or Lydia was PMSing. Or there was a discount on ice cream at Giant.

  The twins were inconspicuously absent, but, honestly, none of us minded all that much. We had finally gotten them separated, which might have been bad or good, depending on the outcome. Kit would be starting her first year at Boston U and Lydia would commute to Temple, which seemed reasonable enough. We wanted to keep her home for the first year — no telling what mischief that girl could do when she's by herself.

  And Marin? Our studious little Marin got herself into George Washington, sophomore year now. At the time, she was visiting on summer holiday. She would in the future, too. No word on whether she's learned to pry herself out of a book yet, but I'll let you know. We half suspect she's going to become a congresswoman. Or something.

  I watched from a distance as Jane came to stand behind her, braiding her hair absently. She caught my eye from across the space, and grinned at me, calling me over.

  “I'll be right back,” I promised, hand slipping out of Will's. He stared at me, wide-eyed and less than thrilled at the prospect of being left with my mother, who wouldn't stop talking about hors d'oeuvres. I laughed, and stood up quickly on my tiptoes, kissing his cheek. “Grin and bear it.” He narrowed his eyes.

  Jane wrapped me in a bear hug when I got to her, smoothing my hair out of my face. “You look so pretty tonight, Lizzy. Glad we wrestled you into a dress? You were dead against this party.”

  “Kinda, yeah,” I admitted, shrugging.

  Dad looked up to where I had run from, snorting. “That poor boy looks like he's suffering from an aneurysm.”

  I glanced across the way at Will, who was nodding tersely at my mother, his hands clasped patiently in front of him. Marin snorted, dryly.

  “I still can't get over you two,” Jane murmured.

  “It's been a year,” I said, laughing. “More, even.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She put her hands on her hips defiantly. “Not really. What about those two weeks late last year when you wouldn't let him into the apartment? And you're not even counting Will's time at Lafayette. It's been scattered months, at most.”

  “You wouldn't let him into the apartment?” Dad scoffed. “Lizzy!”

  “He insulted Philadelphia sports teams, Dad. Sixers I can deal with. But the Flyers? Come on, now.”

  “Point taken. Marty Biron is not to be trifled with.”

  “Still,” Jane sighed.

  You couldn't really blame her, though. Jane's not one to openly swear, but the first time I sat her down at the stoop of the townhouse, took her hand gingerly in mine and admitted what was going on between me and Will Darcy, she practically screamed, “are you fucking kidding me?” Our neighbors didn't appreciate it all that much.

  It might have not been a good time, either, because she had recently discovered Will's part in separating her and Charlie. But she had forgiven him ages ago. In my own words, he was guided by “severely fucked up good intentions and ass biting ego”. It was a universally accepted fact at this point.

  We went through a bit of a spat, actually, because Jane was pissed that I hadn't told her everything after Rosings —— but it's not like she had been that willing to listen, anyway, what with her manic eagerness to turn over a new leaf.

  See, her reaction was funny, though. At first Jane had been shocked, but she had grudgingly admitted that, had she not turned a blind eye, she might have seen the signs earlier.

  “Seriously?” I had laughed, two days after Will and I had gotten together and I had told her everything. “You knew? I didn't.”

  “I didn't know you felt anything for him,” she had muttered back. “I must have missed something, because you were pretty settled in hating his guts. But Will? That boy's probably been smitten with you since Charlie's party. You need to be more observant about how people look at you, Lizzy. He wouldn't stop staring.”

  “I thought that was glaring.”

  “Well, he's not that good at flirting, is he?”

  I smiled, glancing at Jane now. She was watching Will and Mom curiously, her arms crossed over her chest. I shoved at her lightly and she blinked up at me, startled. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I grinned. “Charlie still passed out?”

  Jane looked alarmed. “Sorry?”

  “Rich told me he drank too much.”

  “Rich is a pathological liar. Charlie's right over there,” Jane raised an eyebrow, pointing behind her. Marin and I craned our necks. Charlie was dancing with Brenda Baker, my old co-worker, his red hair mussed and standing up at weird angles.

  “I hate Rich Fitzwilliam,” I sighed.

  “Ooh.” She made a face. “I promised him a dance. Should I take it back?”

  I waved a hand. “He's harmless. —— I think.”

  Will was making his way back to us, as Mom had presently latched herself on to Georgy, who was way too nice to turn her down.

  “Your mother is —” Will tugged at his collar, locked eyes with my father, and cleared his throat. “— A fascinating woman.”

  “Watch it,” Dad warned. Jane grinned, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Why did I get the feeling that you all were watching me this whole time?” Will asked, straightening his tie. He looked at me questioningly.

  “Because we were,” Marin deadpanned. “Sportscaster commentary, actually.”

  “Thank you, Marin.”

  “You're welcome.” She suddenly gasped, taking Dad's hand. “Oh, I love this song!”

  Billy Idol's Dancing With Myself was just starting out, and she was hell-bent on dragging him into a dance. Dad made a pained face. “Heart trouble —— sorry, honey.”

  “That's bullshit,” I said, laughing. “You've been eyeing steak all evening. And we took you bowling last week. You've got it in you.”

  “Yeah, but,” Dad sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your mother will see me, and then she'll expect a dance, and then it's just one great, big mess, after that. It ends with my collapsing, if you didn't realize. If they play Heart next, I'm a lost man.”

  “We could always get you a walker,” Will suggested, pleasantly.

  Dad narrowed his eyes at him, and pointed. “Darcy, I'm starting not to like you.” At that, he rose, and led Marin to the dance floor.

  �
��It got him up, didn't it?” Will murmured, into my ear. I laughed, and he grinned, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind.

  After a while, Charlie showed up, bright-eyed and energetic, insisting upon a dance with Jane. And, with a smile and an enduring eye roll, she left us. I watched them for a couple of minutes, as Charlie bent low to whisper something to Jane and she pulled back, laughing so hard that she had to dab at her eyes. He grinned, and pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. I smiled.

  “I have to show you something.” Will's voice brought me back, just by my ear. I turned into him.

  “Stealing me away again?” I mumbled. “It better be to an arcade. I still want to kick your ass at air hockey. —— Again.”

  Will sighed. “Okay, you got way too competitive at Simon Hurst's birthday party a year ago. And we were supposed to be the well-behaved, American chaperones. You stole the punch and the party favors.”

  “They had ring pops, Will. Do you realize how good those are?”

  He snorted. “Anyway. No arcades, sorry. But I do have a birthday present.”

  “I told you I didn't want anything.”

  “Yeah, but, who the hell ever listens to that?” he suggested.

  “Not you,” I muttered.

  “Not me,” he agreed, taking my hand. “Come on.”

  We disappeared behind the tent, and walked the five minutes back to the parking lot, Will leading me patiently by the hand like I was some five-year-old who might snatch away from him at any given moment. It might have been ridiculous if I hadn't, y'know, actually done that before. Sometimes I can't help pissing him off. It's worth it for the make-up that follows.

  I grinned, following him lightly. He was excited, I could tell, but he was trying not to make eye contact. I watched his profile, smirking. God, I loved him when he smiled.

  I cocked my head. You couldn't really see it, now, but Will had actually had a cut, near his lip, up until a month ago. That had cleaned up nicely. See, that? That was a direct result of finally locating George Wickham. I guess that should be afforded some light for a moment.