Chapter Six
MACEY
An email from Christine to Macey, Friday, September 13, 11:15 a.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Enjoy your trip
Macey,
I know you’re leaving tomorrow, and I hope you have the most wonderful time, but before you go, I printed a stack of programs before I left for San Diego, and they are on my desk. Could you staple them, please? Thanks.
See you when you get back.
Best,
Christine
AFTER THREE MONTHS OF ANTICIPATION, waiting, dreaming, having a Mr. Darcy, losing a Mr. Darcy, and then feeling slightly disappointed and not even sure I wanted to go due to my lack of Mr. Darcy, the time has arrived. I’m finally (finally!) going to Pride and Prejudice Park. I’ve got my bag packed, my carefully blown-out hair pulled into a bun, and am dressed in comfortable travel clothes—leggings, my I’m Only Here for Mr. Darcy T-shirt, and my favorite zip-up hoodie.
I wish I could just magic-spell myself there because the flight is long, especially with the layover in Atlanta. I will have to endure, though, because I am neither a magician nor a wizard—which really sucks for many reasons.
You are strong. You are brave. You can do hard things. Probably.
I know I’ve been pretty set that I’d be fine doing this by myself, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m feeling a little more anxious about the whole thing. I mean, what if I really do get kidnapped? I’ve never been kidnapped before, but it doesn’t sound fun.
Freaking Derek. I can’t believe he ditched me.
“You okay?” Amelia asks for what could possibly be the thousandth time. Honestly, each time she asks, I wonder if I truly am okay. Like, each time she questions me, I also question it. The fact that my hands are shaky isn’t helping either.
“Yes,” I tell her. It’s been my standard answer.
“You’re so quiet,” she says, concern in her tone.
“Sorry. There’s just a lot to think about,” I reply.
I am being quiet. But it’s not totally because of the anxiety. No, that normally has me prattling on like Mr. Collins listing all of Lady Catherine’s virtues. What I can’t tell Amelia is that my quietness is because her stupid, attractive brother is in the car with us, looking exceptionally hot in a hoodie and joggers. I’m a sucker for a guy who can pull off joggers, and Zane can in spades.
Apparently he decided to go to Costa Rica, and we are flying out around the same time, so Amelia’s driving us together so she doesn’t have to make two trips. So therefore, I must suffer in silence.
“Are you excited, at least?” Amelia asks.
“So excited,” I tell her, and I mean it. Mostly. Please see previous statement about my current anxieties. I tuck my hands under my thighs to try and stop the trembling.
“I really wish I was going,” Amelia says, her voice wistful.
“Me too,” I say, feeling my response in my bones. How I wish my best friend were joining me on this trip.
She looks in her rearview mirror at Zane. “Are you excited for Costa Rica?”
“Yeah,” he says. And that’s all he utters. I turn my head toward him, just for a brief second, to see he’s got his eyes closed, his head resting against the tan leather, hands resting on top of his legs.
“Well, you two are a blast to talk to right now,” Amelia says. Her tone is joking, but a quick glance at her profile shows she’s not smiling.
“Sorry,” I say, and Zane sleepily grunts something from the back seat.
I’d love to sit in silence right now to just give my nerves—and my shaky hands—a chance to rest, but my inability to be comfortable when I know someone else isn’t makes me finally open my mouth. That, and the fact that the object of some of my nervousness is now asleep in the back seat. So, Amelia and I fill the rest of the journey with talk about the trip and all the things I’ll hopefully get to do once I’m there.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the terminal, and Amelia yells at a sleeping Zane to wake up. We get out and grab our bags from the trunk—a groggy Zane has some sort of heavy-looking backpack that he throws over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and I have just one suitcase to check and a backpack to carry on the plane with me.
Amelia hugs her brother quickly, says something in his ear that has him rolling his eyes, and then she tells him to have the worst time because I guess that’s what siblings do, and then she turns to me.
She pulls me in for a hug. “You are going to have a magical, life-altering time, okay?” she says in my ear as she wraps her arms around me. “Live out our Pride and Prejudice dreams for me.”
“I will,” I say, though it’s a little strained. She’s holding on to me like her life depends on it.
“Take good notes,” she says, finally releasing me. “And try to sneak a few pictures.”
It’s a shame I can’t have my phone with me to capture it all. But since they didn’t have cameras back then, we won’t have them either. There’ll be photographers for the arrival and departure days, so at least I’ll have some pictures from that.
