Chapter Eighteen
EIGHTEEN
On Christmas Eve, the familiar pattern of our days is broken.
My first text of the day comes not from Fisher, but from Cassie.
In it, she reveals that Bill might propose (!) on Christmas and if he does, she intends to accept.
When I ask if she’s sure, she tells me she’s almost thirty, the job market is uncertain, and she doesn’t want to be single forever.
It’s an uncanny echo of that line from the movie we used to quote, about being twenty-seven, with no prospects—but without any hint of twenty-first-century wry superiority.
When I ask about romance, she sends me the skull emoji.
And when I ask whether he makes her happy, she says, and I quote, what’s happiness got to do with marriage?
After all that, I need a vat of coffee. While it’s brewing, I hear the buzz of another text and smile to myself as I pick up my phone. Fisher, surely.
But no, it’s Geoff, asking if I’ve got room in my luggage for some materials for the convention, and if so, can he drop them off?
Naturally, I haven’t begun to pack for a trip that’s still almost two full days away, so I can’t exactly deny that there’s plenty of room in my suitcase.
And since it’s a holiday and all the obvious places to meet up are closed, he offers to bring them by my place.
Without thinking too much about it, I text the address—804 Elm St—and suggest a time. And then I spend the rest of my day drafting the final scene of my … well, I don’t think there’s any denying it’s a novel now, the way it’s grown … and I’m actually starting to feel like it’s pretty good.
It’s well into the evening when Fisher finally calls with the news that they’ve been busy making arrangements to move his dad to a rehabilitation center, somewhere closer to their home in Connecticut so he can recover in more peace than the hospital provides and work with therapists to regain his strength.
“That’s fantastic news,” I tell him, then I hear the door knocker. “Oh, just a second.”
I go to the door, and sure enough, it’s Geoff, hours later than I expected him, with two thick padded envelopes, one full of bookmarks and the other flash drives, not unlike the one on which Fisher saved my files, except these have OWEN-C stamped on the side opposite the Grantham College Eagle.
“I’ll make room,” I tell him as I take both envelopes in one hand and gesture to show I’m on the phone.
“This is quite the place,” Geoff says, ignoring my hint as he peers past me into the foyer.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s Fisher’s house.”
A strange expression crosses his face, a mixture of surprise and maybe envy? “I figured you two weren’t on speaking terms anymore.”
“Well, we are,” I say and motion again with my phone.
This time he nods his understanding. But he still takes his time turning around and heading back down the steps, and as he does, his gaze sweeps greedily over everything it can reach, me included. A chill scuttles through me, which I choose to blame on the night air.
“Sorry about that,” I tell Fisher as I close (and lock) the door behind Geoff.
“Was that Winkworth? In my house?”
I can’t help but think of every romance I’ve read where the man’s voice is described as dangerously soft. I don’t think I ever really understood what that meant. Until now.
“Not in your house,” I clarify as I make my way into the living room. “On your porch. Dropping off some materials for the convention. I’ll be in New York in two days—or had you forgotten?” I try to sound fun and a little flirty, but his expression is stern as he slowly shakes his head.
(As it turns out, I find stern Fisher kind of sexy, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.)
“You aren’t …?” I begin, reluctant to put my thought into words. “You can’t really be jealous of him.”
“Why not?”
“Well, because he—” I stammer. “And you—”
He looks a little exasperated now. “I realize you may feel I don’t have any right—”
“You don’t have any reason,” I correct.
“Why do you think he sent you those stories about me? To drive a wedge between us.”
That can’t be true, though it scares me how close Geoff came to doing just that anyway. “That wasn’t his motive,” I insist. “He was trying to protect me. Trying to be a friend.”
Fisher rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s it.
Look, you can’t deny he has some advantages.
Obviously, the two of you share more common interests.
Even I can see that he understands your work in ways I probably never will.
And even though I can’t stand the guy, from what I can tell, most people seem to find him charming. While I’m … what was your word? Salty?”
“Well, it just so happens I like you salty,” I retort. “In fact, I love you …”
That sentence starts off one way, a silly attempt to emphasize how much I enjoy our banter. But it trails off in a very different place. I blame all the sappy prose that’s been pouring from my fingertips in the last week.
And then, to top it all off, I repeat myself. A little breathlessly, at that. “I love you.”
At first, I think he’s dropped the phone.
I start to babble nonsense to cover for the bombshell I’ve just blurted out.
I only realize someone’s actually taken his phone out of his hands when I hear Gaby say, “Are you talking to Elle again?” Her brilliant smile fills the screen. “Hey, there. Nice to finally see you!”
In the background, I hear Fisher demand his phone back. “Really bad timing, Gabs.”
“What?” The video image shifts to the front of her sweater, as if she’s lowered the phone to speak with him and is determined to keep it out of his hands.
“I just wanted to thank the famous Elle for keeping you sane-ish these last few weeks. I think”—here, she raises it to show her face—“you deserve some kind of medal for putting up with him.”
“I, uh, I’m glad to do it.” Glad? Good grief, I sound like I’ve been taking care of his goldfish while he’s out of town. And then, because I haven’t humiliated myself enough, I add, “I really like your wine, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks! You’re sweet to mention it.
Yeah, the winery is a lot of fun, though lately I’ve been thinking it might be time to move on, find some new challenge.
I’ll be sure to send you a case, though—care of my brother, ok?
He tells me you’re temporarily staying at his house.
” Her lips quirk and her eyebrows shoot up.
The expression is familiar; Fisher makes the same one.
