Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
The thing about convincing yourself you’re dating Mr. Darcy is that you kind of feel like you should be on your best Elizabeth Bennet behavior all the time. Clever. Capable.
And that’s a big ask, especially when you naturally have more in common with her impulsive, disaster-in-waiting younger sister Lydia.
You know—the one whose antics send the whole plot spinning sideways.
But for the next three weeks, I do my best. Sure, it’s no longer possible to kick back and relax by watching a rom-com, and people generally seem a bit more miserable than usual, even for November, when it gets dark at four thirty in the afternoon.
But I am in a relationship with Fisher Davis, so I am of course wonderfully, deliriously happy.
Leaving the world around me to muddle on Jane Austenless, with women’s literature marginalized and romance novels erased, I wrap myself in a blissful cocoon of homecooked meals, toe-curling kisses, and exceptional productivity (by anyone’s standards, but especially mine).
I drag neat and organized Elle to the front of the class and make her sort through a hundred files.
I learn to navigate my way around OWEN-C and tell everyone I can’t wait for the conference in New York, where I almost certainly won’t get lost. And I find my dissertation proposal, which sort of still works, and make myself start writing, because I don’t have to be over-the-moon enthusiastic about the topic, I just have to be done by May so I can get a job teaching depressing books to students who don’t care.
(Feelings of inadequacy and deep-seated ambivalence about the future are nothing you want to confess to your very own Mr. Darcy.)
On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, the last meeting of the seminar on the English novel before final exams in early December, I stay after class to discuss convention plans with Professor Pedersen and Geoff.
Geoff returned to class the week after Pedersen’s announcement, and I never bothered mentioning that I saw him at the bookstore.
He hasn’t said much to me either, beyond generic pleasantries accompanied by those crooked smiles.
If my supposed Team Co-Leader has been spending time working on the database, I’ve seen no evidence of it, so in the privacy of B-7 Kirwin Hall, I’ve let things return to their normal state of entropy.
When the last student has left the classroom, Pedersen claps his hands together and rubs them enthusiastically.
I narrowly avoid flinching at the sandpapery sound.
“I’ve just received our itineraries and hotel information for New York.
We leave December twenty-sixth and return on the first. The conference ends the morning of the thirty-first, but I was able to persuade them to let us stay through New Year’s Eve.
I thought the two of you deserved a little reward for all your hard work.
” He grins, first at me and then at Geoff.
“You’ll give a series of presentations about the database over the course of that week, and I’m sure everyone will be relieved not to have to listen to an old fuddy-duddy like me. ”
When he pauses after that, I know he probably expects us to make some sort of ego-saving gesture—why, no, Professor Pedersen, no one thinks of you that way!
—but I’m too busy wishing that I was spending the better part of a week in New York, and a holiday that traditionally involves kissing at midnight, with Fisher instead.
“Excellent news, sir,” Geoff says. “We’re looking forward to it.”
And from somewhere, I dredge up a nod.
Afterward, I ask Geoff whether he’s planning to attend the grad student holiday mixer on campus tomorrow evening.
“Hadn’t made up my mind,” he says. “But now I know you’ll be there …” He scoops his hair away from his face and punctuates his words with a wink.
“Oh, I’m sure there will be lots of familiar faces,” I insist hurriedly and rattle off several other students in the program, finishing with “my roommate, Cassie. And of course Fisher.”
“Davis?” His tone is cool, and I suppose I can’t blame him, given their inauspicious introduction.
“Yeah. We, um, well … we—”
The only phrase that comes to mind is kissed and made up, and I am not going to say that to Geoff.
But he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. “You and Fisher Davis. Really?” he purrs, and I flush as he flicks an assessing gaze over me. “Well, aren’t you the lucky girl.”
Saturday evening I plan to meet Fisher at the mixer.
It’s being held in the Commons, a glass atrium that connects the sleek, modern architecture of Kirwin Hall with the traditional brick aesthetic of the library, which is the oldest building on campus.
Evidently afraid the Commons’ significance might escape even a single person, the administration erected a bronze plaque outside the building, noting that it “bridges past and future and symbolizes Grantham College’s commitment to disparate branches of learning. ”
It’s also a super convenient way to cut through campus when it snows.