“I’ll tell you every little detail, I promise.” I make a crisscross sign over my heart—something we used to do when we were younger—to seal it.
“You’re going to be totally fine.” She says this as a statement, and I’m pretty sure she’s saying this for her benefit, like she’s trying to convince herself to believe it and not abandon her job to hop on the plane with me.
“I’ll try not to get kidnapped,” I say.
She frowns. “Still not funny.”
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure her, and pray she didn’t hear the slight tremor in my voice.
“See you in ten days.”
With a wave, she walks back to her car, and Zane and I head toward the terminal. Once inside, I make a beeline for the Delta counter, and Zane follows right behind me.
“You’re ... flying Delta too?” I ask—or really, I sputter. Geez, Macey.
“Yeah,” Zane says. “Mind if I wait in line with you?” He reaches up and swipes a hand down his face. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.
I swallow and avoid eye contact. “Um ... No, of course not,” I lie. Because I do mind. I have shaky hands and the beginnings of sweaty pits. My nerves are frazzled right now, and his proximity is only making it worse.
There are seven people ahead of us, so I’m either going to have to find a way to be comfortable with awkward silences, strained head nods, and fake smiles after fleeting glances like we’re currently doing, or I’m going to have to open my mouth.
And I choose option A.
“So are you looking forward to this trip?” Zane asks, after I’ve nodded my head and given him brief faux smiles, like a moron, for a very cringeworthy amount of time.
I want to say “yes,” but what I actually say is, “Yepperso.” It’s like my mouth couldn’t decide between “yep” and “I think so,” but somehow my brain decided to blend them into whatever that was. I can feel my cheeks burning, and I’m pretty sure I look like a flustered Ronald McDonald.
That stupid letter. I want to go back to my eighteen-year-old self and slap some sense into her.
But even if it didn’t exist, I think I’d still be flustered right now. Maybe not as big of an idiot, but still a partial one. Zane is so handsome, especially right now with his blue eyes popping perfectly with that charcoal-gray hoodie he’s wearing. His dark hair is mussed, and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow only add to his appeal.
He wasn’t always this gorgeous. Zane went through an extended awkward phase with teeth too big for his face and hair that refused to cooperate no matter how much gel he used. But then, somewhere around his sophomore year, things started to shift. He grew into himself—still the same Zane, but more confident, more at ease in his own skin.
It took me a while to notice. To me, he was always just Zane—the one who teased me, sometimes shared his fries, and occasionally made my blood boil. But when I did finally notice, it wasn’t just his looks that stood out. It was everything that made him who he was. And then I went and wrote that stupid letter telling him everything I felt about him. I’m in love with you, Zane. I think I have been for a long time, maybe even before I realized it myself. Oh, the cringe. Love? What did I even know about love back then? I don’t even think I know what it is now. I was definitely not in love with Cheating Caleb.
This is why even now, ten years later, standing in line with Zane can feel like the most difficult thing in the world. We probably should have talked about it, maybe cleared the air. But now it feels like it’s been too long. Besides, he might not even remember it, and I don’t want to be the one to remind him.
“Huh?” he asks, a perplexed-looking smile on his face.
I let out a breath. “Yes. I am excited,” I say, in a robotic-sounding voice.
“What’s in Costa Rica?” I ask, and then quickly amend, “I mean, what are you doing in Costa Rica?”
Wow, a whole sentence. Five more people in front of me and then I’m free from this torture.
He lifts a shoulder. “Beach time and hiking, I think.”
“Sounds nice,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes distant, like he’s not entirely convinced himself.
We go silent, and I reach up and tuck some hair behind my ear and then grab on to the strap of my backpack like a lifeline.
“So how does this whole dress-up-like-Darcy-times thing work?” he asks after a long enough bout of silence that I thought maybe he was done talking. No such luck.
Embarrassment courses through me. I don’t want to talk about this trip. He must think I’m an idiot for even wanting to go.
But, with his eyes looking at me expectantly, I answer him. “It’s what Amelia told you. We ... um ... dress up in period clothing and then ... reenact scenes from the book. It’s ... dumb.”
I can’t help but add that last part, downplaying it. Saying it out loud to him makes it all sound so silly. So absurd. Like adults playing dress-up ... which is exactly what it is, I guess.
