Love and Loathing

by Gigi Blume

  I didn’t say anything to him. What do you say to a guy who, less than twenty-four hours ago, kissed you like you’ve never been kissed before but there was that little caveat of swearing to hate him forever? Yeah. There were no words.

  He held out an envelope, handing it to me without an explanation.

  “Will you please read this?”

  That’s all he said. Nothing more. Then he walked out the door, leaving me astonished and bristled. He was such a drama llama, making an exit like that. Clearly, he watched too many black and white movies. That thought upset me because I loved black and white movies, too. Ugh!

  The envelope burned at my curiosity for the next few hours until my shift ended. I was acutely aware of its presence in my apron pocket as I set about my chores. Filling the salt shakers, wiping down the menus, doing fifty roll-ups. All those menial tasks gave me ample time to contemplate what might be in that envelope. It was kind of thick. If it was a letter, it was a long one. Who wrote letters in the twenty-first century? I pictured Will at an old writing desk with a quill and ink. It was the best I could do to lighten my mood until I could have some privacy to read whatever it was he couldn’t put in an email. Maybe he knew I’d delete it without opening it.

  Once I left the lodge for the day, I decided to pull into a Home Depot parking lot to open the letter in my car. If it exploded in my face, I’d be able to use their fire hydrant. I gingerly opened the seal and retrieved four sheets of stationary filled with scribblings front and back. A word here and there was crossed out, and since there were no lines, the sentences curved down in a slant and weren’t uniform in size.

  The letterhead was personalized, like he actually wrote letters on a regular basis. Maybe he did use a quill. Will with a quill. The words he used, careful in execution and somewhat formal were as follows:

  From the desk of William Martin Darcy

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet,

  Please don’t think this letter is a repeat of my advances. I suppose by writing you, it would seem that I’m not giving up the hopes and wishes I expressed to you last night. Believe me, I’d rather not drag this out longer than is comfortable for either one of us, but as a matter of principle, I felt I needed to clear the air of a few misunderstandings. I can almost see you roll your eyes as I write this, but please bear with me.

  Last night, you made two incriminating accusations against me. One, I convinced Bing to detach himself from Jane—to put it in your words—played with their emotions and made them miserable. The other grievance you expressed concerned Jorge Wickham. According to your accounts, I stripped him of his dignity and ruined his life, casting him out into the world to live out his days in poverty and obscurity. You make me out as a tyrant.

  Well, if the shoe fits…

  To cast out a childhood friend who was practically family, someone my father loved like a son, who lived with us as a brother would be a pretty crappy thing to do, but it’s not even in the same ballpark as keeping two people apart who hardly know each other. By the way you rained down your fury last night, one would think I was some kind of mustache-twirling super villain with a secret vendetta on all that’s good. I hope after you read this, you’ll understand the truth enough to put this behind us. I’m sorry if what I have to say offends you, but I have to get this off my chest. As far as I’m concerned, it’s pointless to apologize.

  You would think that, you arrogant Caiaphas.

  As you’re probably aware, Bing and I came to the Gardiner straight from a national tour. What you don’t know, however, is that I was responsible for introducing him to Stella, which got him the lead role in Pirates. I promised I would guide him in his career—to steer him in the right direction so he could enjoy some success. I did this selflessly, taking a job in a venue far below my skill level all as a favor to him. (I won’t get into the particulars of my arrangement with Stella that came with the deal.) Because I felt so protective of Bing’s success, I grew increasingly concerned with the amount of time he was spending with Jane versus his craft. He’s a talented actor, but he has a lot to learn, and in this business, it takes tireless dedication and hard work. Having a girlfriend is just a distraction. Even so, if I thought there was any true affection, I wouldn’t have said anything. But I watched them. I took advantage of every opportunity I had to observe the way they acted in private—away from the theatre. Bing was like a docile puppy dog; he’d follow her around anywhere. But I didn’t sense she felt the same for him. She was aloof—she almost seemed bored around him. That’s when I knew it wasn’t worth it.

