Pride and Prejudice and Mistletoe Page 6

  * * *

  The two retreated to Darcy’s room and Darcy had Lorna bring up the spare rack of outfits and accessories that they kept stored in the east wing study that was otherwise mostly unoccupied. They turned on Darcy’s old CD player and blasted David Bowie from the speakers. They draped silvery scarves around each other’s necks and modeled an array of pretentious hats, strutting and posing to the music.

  “Ooh, this shirt will look amazing on you.” Darcy picked out a neon-pink, deep-V, long-sleeved T-shirt made of some sort of silk blend.

  “Jesus Christ, where did this stuff come from?”

  “I don’t really know.” She shrugged, thinking about it for the first time. “We’ve always just sort of had it.”

  “Do you think your dad had a secret life as a gay disco aficionado? Because that’s what it seems like.”

  “Have you met my dad?”

  “Or maybe it was both of your parents! Maybe they were these major party animals and had these totally different personalities than the ones we know.”

  “My parents are both seriously square. Dream on.”

  “Well, excuse me for trying to exercise my imagination.”

  “You’re excused. Trust me, if either of my parents had a wild bone in their bodies they might have been more sympathetic to me not wanting to marry Carl.” She wrinkled her nose when she said his name. “But no such luck.”

  “You never know,” he said, playing devil’s advocate. “What if that’s precisely why they were so hard on you about it? Because it reminded them of their rebellious days.”

  “Hmm,” she said, shimmying into a black velvet cocktail dress. “That theory is realistic enough. Here, can you zip me up?”

  He pulled the black zipper up along her spine.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Gorgeous,” he replied. “What about me?”

  She looked him up and down. He was wearing a white-collared shirt underneath a coal-colored vest, with a plaid cashmere scarf around his neck.

  “Dashing,” she declared. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”

  “You got it, doll face.”

  * * *

  The first setback in their plan to dance their troubles away came when the Avon Club was closed for filming.

  “Filming?” Darcy scoffed. “Who comes to film in Pemberley freaking Ohio?”

  “Anyone. It’s much cheaper than Hollywood. Can’t you, like, pull some strings to get us in?”

  “Pull strings?” She laughed. “First of all, they’re filming; they’re not letting anyone in. Second of all, who do you think I am?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. A very important person?”

  “Well, thank you, that’s very sweet, but sadly I have no pull whatsoever in Pemberley, Ohio. Here, I’m just another rich bitch.”

  “Fair enough.” He gave in to the idea that they would not be dancing. “To the Tavern?” he asked.

  “To the Tavern,” she agreed.

  * * *

  And that is how they found themselves at the Starlight Tavern, drinking antisocially in the corner by a crackling fireplace. The Starlight Tavern was a local and beloved bar steeped in Ohio history Darcy had never bothered to learn about. You could tell by the tightly packed brick walls and the rusty brass beer taps that interesting characters from all walks of life had been drinking here, and that’s all Darcy needed to know. She found it much more interesting to imagine the lives of the Starlight Tavern patrons than to actually know them. In her head, it was all very romantic.

  “Oh boy, this Scotch is strong.” Bingley’s face puckered, trying to handle the intensity of the liquid.

  “I know,” she beamed warmly. “Isn’t it incredible?” Back in New York she had become strict with herself and her drinking habits and never had more than two drinks a week. But this was vacation, and for better or for worse, she was going to act like it. She couldn’t figure out what the hell this trip was for or about, but she was going to make the best of it.

  “Sure … that’s one word for it. Would it kill them to put a little soda in it or something? You know, so it doesn’t taste like straight-up smoke?”

  “No, no, that would just dilute it! Bingley, this is twenty-one-year-old Scotch. It’s supposed to taste smoky. That’s part of the beauty of it. The flavor is so pure, you can actually taste the wood that it was aged in.”

  “Yeah, you’re not exactly convincing me, babe,” he said, then almost choked on his Scotch. “Goddammit,” he cursed, hiding his face.

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” She rolled her eyes.

  “No, it’s not that,” he whispered harshly. “It’s Jim.”