“Right,” he says, reaching up and scratching the side of his well-defined jaw. “But, are there like scripts or something? Or do you just wing it?”
“Oh,” I say. “Right ... um, yes. There are scripts.”
“And do you read from them?” His brows are pulled downward, with no teasing look like the ones he used to give me. He seems genuinely interested, which buoys me a bit.
“No ... they’re supposed to be memorized.” Or we’re supposed to be well acquainted with them before arrival , as it says on the instructions.
His eyebrows move up his forehead now. “Oh. That’s some serious reenacting.”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling stupid again.
“Next,” a gate agent yells, and I look up to see that it’s me she’s waving over.
With a bumbling “See you later” and a goofy wave, I hoist my backpack up on my back and wheel my bag over to check in.
“Destination?” a woman in a purple suit jacket and skirt asks when I approach, her long, ornately painted fingernails clicking on the keys.
“Manchester, England,” I say.
She asks for my passport, and before I know it, she’s handed me my ticket, and I head toward security, backpack over my shoulder.
Checked in and Zane-free and feeling a little less flustered—at least my hands aren’t trembling anymore—I join the long line at security and pull my phone out to pass the time. There’s a text from Amelia, reminding me—again—that I must have the best time on this trip. I send her a quick “I’ll try my hardest” before pulling up my ticket to double-check my gate, even though I already know it hasn’t changed in the five minutes since leaving the check-in counter. Satisfied, I switch over to my email to see if there are any updates from Pride and Prejudice Park as the line inches forward.
I don’t find a message from the resort; instead, there’s one from my mom. The first one from her since she entered rehab three months ago. My heart does a twisting thing at the sight of her name in my inbox.
I’ve been sending her emails, giving her updates on my life, not knowing when or if she would see them. This rehab was mandatory after her fourth DUI, and because she was a repeat offender, she’s in more of a lockdown situation, with hardly any outside contact with the world.
From: [email protected]
RE: England, Here I Come!
Hi Macey,
I finally earned some email privileges and got to read through your emails. Thank you for sending them. I’m sorry I can’t reply to each one, but please know they mean so much to me.
I don’t have long, so I’ll get to the point. I need to tell you how sorry I am. I would rather say this in person, but since I can’t, I’ll say it here: I’ve failed you as a mom, and that will always be my greatest regret.
I’ve been going to therapy here, and it’s made me realize so much about myself and all the hurt I’ve caused. But I’ve also realized something else—how proud I am of you. Despite everything, you’ve grown into a beautiful and bright woman. I don’t know how I got so lucky to be your mom.
I want to be better. I want to try to be the mom you deserve, even though I know you don’t need me anymore. I just hope you’ll let me.
I love you so much.
Mom
I sniffle back the moisture gathering in my eyes as I read her words, but it doesn’t work. A couple of tears roll down my cheeks and then under my chin.
I’ve gotten emails like this before, but this one feels different. More heartfelt, maybe. I can’t help but hope she means it this time. I’ve had that same hope before, only to have it dashed.
The addiction wasn’t always part of our lives. Once, she was the kind of mom who taught me how to bake cookies and crack an egg with one hand. Back then, I wanted to be just like her. I got my red hair from her, and strangers would often comment on how alike we looked. I felt so proud of that—that I looked like her. But then my dad broke up our family, and it was like a part of her disappeared, a part she could never get back.
She lost something then, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring her back. The baking stopped. The laughter faded. Slowly, the mom I loved and looked up to slipped further and further away, replaced by someone I barely recognized. Alcohol and drugs became her top priority, and I stopped being one at all.
I’ve spent years wishing I could fix her, bring back the woman who taught me to bake cookies and tame my crazy hair. But maybe some things can’t be fixed. Maybe they can only be hoped for. Still, I wonder if someday I’ll run out of hope.
The tears are coming in full force now, and I pat my pockets hoping for a magicked tissue or napkin, but I give up and use the cuff of my sweatshirt to try to wipe them away.
“We meet again,” a voice says from behind me, and I do a little jump.
“Sorry,” Zane says as I turn around. His face falls when he sees me. “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” I say, giving him a dismissive sort of smile, reaching up and dashing away more tears with my sweatshirt. “I’m ... fine.”
His brows lower, almost hooding his pretty blue eyes. “You don’t seem fine.” He places a hand on my arm, and the gesture makes my eyes water again.
“Yeah,” I tell him, my voice thick. “It’s fine, though. Really.”
