Chapter Not One-and-Twenty
NOT ONE-AND-TWENTY
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
That line, English poet Lord Byron’s meditation on literary celebrity, is the first thing that pops into my head as the plane takes off—though, in Byron’s case, infamous might be the better word.
Then again, I have no way of knowing what people have said about my work, so I suppose I should reserve judgment.
I’m aware of a certain irony in thinking about Lord Byron’s notoriety at this moment. He was Austen’s contemporary, and we know she read his work. But since he had nothing but contempt for novelists, he probably didn’t even know she existed. And now … she doesn’t.
Then again, it’s possible the solar flare wiped him out too. I turn toward Geoff, my lips parted with a question I can’t quite figure out how to frame.
He’s still talking, but something about my expression gives him pause. “Listen to me, nattering on about mince pies. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important on Christmas Eve?”
And now, to the adrenaline rush of all those Wordstitch notifications, as well as my unanswered question about the continued relevance of a poet once described by his lover as mad, bad, and dangerous to know, I add the memory of Geoff’s strange expression as he stepped off the porch and also the conversation with Fisher that followed.
It might even be that I owe Geoff my thanks.
“Not at all,” I tell him.
Which, somehow, frees him to settle his hand on my hand, which is lying on the armrest between us, and give it a squeeze. “That’s lovely to hear.”
After half a moment, I return my hand to my lap and he resumes telling me about obscure British holiday customs and none of it means anything, except that our time in New York should be more amicable than I once expected.
Still, it’s a relief when the person to Geoff’s right butts in to ask a question about plum pudding and I’m free to let my thoughts wander back to Wordstitch. And Fisher.
What are the odds that:
1. one person found 2,481 typos?
2. all 2,481 people who opened First Impressions hated it?
3. one of those 2,481 notifications is from someone else who remembers Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice?
Fisher could probably calculate the answers. I find myself almost wishing I’d paid more attention in math class.
Instead, my thoughts continue to spin and my anxiety spirals ever higher.
Even after we land, I don’t have a private moment to check the Wordstitch app, what with the crowds in the airport and the taxi ride with Professor Pedersen looking over my shoulder this time, instead of Geoff.
At the hotel, when I’m assigned to room 1817 (the year Austen died), I tell myself it’s not a bad omen, that it doesn’t mean anything at all.
Finally, finally, I’m alone and able to swipe over to app notifications, where I see that the number has grown to 5,342.
And now I’m really afraid to look.
But maybe if I do something else while looking at the comments and reactions, it won’t be so bad. So I scroll with one hand while unpacking my suitcase with the other, the functional equivalent of watching a horror movie through your fingers.
And as it turns out, I didn’t really need to worry.
It’s almost all good. I can’t stifle an incredulous smile at the number of times someone describes the plot of First Impressions as “different” or “unique,” when all I did was follow the most famous formula in the world—or what used to be the formula.
Its supposedly distinctive qualities, in fact, have made the story go a bit viral within the platform, pushing it to even more readers, most of whom seem enthralled by the idea of people holding out for love and happiness in their relationships.
This is radical! one says when Elinor Bishop, the female protagonist, refuses wealthy Lord Driscoll’s first proposal of marriage, while another has left the heart-eyes emoji on every witty, snarky line she utters—and there are a lot.
And quite a few comment on the fact she has and enjoys sex but doesn’t get punished for it with societal shunning or even death—like she would in the classics, one notes.
The groundswell of enthusiasm for my feisty heroine, her socially awkward hero, and their journey from enemies to lovers feels … well, revolutionary, to be honest. Was this how Jane Austen felt when she penned the story that helped shift her society’s focus from pragmatism to romance?
Of course, not everyone loves it. There are those who find it unrealistic or silly—like it’s a good idea for us to be basing important life decisions on our emotions, snipes one.
And it’s difficult to tell how many people have actually read it.
One story and a few hundred people on a free fiction app can’t really be expected to bring about a romance revolution.
Worst of all, I can’t completely shake free of these occasional twinges of guilt. Because it’s not my story—or at least, not entirely.
But maybe a pale imitation of Pride and Prejudice is better than no Pride and Prejudice at all?
At least none of the Wordstitch commenters has accused me of theft or betrayed any hint of shared knowledge. Whether they find my ideas daring or demented, as far as they’re all concerned, EllieB is an original.