  “What’s Jim?” She didn’t understand.

  “It’s Jim,” he repeated. “He just walked in.”

  “So? Go say hi.”

  “I can’t go say hi,” he reminded her, panicking, “because you told me to tell him I wasn’t feeling well and that I was going to stay in, remember?”

  “Oh no.” She put her arm on Bingley’s shoulder, trying to calm him down. “Should we try to sneak out before he sees us?”

  “Bingley?” It was too late; they had been spotted. Jim, who was apparently at the Tavern alone, approached them where they sat.

  “Jim! Hey!” Bingley stood up to give him a hug, but Jim backed away.

  “You said you weren’t feeling well,” Jim reminded him. “I thought you were staying in and that’s why you couldn’t do dinner.”

  “I, uh…” he stammered. “I wasn’t feeling well. But then Darcy needed to talk to me, so I rallied and, uh—” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “No, Jim, listen. The truth is I’m feeling fine. I only canceled because I was worried we’re moving too fast and I didn’t want you to think I’ve been coming on too strong.”

  “Oh.” Jim seemed confused, maybe even slightly suspicious. “Or maybe it’s that I’m coming on too strong for you.”

  “No!” Bingley protested. “It’s not that at all! It was so stupid. I really just—”

  “I wish you would have just told me.” Now Jim looked hurt, maybe even somewhat repulsed. “It’s weird that you would … lie about something like that for no reason.”

  “No, Jim, it’s not like that. You don’t understand. I—”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand. But I think I’m gonna head out. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to leave.

  “Dammit.” Bingley contorted his face at Darcy. “What have I done?”

  “Oh my God.” She took his hand. “This is all my fault. I am so sorry. Go after him. Tell him it was my fault.”

  “Couldn’t you have said that when he was here a second ago?”

  “Ugh, I know. I’m sorry. I froze,” she apologized earnestly. “But go catch up to him! Go, run, it will be romantic. He’ll love it, I promise.”

  “Like I’m ever listening to love advice from you again!”

  “Fine, don’t listen. Maybe I was right in the first place. Maybe this relationship really did need the brakes put on it and now is as good a time as any to find out that you’re not meant to be.”

  “Screw that.” He stood. “I’m going after him.”

  “That’s my boy,” she said, slapping his butt gently as he hurried after Jim.

  They’ll be fine, she told herself, now sitting alone. That was nothing more than a minor setback. A lesson in Early Relationship Glitches 101.

  She worked on finishing her drink, figuring that once it was empty she’d head home early. Just then, the Tavern door swung open, and in with the cold came Luke Bennet. To Darcy’s surprise, he was with somebody. Who was that? Darcy squinted through the dim lighting and saw that it was Charlotte Collins, a girl who had also gone to their high school. Darcy had always thought Charlotte was a spineless teacher’s pet, and she had gotten on Darcy’s nerves. Charlotte had interpreted Darcy’s sexually awakened and enlightened ways as slutty, and didn’t mind expressing these beliefs during
a heated moment in debate class. Darcy knew from her recent encounter with Bingley and Jim that it was too late to pretend she wasn’t there. They had seen her, and there was no way out of this one.

  “Luke! Hi!” She waved them over with as much friendliness as she could possibly muster. “You literally just missed your brother.”

  Luke seemed to turn white upon seeing her.

  “Ah, yes, we saw,” he replied stiffly.

  “You’re Darcy Fitzwilliam, aren’t you?” Charlotte asked with a plastic smile. “You went to high school with us.”

  “Sure did,” replied Darcy.

  “Oh, uh, sorry,” Luke stammered. “Darcy, this is Charlotte. Charlotte, this is Darcy.”

  “We know each other, silly,” Charlotte teased. “I mean hello, we just said that.” She slapped his coated arm playfully, causing the diamond on her ring finger to twinkle in the dim Tavern light.

  Oh my God, thought Darcy in a panic, is he … engaged?

  “Wow!” Darcy sat back, composing herself. “That’s a beautiful ring.” In all honesty, Darcy did not like the ring. It was small and shapeless and unremarkable. But she had to say something.