  If I didn’t intervene, he would have lived the rest of his life with regret. I’ve seen too much pain because of unequal relationships. I don’t think I did anything wrong in pointing out to him the consequences of making a big mistake like that. If Jane’s feelings were hurt in the process, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for anyone to get hurt. I’m sure you’ll probably disagree with me about everything. But that’s how I saw the situation, and I stand by my decision to protect my friend.

  At this point, I didn’t want to read any further. I was tempted to rip that letter to shreds. I wanted to douse it in gasoline and set it on fire. Just the fact that he touched the paper grated on my nerves. Typical Hollywood actor, so wrapped up in his own ego, he couldn’t see how much two people loved each other. Unbelievable. Jane wasn’t the type to act like an imbecile when she liked a guy. That was Lydia’s department. What did he expect? A soliloquy? And how dare he? How dare he make assumptions based on a few fleeting observations? Ugh! I could have punched somebody. I exerted my anger by laying my fist down hard on the horn. A guy getting out of his Ford whipped his head around, looking for the culprit. He was out for blood over such an offense.

  I decided to head home, lest I do something rendering me a public nuisance. All throughout the drive, my thoughts simmered on the haughty words in that letter. Dating Jane wasn’t worth it? He would have lived the rest of his life with regret? Who gave Will the authority to interpret those signals for Bing? What was even in it for him? One would imagine, by the tone of his words and the half-baked excuses he made, his reputation was hinged on Bing’s life choices. News flash: Will didn’t have much of a reputation to uphold. He took his shirt off and ran from explosions to make box office millions. Who cared about his little escapade at a venue below his skill level. What a Judas. I’m sure none of his fans had even heard of Gilbert and Sullivan, much less Pirates of Penzance.

  By the time I arrived at the apartment, my knuckles were white. I didn’t even realize how tight I gripped the steering wheel. It was rather painful to pry them loose. I had my sights set on a B.L.T. and the whole bag of kettle chips I stole from my parents’ house. Then I would lock myself in my room and decide if I wanted to give Will’s letter any more of my time, or if I wanted to flush it down the toilet. After some thought, I decided the letter didn’t deserve the honor of clogging up my plumbing, so it sat in my purse, taunting me as I made my sandwich.

  Jane and Lydia were still in their pajamas and messy buns. I envied them. Why was I the only one with a crappy job? An Equity paycheck was good enough for them. It should have been more than adequate for me too. I truly considered the advice Fitz gave me. There are no guarantees. Take a chance. Put yourself out there. I made a mental note to call him later to apologize. There were no messages from him on my phone. Maybe he saw me talking to Will. Ugh! Will. My eyes drifted to my purse—like if I stared at it hard enough, my x-ray vision might kick in.

  To add to the noise level in my little apartment, Holly was visiting. She and Lydia made plans that sounded rather ominous.

  “Don’t take any expensive jewelry—and if you want fireworks, Cole knows a guy.” Holly perused internet articles on her phone, exchanging advice with Lydia. “We’ll be on the boat most of the time, but if we go anywhere, stash a roll of toilet paper in your purse. I guess they don’t provide toilet paper in public restrooms.”

  “B.Y.O.T.P.,” Lydia quipped.

  “Oh!”
Holly frowned at her phone. “This article doesn’t recommend carrying a purse at all.”

  “How about a beach bag?” Lydia suggested.

  Holly shook her head solemnly. “Nope. A friend of mine had her beach bag stolen when she was distracted by a good-looking guy who pointed out a mustard stain on her shoulder. Apparently, it’s a big scam. One guy squirts condiments on your back and steals anything you set on the floor while the other guy distracts you with his bedroom, Latin-lover eyes.”

  Lydia laughed. “The only thing they’ll steal from me is a roll of toilet paper and some sunscreen. I plan on putting my pesos in my bathing suit.”