I wish there was one other person in the world I could talk with about my dilemma, someone who understood what the world lost and why it’s important to me to try to bring some small fragment of it back.
Fisher would say something encouraging, but I know Austen never was his thing, and he’s got enough on his plate.
For just a moment, I consider texting Cassie. But how could I possibly explain?
I’m in the heart of a city of eight million people, and I have never felt so alone.
And at precisely that moment—when I’m balanced on the precipice of elation, staring down into the valley of isolation and despair—my phone rings.
Naturally, I jump and drop my phone, which falls to the floor of the closet, so I have to get down on hands and knees to fish it out, groping blindly beneath the luggage rack. The screen is lit up with Fisher’s name.
I promised to text him as soon as I landed, and instead I’ve let almost two hours elapse.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out as I swipe to answer, trying to disguise that the scramble to recover my phone has left me a little breathless. “I’m here—I’m here—”
“I hope everything’s all right? Was there a delay?”
“Yes. I mean, no—no delay. Sorry for not texting earlier. I sort of fell down this rabbit hole … Did you get your dad moved?” I ask, eager to shift the conversation. “How’d it go?”
“About as smoothly as could be expected, under the circumstances,” he answers.
I wonder, briefly, what circumstances he’s referring to, or whether that’s simply a euphemism for his dad’s irascibility about his slow recovery.
“The new place is only about fifteen minutes from our house, so that should make things more manageable. Gaby’s almost got Mom convinced she can sleep in her own bed instead of staying with him. ”
I doubt Laura Davis needs me to take up for her, but I do it anyway. “Well, she’s worried. And it’s got to be hard sleeping alone, after so many years together.” I know his parents didn’t make a love match, but since then, they’ve shared a home, children, a life. That has to mean something.
“Yeah,” he agrees after yet another pause. “Yeah, I suppose it is.” Then it’s his turn to change the subject. “So, what do you think of New York?”
I wander to the window and look out and down at the tall buildings and crowded streets that surround our Midtown hotel. So many cars, so many people. It’s exciting and overwhelming all at once, and I know I must sound like an absolute hayseed when I say, “It’s, um, OK.”
I fully expect and probably deserve to be mocked for that lukewarm endorsement. But he gives me a pass, though there is a hint of a smile in his voice when he replies, “Well, it’s no Grantham. But if that’s how you feel, I guess you probably don’t have any interest in being taken out to dinner?”
My heart leaps, only to plummet when I recall the schedule. “Professor Pedersen asked Geoff and me to meet with him tonight, to go over things. But he probably just wants to check in. I’m sure I don’t have to—”
“You do, Elle. He’s your advisor.”
I want to argue, but deep down, I know he’s right—I can’t afford to miss any important conversations or information I need to ensure this conference is a success. Falling out of Pedersen’s good graces before I finish my dissertation would spell doom for my job prospects.
“Unfortunately, I’m also on the hook for staffing our booth tomorrow,” I say, scowling at the cardboard box of swag Professor Pedersen asked me to lug up to my room because his is on a higher floor.
“It’s all right,” he insists. “Now that my dad has access to his phone again, he set up a bunch of appointments with all the C-suite types for me, so I’m booked all day too.
” He sounds anything but enthusiastic, even though I suspect these meetings are just one more sign that he is steps away from joining their ranks.
I’m reminded of those characters in Christmas rom-coms, people who can’t get away from their high-powered big city jobs, even though the rest of the world is on vacation and no one should even have to know what day of the week it is.
I guess the stereotype had to come from somewhere.
But since those movies no longer exist, maybe no one thinks to complain about how their bosses—or graduate advisors, or fathers—are ruining their chances for holiday romance.
“How about the day after?” I suggest. I don’t actually know the schedule for Saturday yet, but I’m determined to make it happen.
“It’s a date.”
After we hang up, I stand at the window, weaving the hemmed edge of the sheer curtain between my fingers and watching darkness fall over the city that never sleeps. Somehow, I felt closer to Fisher when I was alone in his house in Minnesota than I do here.
It’s an illusion, of course. Because this is his real home.
I flop onto the bed, pick up my phone, and resume scrolling the comments in Wordstitch, which are now approaching 11,000. They reassure me that I do in fact know something about happy endings.