Chapter 9 #2
Rich cleared his throat. “So you can talk to her about your big, important life? Your professional triumphs, your awful taste in music, and your disgrace on the tennis court at the hands of your beloved and brilliant cousin Rich?”
“We neglected to cover most of those areas, nor did your name ever come up.” Darcy took another sip of beer and stared at the wall.
His hand twitched involuntarily, ready to stroke Coco’s head.
He closed his eyes, fighting a familiar, unwelcomed wave of pain.
As sudden as her death had been, it was going to take time to adjust to her absence.
He missed her, especially now. She’d been a sweet dog.
The two men sat for a minute as the shadows of dusk overtook the room.
“Did you talk about your family?” Rich asked quietly.
Darcy’s expression darkened.
“I did…I thought I did,” he finally said, his voice rough. “We had a couple of long conversations one night, but we both took different things away from it. She was on a painkiller and had a glass of wine and apparently remembers little of it. I didn’t realize that until…”
“Until?”
“Until I told her I was in love with her.”
“Whoa.” Rich looked stunned. “When was this?”
“When I asked her out.”
“Excuse me?”
“It started last fall. That’s when we met. And my feelings grew. I…we…it all blew up two weeks ago.” Darcy laid his head back against the chair. “I’m an idiot. I thought she knew—that she felt the same kind of connection between us. I couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“It couldn’t have been as one-sided as you think. There’s a thin line between love and hate.” Rich threw up his hands defensively. “Hey, that’s from Motown, not Moldavia.”
Darcy shook his head. “You are incorrigible. How did your mother not return you to the cabbage patch?”
“You know I’m right.” Rich leaned forward and looked at him earnestly. “You both had strong feelings, but that doesn’t mean they were opposite.”
“I don’t think I’m in any position to find out,” Darcy said, his voice hoarse and full of regret. “I misread her quite badly.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Rich gazed at him steadily, his brows furrowed. “Her note is very nice.”
Darcy swallowed and nodded. “It is.”
“And she knew about Coco. Sounds as though she’s paying a bit of attention to you.”
Darcy sighed. “I’m sure Charles told her.”
“Why is Elizabeth so invested in Charles’s dating life?”
“What?” Darcy looked up, confused. “Because he’s dating her sister Jane. They’re practically joined at the hip.”
“Elizabeth’s sister is Charles’s angel?” Darcy nodded and Rich apologetically explained his clueless comments at the Yankees game about Darcy’s concerns with the relationship.
Oh God, it only gets worse. Is this when I decide whether to laugh or cry?
Or just get really drunk? “Well, it’s good to know that abject stupidity runs in the family.
” Darcy raised his bottle in a mock toast. “At least now I know where she heard such nonsense. You simply reinforced her view of me as a man overly worried about consequences.”
“Sorry, man. Really. Dammit. She also knew Georgie picked Coco’s name, but I wondered if she was aware of the whole story.”
Darcy closed his eyes. “I did tell her some of it that night we were marooned together at Netherfield. But apparently, she doesn’t remember. I didn’t know that, and I’m loath to bring it up again.”
“It’s a part of you, man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Darcy said bitterly. “It defines who I am. I did the therapy, Rich.” As if I will ever dredge up that horror again to anyone.
“So, have you ever told Elizabeth about the accident?”
“That my little sister died because I begged my mother to let me drive? Hell, she already thought I was an ass. Do you truly think I’m going add that? Poor, pitiful me.” Darcy hunched over and stared at his reflection in the glass tabletop. He looked awful, and he ran his hand across his face.
Rich swore under his breath. “Well, she already has some odd ideas about you,” he said gently. “I mentioned that both of us had parents who married their great love, and she seemed skeptical.”
Was there anything they didn’t talk about during that damn game?
“That was some heart-to-heart you two had,” Darcy growled.
His eyes flickered to his cousin’s face and observed that Rich looked nearly as miserable as he did.
She doubted my parents…? Oh no—Wickham. A shudder ran through him.
Darcy sat up and combed his fingers through his damp curls. He closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Hey Rich, fetch us another beer. I need to tell you a story.”
Jane missed her calling by going into the insurance industry.