  “Thank you!” Charlotte beamed and gripped lovingly onto Luke’s arm. “We’re getting married on New Year’s Day!”

  Luke’s forehead was starting to sweat. He smiled dumbly at his bride-to-be while avoiding eye contact with Darcy at all costs.

  “Is that so?” Darcy asked. “Well, congratulations.”

  “We just decided,” Luke blurted out awkwardly. “It wasn’t planned or anything.”

  “He’s so spontaneous,” Charlotte gushed. “We’ve been dating forever, and then just one day, out of the blue, ta-da!” She held up her hand to show off the sliver of a ring once more.

  “So spontaneous,” Darcy agreed, trying to keep a straight face.

  “I’m going to run to the little girls’ room,” Charlotte said politely. “Be back soon!”

  Ugh, Darcy thought, she totally is the kind of person to call it the “little girls’ room.” Creepy.

  “What the hell, Luke?” she hissed, once Charlotte was out of earshot.

  Luke double-checked that she was really gone, then slid into the seat across from Darcy. “Darcy, I’m sorry. It’s not what you think.”

  “Ha!” she laughed bitterly. “Are you not engaged to Charlotte Collins despite making out with me twice in the last forty-eight hours?”

  “I am, but it’s not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I didn’t cheat on her. I’m not a cheater.”

  “You have my attention,” she said, lifting the glass to her lips.

  “Charlotte and I have been dating for a long time,” he explained hurriedly, “and recently our relationship sort of hit a plateau. So we decided to take a break. It was mutual. I thought it was the right thing to do. But then you came to town and you pointed out how my life isn’t adding up to anything here in Pemberley. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I’ve realized that it’s okay that my life doesn’t look like anything from the outside. I’m a small-town guy, and it’s time I own up to my life, which is here with Charlotte, who’s always been there for me. It’s time I commit to this life.” By the time he was finished, Luke was panting, hands tapping anxiously against the tabletop.

  “Well…” Darcy tried to smile. “I’m glad I was able to clear that up for you.”

  10

  Later that night, Darcy sat at the foot of her childhood bed, staring into the white damask wall. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t parse the feelings she was having. Her mind was a twisted-up labyrinth of questions, like Why do I care if Luke is engaged? I know for a fact that he isn’t right for me, right? I’ve never in my life questioned my feelings for Luke, so why would I now? Would I actually want to be with Luke? Why did I kiss him? Why did I kiss him twice? Why did he kiss me back both of those times? Does he feel anything for me? Does he actually want to be engaged to Charlotte Collins? Why should I even care if he wants to be engaged to Charlotte Collins; it’s not as if I’d rather he be engaged to me, is it? Or, is it?

  No, she told herself, I do not want to be with Luke. I am not the kind of girl who falls for a small-town carpenter with no ambition. I have big things ahead of me, and none of them include being married to someone as boorish as Luke Bennet in Pemberley goddamn Ohio. These feelings for him are just the result of a temporary moment of insanity caused by the disorientation of being home to see my sick mom and the fear of Carl’s stupid ultimatum. Plus the alcohol; you can’t forget about all the alcohol.

  She stood up and brushed off her skirt, feeling better. Now that she understood her feelings and the situation, she could shake it off and move forward. Now that she had a grasp, she could be proactive. Proactive step number one was brilliant, if she did say so herself: get into bed and watch hours of mindless television until she forgot entirely about Luke and about Carl and about the deals back in New York and the anxiety about her mother’s health, and even forgot her own name. She got on her knees to pull her suitcase out from under the bed. Out with the suitcase came a book bound in blue leather.

  “Oh my God,” she said out loud. “The Pemberley High yearbook!”

  She held it in her hands for a moment but decided there was nothing in it she needed to see, no reason to take a trip down memory lane to the least favorite part of her life, and tossed it onto the silk-upholstered reading nook. She slipped into her nightgown and buried herself in bed, happy to find that Lorna had exchanged all the Luke-smelling pillowcases for new ones. She turned on the TV and put on her guiltiest of guilty pleasures: Gilmore Girls. And no, not the new Netflix season, but the old episodes, from the year 2000.