He’s not convinced. “Macey,” he says, drawing my name out, soft but also questioning as he takes a step toward me, pushing the backpack he’s got with him up on his shoulders as he does.
“I’m good,” I say, but it comes out as a sob, and more tears fall. I think it’s the kindness in his eyes that does me in this time.
He removes the hand from my arm, and I think he’ll take a step back and maybe leave me alone for a minute, but instead he says, “Come here.” And, putting a hand on my shoulder, he pulls me toward him and into a hug, his hand going under my backpack and tightening around me.
I think I’m shocked at first, and I go rigid like a statue, but then his warmth and nearness have me melting into him. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a hug from Zane—not one like this at least—and it’s kind of everything I need right now. He smells like fresh soap and a woodsy cologne.
Someone clears their throat from behind us, and I jerk my head up to see that we’re holding up the line. My tear-streaked face now feels heated from embarrassment, and I quickly pull out of the embrace and shuffle forward, berating myself for being so emotional right now.
“What’s going on, Mace?” he asks, after catching up to me. “Why are you crying?”
I don’t want to talk about my mom. Not in the TSA line. He knows most of the story already, anyway.
“Is it the trip?” he prods.
“What?” I ask him, confused.
“You know.” He gestures toward the line we’re standing in. “Traveling by yourself and everything?”
I’m at a crossroads here. If I tell him yes, I’ll sound pathetic. What grown woman cries over a vacation? If I say no, he’ll ask me more questions because it’s human nature to want to know these things.
“Yeah,” I say, deciding to go with the pitiful option because Amelia has already made me look that way to him, so it’s the easier answer.
“What are you worried about?” he asks.
I shrug. “Just the whole thing. Flying by myself ... and um, trying to navigate through a country I’ve never been to.” This isn’t a total lie; I have been worried about those things. My hands only recently stopped their shaking, after all. It’s just not a crying-level of worry.
“Have you been to England before?” he asks, his thick eyebrows rising.
I shake my head.
“Well, I’ve been,” he says, “and it’s pretty easy to navigate.”
“I’ll be fine.” I give him a smile without teeth. “I think I’m just tired.”
He nods like this is an acceptable answer.
We’re quiet after that, and it’s not long before we’re separated as we go through security. Once through, and I’m sitting on a bench putting on my shoes, Zane approaches me.
“What gate are you at?” he asks.
“B24,” I tell him.
He rubs his jaw, looking contemplative. “I’ve ... got something I need to do, but I’ll come find you,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, hoping he doesn’t because I really don’t enjoy the version of myself that I seem to turn into when he’s around. I’m all tongue-tied and weird. It’s a version of me from a long time ago, the awkward girl who didn’t know how to speak without tripping over her own words, and I don’t like it.
He never does come back, though. I spend the hour and a half before my flight scrolling through my phone, feeling anxious he might return and how I might act when he does.
When they call my boarding group—first class, no less (this really is the trip of a lifetime)—I hand my ticket to the agent and glance over my shoulder one last time before heading down the jetway. I get settled in, putting my backpack under the seat in front of me and tucking my phone in the seat-back pocket. There’s so much room up here, I know it’s going to be hard to go back to coach after this. Especially when the flight attendant asks if I’d like anything to drink before takeoff. I tell her not at the moment, and my gaze drifts to the empty seat beside me. I can’t help but imagine Derek sitting there, cracking jokes to calm my nerves like he always does. But he’s not here, and that empty seat feels like a betrayal. Freaking Derek.
But I’ll be fine on my own. Soon I’ll be at Pride and Prejudice Park, inserting myself into Elizabeth Bennet’s shoes—a real escape, which is just what I need.
I pull my phone out of the pocket, then turn the camera to selfie mode, take a quick picture of myself with a big grin and a thumbs-up in my first-class seat, and then shoot it off to Amelia because I know she’ll be worrying right now.
My phone beeps a second later.
Amelia: Yay! Miss you already!
Now I’m imagining her sitting in the seat next to me, just as excited as I am, making everything better—because Amelia, even with her butting-in ways, somehow always makes things better. I miss her already too.
“Is this seat taken?” I hear someone say, and I look up.
I sputter something unintelligible before I finally utter one word: “What?”
Am I hallucinating? Or did I get on the wrong flight? Because how is Zane Porter on this plane right now?
“Wh-what are you doing here?”