Her next words are spoken in an exaggerated whisper designed for her brother to hear. “Mom and I are both wondering—”
“Enough, Gaby.”
Then there’s an actual tussle over his phone and in the process, we’re disconnected. I wait for several moments, staring at the screen, trying hard not to speculate about Gaby’s meaning or Fisher’s reaction. But he doesn’t call back.
What makes things even worse is that I didn’t misspeak. It’s true. It seems I have foolishly, impetuously, knowing what I know about who he is and what the future inevitably holds, allowed myself to fall in love with Fisher Davis.
Earlier today, I wrote a scene where two people say those three little words to one another; it seemed so easy and everything went perfectly. I guess I just felt … inspired to try it for myself. To say them out loud. To him.
And now he is not calling me back.
Oh God oh God oh God.
I should probably pack, though I have no idea where I would go until my apartment has heat. Instead, I curl into a ball on the ottoman and cover my whole body with the fluffy blanket and will myself not to cry.
I’m not sure how long I’ve lain that way, how much time has passed since the call ended, when I feel the vibration of an incoming message on my phone, which is underneath me, somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. The sensation only amplifies my queasiness.
Eventually, though, I make myself sit up, blanket draped over my head and shoulders like a Russian grandma’s shawl, and check.
It’s from him. Breathing deep to quell my rising panic, I open my phone and realize it’s an audio message.
One minute, forty-seven seconds long. Instinct tells me that can’t be good. I’m seriously tempted not to listen.
But morbid curiosity wins out in the end, and I press play.
“Hey.” He pauses to swallow audibly, and I do too.
His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, which makes him sound uncharacteristically uncertain.
“I owe you an apology, Elle. My sister can be a … well, a pain in the ass, to be honest.” He says it warmly, though, like he means it in the nicest possible way.
“And I’m also sorry that this message is how you’re going to find out what a chickenshit I am.
Because once I rescued my phone, I was going to video call you right back, but it turns out I couldn’t—I couldn’t face—”
I press pause and consider whether I can bear to continue, whether I should just get it over with and puke now. I cannot believe what an idiot I’ve been.
“The truth is,” he says, when I can make myself listen again, “I’m afraid that if I give you the chance, you’ll tell me you were just kidding when you said you loved me.
And if you were, listen: that’s OK. I can take a joke.
But, uh, if that’s the case, is it too ridiculous for me to admit I don’t want you to be able to see my reaction?
Because you should know … I love you. Too.
I love you, too. I, uh … God, I hope that doesn’t come as a total surprise?
Maybe it seems too soon to be talking like this, especially after what happened right before I left.
And maybe it seems wrong when everything is so up in the air.
But the thing is … I’ve had feelings for you for a long time.
For me, this didn’t start that night in the database workroom.
And I’m guessing you never knew because I acted like such an asshole for so long.
I’m really sorry.” He heaves a deep sigh, like he’s sure his apology is too late or not enough.
“It’s just … I’ve always had a hard time putting my feelings into words.
” At that, I squeeze shut my eyes, and in the darkness, I see nothing but the glow of a single red heart emoji.
“If I hadn’t locked Gaby out of my room, she would be right here warning you now that I’m a hopeless case, that I have the emotional intelligence of a fourteen-year-old boy.
God, I hope it’s not really that bad? But I suppose she must be at least partly right.
” The ghost of a self-deprecating laugh whooshes over the microphone.
“After all, I actually told you your lips were too full when all I could think about was kissing them … Anyway, I’ve probably rambled on long enough.
But I hope—well, you know what I hope.” There’s another long pause, then, “Bye.”
His voice lifts slightly on that last word, almost but not quite a question. Like he doesn’t know whether he should expect to hear from me again. Like he’s praying this won’t be the end.
I realize tears are streaming down my face when one plops onto the screen of my phone, then another, and another. I hurry to wipe them away, suddenly panicked that the device might short circuit and I won’t be able to contact him. I realize my hands are shaking.
I don’t know whether to call or video chat. I want to listen to Fisher’s message a dozen times before I do anything else, but I also don’t want to leave him in agony. I settle, finally, on a text.
Not a joke
But please don’t call rn unless
you want to see/hear me cry
(happy tears)
Through blurry eyes, I watch the Fisher is typing … bubble bounce. Finally, the reply appears.
And that starts the tears flowing in earnest. After listening to his message until I have it memorized, I go to the kitchen and pour a celebratory glass of Gaby’s wine—I’m about to have my own personal supply, after all—and then wander back to the living room.
Bing Bong chases the fringe of the blanket as it drags behind me.
I’m jangling with energy now, so much I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to call him but it’s late there, and besides, it all feels so delicate and new, I’m afraid I’ll muck something up. Instead, I grab my laptop and reread what I wrote earlier.
Yes, it’s derivative of Pride and Prejudice and a thousand other stories I’ve read and seen.
But no one else has read them or seen them.
Those stories no longer exist.
For the past few weeks, some variation on that thought has repeatedly been making me sad. I feel a fresh stab of grief every time I remember what’s lost. But today, because I’m in love and in love with love, I believe for the first time that I have the power to change things in some small way.
Flush with my new authority in matters of the heart, I create an author account (EllieB) on one of those websites that allow you to post your original work.
In the past I would have dubbed it a fan fiction site, but because fan fiction was dominated by the now non-existent tropes and traditions of romance fiction, it too has changed; there seems to be noticeably less interest in the imaginative project of getting your favorite characters to hook up, or hooking up with your favorite characters.
I pause to wonder what teenage girls are doing with their, um, creative energies instead.
Then, with fresh resolve and just a few clicks, I send my romance novel into the world.