  She grabbed her boobs and wiggled them, shaking her butt for extra flavor.

  “What are you two talking about?” I asked with a trace of annoyance in my tone.

  Lydia spread her palms, pumping her party-girl arms over her head.

  “We’re going to Mex-i-co!”

  Then she hooted like she was already at some Tijuana nightclub doing shots. She hadn’t even left the living room and already, she was acting like a dingbat.

  “We’re going on Cole’s boat,” Holly explained. “Definitely Ensenada, but maybe we’ll make it as far as Cabo.”

  Lydia rocked her head in agreement. “Papas and Beer!”

  “And fishing,” Holly added. “Cole loves to fish.”

  Lydia winced, offended by the imaginary fish smell.

  “Are you sure you should be going to Mexico?” I asked Lydia. “You got Montezuma’s Revenge when you went to lunch in Chula Vista. Besides, I don’t think Mexico’s quite ready for you.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Holly said. “We’ll eat on the boat and won’t drink the water.”

  “Don’t drink the water, señorita,” Lydia said, rolling her Rs. “Only tequila.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.

  Lydia and tequila were a bad combo. Lydia and tequila plus Mexican nightclubs were a recipe for disaster. I spent one Spring Break in Ensenada a few years back. The way some girls were going on, I felt a tinge of shame for all my fellow gringos. I could only imagine the kinds of conversations the bartenders shared with one another. Estupidos would be one of the milder descriptions used to describe the border-hopping party seekers.

  “Just be careful,” I warned.

  The noise Holly and Lydia made didn’t seem to bother Jane at all. I envied how she could sit at the kitchen table and type away on her laptop as if no one else were in the room. I couldn’t even make a sandwich without being annoyed by the girls gone wild preview in my living room. Even the clicking of Jane’s fingers over her keyboard grated on my pounding headache. I decided to take my B.L.T. into my room and just shut everyone out.

  “What are you doing?” Holly asked, glancing at Jane.

  “Oh, just some creative writing.”

  “My sister’s a writer,” said Lydia, sounding bored.

  Jane looked up for the first time since I arrived. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  Lydia shrugged as if Jane had said I didn’t know you had red shoes.

  “Yeah.”

  “How is it we’ve never met her?” asked Holly. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned her.”

  Lydia pulled a bikini top from the Trader Joe's bag she kept by the couch and put it on over her clothes.

  “She doesn’t live in California,” she said, checking out her own boobs under the bikini top. “She’s got her own thing going on at Harvard.”

  Harvard?

  Everyone stared at her incredulously. She had a sister at Harvard? We all spoke with overlapping questions.

  “You have a sister at Harvard?”

  “How did we not know this?”

  “Is she related to you?”

  Lydia laughed. Her free, irreverent laugh that was so Lydia.

  “Of course she’s related to me. She’s my sister.”

  “One of you could be adopted,” I offered. Or somehow the smart gene ran out before it got to Lydia. I was just assuming her sister was older, here.

  “Why would you think that?” she asked innocently.

  I motioned up and down her body, still holding the mayo knife. She looked down over her body, which was clad only in emoji pajama shorts and a barely there cotton cami, covered by the recent addition of a bikini top. She flipped her head back up, the messy bun flopping on her head. “What?”

  Holly, Jane, and I exchanged a look.

  “Nothing,” I said, returning to my sandwich building.

  “What kinds of things does your sister write?” asked Jane.

  “Well,” answered Lydia with a sigh, “her dream is to write for SNL, but her stuff is too angsty. She sent me a video of her undergraduate program doing one of her plays, and it was weird. She said it was a think piece. I couldn’t make it through the second act.”

  Of course, anything that required thinking turned Lydia off. In a way, I admired her for that. She just didn’t care enough to use her bandwidth on anything not related to fun. She was carefree. If an arrogant movie star had given her an earth-jolting kiss last night, she wouldn’t be dwelling on it like I was. She’d probably just laugh and brag about it on Snapchat.