Elizabeth knew her sister was focused on long-term career stability, but she thought Jane would’ve done quite well by starting a Get-A-Hug franchise.
Ever since Elizabeth reluctantly explained her melancholy sighs and less than boisterous behavior, giving Jane the barebones version of her “relationship” with Darcy, Jane was in full-bore mother hen mode.
Elizabeth told her only that Darcy had asked her out at the Seaport and hadn’t been very nice when she declined.
She didn’t tell her about what had happened at Netherfield.
She couldn’t. Jane would feel guilty, Jane would feel responsible, and Jane would feel uncomfortable.
And with Jane’s future as Mrs. Charles Bingley looking ever more likely, she didn’t need to know that his best friend was a man who had peeled off her sister’s shirt before leaving her high and dry on a Chesterfield sofa, only to show up months later and offer up his heart on a platter to be sliced, diced, and put through a grinder.
Elizabeth’s eyes stung every time she remembered his face and the words he put on paper.
“I don’t know why you thought I rejected you or didn’t care about the events between us at Netherfield. That night was an epiphany for me. That rawness of feeling and need was a first.”
No, Jane didn’t need to know any of the nitty-gritty details.
Nor did Elizabeth think it was her place to fully reveal his family history.
When Jane mentioned that Charles told her Darcy doted on animals because his sister had died when she was young, Elizabeth shut the door on shading in the details.
It was horribly sad, and she was a horrible person for not remembering that he had told her.
She knew about the accident, but she still managed to misjudge him.
And yet, even now, she couldn’t recall much of what either of them had said that night.
But she did remember feeling the scars on his back and his pulling away when she’d asked.
What a hypocrite she was, writing a novel about the blacklist half a century ago.
While quietly working on her pet project about American citizens who were judged as communists and traitors and lost their jobs, their friends, and their reputations based on their intellectual curiosity, a long-forgotten signature on a political petition, or unfounded allegations, she was guilty of judging one man based on his social interactions, another man’s word, and her own foggy memories. She was an idiot.
“Please know that, although I had a short period of stupidity in my life, and I did indeed experience the so-called walk of shame a few times, such regrettable behavior is years in the past. The hours we spent together at Netherfield meant more to me than any of those occurrences.”
Darcy had only a short period of stupidity in his life while hers seemed destined to stretch on and on.
But at least an idiot like herself could show up for work, tap out press releases, and set up focus groups.
Elizabeth could go running, sharpen her cooking skills, and immerse herself in bad television.
What she couldn’t do was focus on writing her novel.
Her old haunts betrayed her. She didn’t want to see George.
What she’d learned about him from Darcy’s letter sickened her, and she was afraid she’d let on what she knew.
He did call, but when she told him the book was delayed, she didn’t hear from him again.
She went to Blackie’s with a few friends and was grateful he wasn’t there.
Charlotte and her brothers persuaded her to join them at a Mets game, but it felt like a letdown after the luxury suite at Yankee Stadium—another thought to keep to herself.
Elizabeth could fill a notebook with unspoken regrets, secret musings, and spiteful words she’d like to take back.
And then, a week after receiving Darcy’s letter, Elizabeth bumped into George at Starbucks.
It was clear that he, familiar with her workday routine, had been waiting for her.
A liar, lying in wait. She decided it was best to play dumb and pretend their friendship continued.
He was not a good man and perhaps a dangerous one.
She reluctantly agreed to share a table and catch up on the goings-on with the book, his recent travels, and other day-to-day happenings.
After about ten minutes, George put down his coffee and looked at her beseechingly.
“You know, I’ve barely seen you since Darcy attacked me at the gallery, and then you went off to Yankee Stadium with his cousin. Have you thrown me over for those two? Perhaps a ménage à trois? Or is it just one of them?” He quirked an eyebrow and leered at her.
Elizabeth smiled uncomfortably and shook her head. “You’re deranged. Trust me, I’m not only off the market, I’m boycotting men. No dating for me.”
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he purred. “Sounds as though you’ve had your heart broken and lost your trust in men.”
“Hardly,” she muttered. George’s seat-of-the-pants psychoanalysis made her uncomfortable. It was hitting too close to home, and he was sitting too close to her. He made her skin crawl.