  Ever since she was thirteen years old, this had been her safe place: in bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin, lights turned all the way off so that the only light came from the blue glow of Gilmore Girls. She had never, and would never, tell anybody about this ritual, or that she could tolerate such a saccharine, tediously dull show as Gilmore Girls, let alone adore it, let alone rely on it to maintain her sanity from time to time.

  As the opening theme began to play and Carole King began to sing “If you’re out on the road / Feeling lonely and so cold…” and the montage of Rory and Lorelai as the ultimate mother–daughter duo moved across the screen, Darcy felt a warm sense of calm roll over her, something she hadn’t felt in years.

  But the blue book was peeking out at her from the reading nook. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the witty quips of the episode’s opening scene, but every few minutes her attention would be pulled back to the book. She wondered why she hadn’t simply shoved it back under the bed, where it had come from. She could have done so easily, but instead she had thrown it into the nook, where it was glaringly visible. Why?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. You’re overthinking it. When this episode is over, I’ll put it back under the bed where it belongs. End of story. Just watch your show. Watch how dependably adorable Rory is in her schoolgirl outfit and her naive good-girl bookworm routine that would be so painfully annoying on anyone else except her. Watch how charming that little fake town is with its little fake people who are so happy and safe in their daily routines, satisfied by the minutiae of life. Watch Rory’s dependably adorable boyfriend fit in so nicely with her family, and his naive good-boy routine that would be so painfully annoying on anyone else except him.

  Of course, Darcy much preferred the episodes when Rory started dating bad boy Jess, instead. He really came in and shook things up. They had such a dysfunctional, forbidden, tense vibe going on between them. Darcy had always found that dynamic to be alluring. Jess had been so much more intriguing than boring Dean.

  Against her will, Darcy glanced over at the yearbook again.

  Okay, fine, she thought, if you wanna read the dumb book, then just go read it. No use with this back-and-forth business.

  She paused the TV and reluctantly dragged hersel
f out of bed. She curled up into the reading nook and opened the yearbook. She flipped through the glossy pages, with her eyes protectively squinted, the way you would while going through a haunted house. Her eyes roved over the rows of black-and-white square photos of classmates she’d mostly forgotten. People who mostly still probably lived right here in Pemberley. She saw Carl’s stiff, slicked-back hair and laughed. He had always been so … normal. So wildly normal that it bordered on rebellious. How could anybody be that normal? Next to his picture he had written in green ink, “Darcy, you are the most incredible girl I’ve ever met. You’re brave and adventurous, and every moment with you is a thrill. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older and we wouldn’t have to wait so long to have the perfect life together we’ve always imagined? I love you. Love, Carl.”

  She cringed a little bit, remembering the nausea she had felt upon reading these words all those years ago. He had quoted the Beach Boys, for Christ’s sake. On top of that, Darcy didn’t view herself as any of those things, except maybe brave at times, and so this message to her only made her feel disconnected and cold, as if he didn’t know her at all. And what was the “perfect life” she had always imagined? Wasn’t it exactly what she had now, living in a posh loft-style apartment in Manhattan with a job to die for? If so, then why wasn’t she happy?

  As she flipped through the pages, she noticed that there wasn’t a whole lot of writing on them. A few people she hadn’t ever actually been friends with had signed their pictures with generic niceties like “Hey Darcy, you’re awesome, never change!” and “Let’s make sure to keep in touch!” and “Hope you have a great life!” She rolled her eyes as she looked them over; none of these people had kept in touch. And, of course, she hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with them anyway. In fact, she could barely remember them even now, looking at their pixilated faces. Chris Mayfair had written over his face, “Darcy! Remember when you made Mr. Prescott cry in homeroom? That was hilarious. I’ll never forget it, or you! Keep in touch always! Love, Chris.”

  Darcy rolled her eyes again. She couldn’t remember what she had done or said to make Mr. Prescott cry, but she hated whenever anyone reminded her of her mean streak. She didn’t like this part of herself, but it was a part of her nonetheless, and had been since childhood.