Chapter Eleven #2
I wonder, briefly, whether he worries about being cut off financially if he doesn’t do what his father wants.
But I can’t believe that a guy who willingly washes his own dishes by hand, when he could be living in Manhattan pulling down God knows how much—a guy who dreams of becoming a math professor, for crying out loud—is making his decisions based solely on money.
“Speaking of school,” I say after a lengthy silence, “I should probably get back to work soon …”
He absently nods his understanding, like he’s really thinking about something else, then asks, “Could I take you somewhere for dessert first?”
I shouldn’t agree, for a whole host of reasons, but the truth is, I don’t want to say no. While he smothers the remaining embers of the dying fire, I carry our glasses back to the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling into the brightly lit parking lot of the shopping center on the edge of town. It’s Sunday evening, and only one store is still open.
“You brought me to Tech World?” I exclaim.
“Well, they sell all my favorite treats,” he says with a grin. “Come on. You still need a new laptop, right? To write your dissertation?”
I nod. “My parents put money into my account to pay for it. Early Christmas present, they said. But I haven’t had a chance …”
“So, let me help you pick the right one.”
And now that I know how he feels about working with computers, his frustration with people taking advantage of his tech know-how, the offer is almost as kind and generous and meaningful as that forehead kiss outside Blush & Bloom.
Inside, Tech World is a glare of fluorescent lights and overwhelming choices. When a salesclerk in a red polo finally shows up, I fully expect Fisher to take over. After all, he’s the expert.
But he does something even better. He makes it crystal clear that while he knows everything red polo guy does about computers and then some, this is going to be my laptop, and if red polo guy can’t explain things to me without jargon and high-pressure nonsense, then red polo guy won’t be making a sale.
As a direct result of this behavior, when the clerk goes to check on something in the back, I blurt out to Fisher, “I’ve made a decision.”
“About which laptop to buy?” he asks, sounding a little puzzled.
“About us.”
Beneath the ambient noise of the store, the blare of some movie soundtrack and the throb of high-end speakers and the life-ending explosion in some video game, I hear him say “And?”
“As it turns out, it doesn’t matter whether what happened in the workroom means anything. Because tonight definitely did. This.” I gesture around me. “Making me dinner. And that kiss on the forehead Friday night. And saving my files. And—”
“So what are you saying, Elle? Are we friends now?”
I think he’s teasing, but I lift my eyes to him in a gentle scold. “Better than friends.”
One dark eyebrow arcs suggestively. “Enemies?”
(And damn it, that word still makes my pulse race.)
“Not anymore,” I say, stepping closer.
Close enough to hear him whisper, “What then?”
And I know—know—what I should do next.
I should think about the thousand wonky files I have to sort through, about my missing research proposal and actually writing my damn dissertation. I need fewer distractions in my life, not more.
And I should think about his expression when he told me he’s leaving Grantham in just a few months. He’s promised his father he’ll go home and work with him after graduation, and I want Fisher to be the kind of guy who keeps his promises, right?
If all else fails, I should think about the quantity of garlic in his alfredo sauce.
But I don’t think about any of those things.
I kiss him, right there in the middle of Tech World.
And that perfectly messy, messily perfect first kiss in the workroom? Not a fluke.
When red polo guy returns with a box under each arm and finds us wrapped around each other, he looks a little bemused but doesn’t complain, just gently clears his throat.
I suppose he doesn’t want to lose his commission.
Later, when I open the door to my apartment, Cassie is stretched out on the couch with a book and the cat. “You’ve been gone for a while,” she says.
By way of explanation, I hold up the box containing my new laptop, then realize I never even told her what happened to the old one.
There’s a lot I haven’t told her.
“Fisher helped me pick it out,” I say.
“Davis?” Her eyebrows climb to the midpoint of her forehead, which … fair.
“Yeah. As it turns out, I had him all wrong. He’s—he’s great,” I insist. “Smart. Really supportive.”
Which of course reminds me of the ease with which he hauled me up against the workroom door, and my face heats with a telltale blush.
Cassie laughs at the sight of it. “Is that who you went out with on Friday? Well, well, well,” she says when I nod, her tone a mixture of amusement and disbelief. And maybe just a hint of wistfulness? No, I’m surely imagining that.
“What about Bill?” I ask.
“He’s fine,” she says, sitting up straighter on the couch. Instantly, an invisible wall drops between us, a wall that never existed before a couple of weeks ago.
I add it to the list of about a hundred things I don’t understand.
“I’m pretty tired,” I tell her as I head to my bedroom, though it’s not particularly late.
“G’night,” she says and flips a page in her book. Much to my surprise, the cat jumps down from her lap and follows me.
At my desk, I unpack my new computer, plug in the cord, and press the power button.
As red polo guy promised, there are a series of dialog boxes to walk me through the simple set-up process and wi-fi connection.
It’s all so sleek, like something from a sci-fi movie.
I scrounge up our wi-fi password, which I remember seeing on a scrap of paper in one of the drawers I turned upside down last week.
Once I’m online, I hold my breath as I open a browser and type “Jane Austen.”
No results found.
By the time I give up and decide to turn in, Tiger is curled up in a ball right in the center of my unmade bed, dead to the world. Not even his ears twitch as I crawl beneath the blankets and curve myself around his warm little body.
Exhausted but afraid that sleep won’t come, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and lay a hand on the cat’s side, focusing on the rise and fall of his ribcage. After a few minutes, I begin to trace shapes in his fur, my fingers moving without conscious thought.
It’s an old game I find soothing, almost a reflex. Curving, swooping letters. Initials.
E B — E B — E B
At some point, I smooth the fur like I’m wiping the board clean and start again.
F D — F D — F D
E B + F —
Finally, the cat makes a little merwp sound to show his annoyance. But what I was about to write had already given me pause.
EB + FD stands for Elizabeth Bennet + Fitzwilliam Darcy, of course.
But also … Elle Bradshaw + Fisher Davis?
How is it possible I never noticed this before?
All of a sudden, my mind is crowded with things I choose at first to call coincidences.
He criticized my appearance, then told me he thinks I’m beautiful.
He’s got money—or, at least, his family does. He can be arrogant. Sometimes he’s socially awkward.
But he explained why he was kind of a jerk about the computer stuff and more than made up for it. Now that I know him better, I’ve realized I misjudged him. I find his awkwardness kind of endearing, actually.
He’s got an amazing house. A brilliant sister. And as it turns out, he can be incredibly generous and kind.
Oh, my God.
I, Elle Bradshaw, am dating my very own Mr. Darcy.
It’s a bizarre realization, but also somehow comforting. These echoes of Austen in my life feel like proof that, even in the face of solar flares and shifting dimensions, the story is still alive.
Somehow, the universe found a way to hold onto the pieces of Pride and Prejudice.
“Can you believe it, Bing Bong?” I whisper.
One of his ears turns toward the sound of my voice, as if he recognizes his name. And beneath the gentle brush of my fingertips, he begins to purr.