Tonight, though, it’s strung with fairy lights. Strains of music seep around the doors every time they open, and I can’t deny feeling a little tingle of anticipation as I climb the steps.
Inside, I seek out familiar faces, and the first one I spy is Cassie’s.
She’s on the far side of the room, standing next to—oh.
I hadn’t realized she was bringing Bill.
Plastering a smile onto my face as I leave the coat check, I make my way to where they’re standing beside a high-top table holding two cups of red punch.
“They really went all out this year,” I say, gesturing around at the stations of hot hors d’oeuvres, the string quartet playing sophisticated arrangements of pop songs, and the full bar.
There’s even a dance floor, though no one’s dancing.
“Yeah,” Cassie enthuses, with a nod that makes her curls bounce in spite of her obvious attempt to constrain them. “Isn’t it—?”
“A shame,” Bill interjects, “to see an institution with a once-firm religious foundation succumbing to the world’s notion of entertainment?”
Even Cassie, who’s inexplicably gone all-in on his nonsense, looks taken aback.
But she recovers quickly. “Why don’t we check out the display over there,” she says, looping a hand through his arm and directing his attention to the other end of the room, “about the restorations to the campus chapel?” As they slip away from the table, she leans in and whispers to me, “Great dress, by the way!” It’s this slinky, silvery-blue satin number I snagged at a ridiculous clearance price.
Like, the kind of deal I’m obligated to reveal to anyone who compliments this dress.
But I’m spared from doing so now when Cassie adds, “And it looks like I’m not the only one who thinks so. ”
Her gaze points me to the doors, where Fisher has just come in. He’s wearing chinos paired with a shirt and jacket, all of which fit him so perfectly it’s like they were tailored to his frame.
His dark eyes quickly find me, and his smile is subtle, but real. He strides toward me, is stopped not once but twice by people he knows, signals me with a raised finger to stay put, makes his way to the bar, and finally arrives by my side bearing two glasses of wine.
“So,” he says, as his best impression of a flirty, suggestive gaze flickers over me, “how long do we have to stay?”
“You’re terrible,” I scold as I nudge his arm with my shoulder, then take refuge in my drink in hopes that it’s cool enough to quench the blush that’s threatening. “And the answer is, until you dance with me.”
That playful pseudo-smoldering look in his eye catches fire in earnest. He does love a challenge. “Are you saying that because you think I can’t dance?” he asks, placing his untouched glass on the table beside Bill and Cassie’s punch. “Or because you think I won’t?”
Elizabeth’s first awkward dance with Mr. Darcy pops into my mind. She refuses to talk about books when he suggests it, and every time I read that scene, I thought about how I would have seized on the topic like a drowning woman and hoped it would keep him from noticing how clumsy I am.
“I—”
It is suddenly really warm in here. And also, these glasses don’t hold much at all—or at least, mine is somehow already empty. He slips the cup from my fingers, deposits it on the table, and takes my hand to lead me to the unoccupied dance floor.
A little moan of dread escapes my lips as I try to drag my feet. “I was only kidding. This is too embarrassing.”
“Why? Are you a terrible dancer, Elle?”
The honest answer is probably yes, but I don’t say anything, and in the end, it doesn’t matter either way.
Because I’m surrounded by the hazy glow of soft music and twinkle lights and wine drunk too quickly.
His warm palm settles at the base of my spine, about an inch above scandalous, and he encircles my body in his strong arms. He’s looking down at me like he’s the lucky one, and I no longer care if people are staring and the dance floor is empty except for us. I want this one dance to go on forever.
It feels like proof that romance isn’t dead after all.
When the song ends, as all songs must, I’m startled to discover we weren’t actually alone out there the whole time. I was just oblivious to any other couples joining us. As I glance around at the small crowd, trying to reorient myself, Fisher asks, “Looking for someone?”
“No, no one in particular. Though Geoff did mention—”
It is, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. I wasn’t thinking—or if I was, I was thinking about Geoff’s reaction yesterday, bordering on skepticism, and how I’d like for him to see Fisher and me together tonight.
At the mention of Geoff, Fisher’s dark eyes flash. “I could live a full life without ever hearing that name again. I know you can’t really avoid him, but—”