  I let the conversation between my three friends fade as I took my sandwich and potato chips into my room, shutting the chatter out of my ears so I could pay attention to the monologue in my head. Will Darcy kissed me last night. And I didn’t hate it. My lips tingled at the memory.

  I should have hated it. I should have fled for the hills. But when his imposing form hovered over me, taking my head in his elegant hands, I let the nearness of him capture me, and I melted into the kiss. The ground reeled, taking my insides for a ride. I’d never been kissed like that. He was definitely an expert kisser. But it felt real. The way he cradled my head, running a thumb over my jawline. The way his breath hitched, and his entire body committed itself to mine. It felt real. But it couldn’t have been. I was there. He was there. And he wanted what he couldn’t have like a bratty kid on the playground. Hey Beth, how does it feel to be the toy du jour? Pretty crappy with a side of fist-bumping glee. My sensical side buttoned it up while my inner jezebel went for high fives. Traitors.

  I sat on my bed eating my B.L.T. with the offending letter taunting me to finish reading it. I gave it my best mad dog stare down with each bite of bacon, lettuce, and tomato goodness. Each crunch of kettle chip crumbling under my teeth was an exclamation point.

  I won’t read you. Crunch.

  You’re nothing but junk mail. Crunch.

  But the letter stared back at me like a mobster with a Brooklyn accent.

  You lookin’ at me? You can’t handle the truth.

  Me: Oh yeah?

  Letter: Yeah.

  I don’t know why I gave it a Brooklyn accent. It just seemed appropriate.

  I set my empty plate on my side table and snatched the gangster letter in my fist. I could handle the truth. I totally could. They were words on a page. Nothing more. And after Will admitted his shameful participation in Bing and Jane’s breakup, those words were empty ramblings. I perused to where I had left off.

  I stand by my decision to protect my friend.

  Arrogant Herod.

  Now for the other accusation you charged me with. A far more serious offense, if it were true. I don’t know how much Jorge told you about his history with my family, but I will try to give you a brief sketch. Jorge’s dad and my own father had a close working relationship. Greg Wickham was my godfather. Practically family. I remember when Jorge first came to live with him. His mother had died and all of a sudden, Greg had a son. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I was happy to have another kid my age at Fourth of July picnics and pool parties. We’d hide and get into all sorts of mischief when we were young. Boy stuff. But then Greg died, and Jorge came to live with us. He became a brother I never had. I know that sounds lame, but that’s how I saw it. But there was always something off with him, like he wanted the world to feel sorry for
him. So, he’d do stuff to get attention. At first, it was pretending to have a sore throat all the time or a belly ache. Then it turned into self-harm and petty theft. I get it. He didn’t have his parents. He was hurting. But my father did everything he could to make him feel welcome. When we grew up, Jorge became rebellious. He’d often leave for weeks at a time without telling anyone where he was going. I suspected drugs.

  When my father passed away, Jorge inherited a small production house. None of us knew about it. It’s a long story, but basically, my stepmom took my dad for almost all his cash. No prenup. The production house was a fledgling project she didn't know about. It was all he could offer Jorge. But Jorge didn’t want it. Said it was an insult. He wanted money. So I made a deal with him. I bought the company with some of the earnings I had made from my first feature film. The rest of the money came from investors. Catherine De Bourgh is one of them. I paid Jorge a generous sum, and he took off. I didn’t see him for two years. But then he came back. Strapped for cash. Demanding more. He didn’t understand Dad lost everything in the divorce. He died penniless. The only thing he could leave for my sister and me was the house. Even that was in danger of foreclosing had I not had some success with my movies. The responsibility of caring for my home and my sister was left on my shoulders. I’m not complaining. I’d do it again. But I had nothing of my father’s left to offer Jorge.