2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Y awning, I walked into the Bolder office for the monthly freelancers’ luncheon. I’d woken up far too early for a run with Jack because he had to fly out to New York for a few days. Some writing thing. He hadn’t been specific. Though we didn’t do all of our training runs together, it was usually easier to get through the long miles with someone to talk to. But a 6:00 am run was brutal regardless of whether I had good company. Of course, today happened to be another mandatory day at the office, when I’d much rather be home working around my nap schedule.
Ellen ambushed me almost as soon as I stepped into the office suite. “Viviana, I was hoping I’d see you today. Thanks for coming to the party last Friday.”
I eyed my manager warily. “As if I had a—”
“So I wanted to ask you, did you notice that Dr. Fitzgerald seemed … well, rude and snobbish that night? He seemed particularly rude to you ,” Ellen said with a faux casual tone as she came to stand close in the narrow hallway. Although Ellen was my boss, I had considered her a friend for over a decade, since we’d met through an internship at the University of Wisconsin, when I was pursuing my bachelor’s in English and Ellen was finishing her MBA. She was not a close friend, exactly, but a stable one at least, and we’d both ended up in the Twin Cities years later.
“Oh, don’t even get me started on that, that … that jerk ,” I said, heat rising in my face. Over the weekend, I’d given some thought to my interactions with him and concluded that his slightly less offensive behavior outside the restroom didn’t excuse his outright rudeness in every other interaction. Plus, Monday mornings didn’t exactly put me in a forgiving mood. “I saw him talking to you before dinner when you were arranging things with catering. He asked you to make sure he didn’t have to sit by me, didn’t he? What a—”
With a slightly mischievous glint in her eyes, Ellen interrupted, “I noticed he was being unfriendly to you. I wonder why.”
“Maybe because he’s a pompous jerk?” I clenched my teeth as I began pacing the short distance across the hallway. “You know, this is why I work from home. To avoid guys like that. And to avoid awkward social situations with colleagues in general. Didn’t you promise me that the freelancer status would get me out of these things?” I stopped moving, narrowing my eyes as I turned back to Ellen.
“Girl, please. You’ve been contracting for us for four years, and this is the first office party I’ve made you attend. Maybe the second. You can suck it up like the rest of us from time to time.” Ellen paused and glanced at her watch before her lips curved up slightly. “Back to Dr. Fitz though, do you think he’s hot? No, a man like him … handsome?”
“Ell, of course he’s handsome,” I said with a slightly bitter laugh, clenching and unclenching my fingers, a bad habit I’d only recently become aware of. “A supremely handsome, moody snob.”
At the sound of heels clicking on the floor, I turned to see a young woman approaching with Ellen’s coffee. “Ms. Swift, I—I hope this one is more to your liking.” Ellen took the coffee from the girl’s shaky hands and nodded dismissively before turning back to me.
“Who’s that? Another new intern?”
“Oh yes, Shelly or Stacy or something.”
“What happened to Bart?”
“Oh, he was terrible, Viv. Just terrible. This one’s half decent so far.”
“Bart was terrible? I liked him. He was so kind to everyone, and he had a lot of promise as an assistant editor. What did he do wrong?” I asked, my brow wrinkling.
But Ellen’s mind was obviously elsewhere. “Maybe Gregory’s just shy or socially awkward. A nice guy underneath all that pomposity.”
“Pomposity? Is that even a word?” I attempted a light smile, aware of Ellen’s piercing dark eyes scrutinizing me. After some silence, I sighed. “No, I don’t think he’s shy. I think he’s just a rich, entitled jerk. Period.”
“But, Viv, what if he’s not? What if,” Ellen said, pausing dramatically and waving her arms with intention as though painting a scene, “he’s like Mr. Darcy, who seems like a jerk but is really just socially awkward … well, and a little snobby at first. Unaware of how his privilege makes him seem to the rest of us, but when you get to know him … What if?”
I started to laugh and then stopped, staring at my boss in disbelief. “You are joking, right? You have to be. Or you’ve lost your mind. You think Gregory is my Mr. Darcy? Sorry, I should say Dr. Fitzger—” I froze. “Oh my … Fitz … Fitzgerald, Fitzwilliam … no, no , it’s just a coincidence.”
Ellen smirked. “Is it?”
Subtlety wasn’t one of my boss’s strengths. For unknown reasons, Ellen was obviously attempting to make me think it was my own idea. But as I departed from the office later that day, I was no longer certain. The damage was done: the seed had been planted.
A few days later, I had again replayed every interaction with Gregory in my head, too many times. And then the conversation with Ellen. The ridiculous conversation. It was ridiculous.
But is it?
Darcy had always been my ultimate, my one and only, and no nonfictional man had ever compared.
What if this is it? Finally, my Austen romance?
That’s silly. No, ludicrous. Maybe even dangerous—
My pacing came to an abrupt stop when I cried out in pain. Landing on my hip, I rolled onto my butt on something hard and square shaped. “What the …” I said aloud, scrambling to get up and away from whatever mess of clutter I’d stumbled into.
After standing up slowly, I started massaging my hip gently while surveying the floor beneath me.
“Speaking of dangerous,” I said aloud, a bit in shock. When had I become such a slob? My brows furrowed, and then I burst into laughter. Determining what I’d tripped on was impossible, given the mess of random objects before me.
Shaking my head, I started to clean up the mess, bringing things to a hall closet where I occasionally stored random objects. OK, maybe not occasionally.
Apparently too often, as the closet turned out to be full.
Distracted for a moment, I noticed my old flute on a shelf and absently thought it might be a good idea to start taking lessons again. Shaking my head, I shoved the flute case farther back onto the shelf, remembering I had a writing career to build now.
No wonder my junk/hobby closet looked like this. Biting my lip, I eyed the sheer volume of abandoned project artifacts shoved into this small space. With new hobbies and interests, my enthusiasm-bordering-on-obsession more often than not led to a crash-and-burn scenario. An exception was my Austen obsession—my enduring passion, as I preferred to call it. Relationships, too, were somewhat of an exception, as I tended to become attached first and fall harder than the other person. Of course, my love life had been nonexistent for several years.
My former therapist had always told me to find creative, healthy outlets for what I suspected was an anxiety disorder or ADHD—my therapist didn’t like labels, which itself made me anxious, but the idea of finding a different therapist caused even more anxiety.
Sometimes I vaguely wondered if I shouldn’t have quit therapy a few years back, when I’d changed insurance plans. But I was doing fine. My life was good.
Everything’s fine!
Having given up on the junk closet, I padded back into the living room and surveyed the area with a critical eye.
I sighed deeply.
Not fine.
I may be living alone, but my house doesn’t have to be a disaster. And neither do I.
I can get this place into shape, and I can be a writer.
I can be better than fine!
After tidying up for a few hours, I got lost in my thoughts while sipping moderately priced wine, my only hope for inducing anything like creativity.
Suddenly, an idea sparked.
I could use my story to write my book.
My thoughts raced. Darcy, or Gregory, could be the inspiration for my book. Why not?
My long-awaited Austen book!
If the novel were based on real life, it would practically write itself, wouldn’t it? I decided to find out.