Chapter Thirty-Three
Lucy
Lady Susan is unlike any other protagonist I’ve encountered in Austen.
Calculating. Manipulative. Brilliantly deceptive.
A woman who bends the world to her will without apology.
And somehow, in all her villainy, I can’t help but admire her—the precision of her charm and the way she navigates social landmines with a hidden smile.
I’m so absorbed in the story that it feels like I’m standing beside her, watching as she orchestrates every interaction to her advantage.
The subtle curve of her lips. The sweetness she performs while concealing an agenda sharp enough to cut.
I can almost feel the weight of her gown as she paces the drawing room, weaving lies so seamlessly they sound like truth. There’s something intoxicating about being inside her head, about a woman who refuses to apologize for wanting more. She takes what she wants, consequences be damned.
And maybe, there’s a part of me that envies her.
Not because she’s kind.
Lady Susan isn’t kind. She’s ruthless in ways I could never be.
But she knows what she wants. And she believes, without apology, that she deserves to pursue it.
I’ve spent most of my life doing the opposite. I wait, observe, stay inside the lines of the world I already know.
Lady Susan doesn’t wait.
She moves first and deals with the consequences later.
I can’t decide if that makes her reckless or brave.
Maybe both.
If I’d had even a fraction of Lady Susan’s confidence, would I have let Dylan go?
The question pulls me out of the story more effectively than Ms. Thorn ever could. I blink, shaking my head as if that alone might dislodge it. But it lingers. It always does. The ache of what I lost. What I chose to let go.
A throat clears nearby, pulling me sharply back into the present.
“Lucy?”
Ms. Thorn’s voice interrupts the world of Jane Austen, and the library snaps back into focus. The scent of old paper, the quiet shuffle of pages, and the low murmur of a study group tucked into the far corner. Reality settles in around me, heavier than before.
I look up. “Ms. Thorn?”
She smiles. “I hate to be the one to interrupt, but the library closes in twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” I glance at the clock, surprised by how much time has slipped past me. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“That’s how you know it’s a good story,” she says, nodding toward the worn copy of Lady Susan in my hands. “What do you think of her?”
I smile faintly, tracing the edge of the cover with my thumb. “She’s… complicated.”
Ms. Thorn lifts a brow. “Complicated? Or just unapologetic?”
I hesitate. How do I explain that I admire Lady Susan not because she’s good, but because she’s decisive? That confidence feels like something I misplaced somewhere along the way.
“I think I needed something different,” I say finally. “A change.”
“Different can be revealing,” she says gently. “Sometimes the characters we gravitate toward say more about us than we realize.”
The words hit something tender in my chest. I swallow, staring down at the page. “It’s just easier to get lost in stories sometimes,” I admit. “Especially when real life feels… messy.”
Ms. Thorn nods, resting a hand against the back of the chair. “Messy means you care, Lucy. It means something mattered.”
“But what if you don’t know how to fix it?” I ask quietly. “What if you’re not even sure you should?”
She studies me for a moment, thoughtful. “Stories don’t always give us answers right away,” she says. “At least… they haven’t for me. Sometimes, all you can do is keep turning the page and trust that clarity will come.”
Her words don’t heal the ache, but they soften it.
“I’ll let you finish,” she adds. “Just don’t stay too long.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning more than just that.
She walks away, leaving me alone with Lady Susan and the understanding that no matter how deeply I disappear into someone else’s story, my own choices are still waiting when I reach the end of the page.
***
I sit at the dining room table, my laptop open in front of me as I type the final paragraphs of my paper.
The house is quiet, wrapped in that late-evening stillness that makes every sound feel louder.
My fingers click softly against the keyboard, and every few sentences, I glance at the stack of textbooks beside me, mentally ticking through citations, making sure I haven’t missed anything important.
The paper is due tomorrow. I’m almost finished. And yet, the harder I try to focus, the more everything else crowds in.
I push my chair back and stretch, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to shake off the tension that’s rooted there. Just a few more lines, I tell myself. Then you can submit it. Then you can breathe.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Once I submit it… then what?
Graduation? Life begins?
The question lingers, frustrating and unanswered.
“Still working on that paper?”
Dad’s voice startles me. I didn’t even hear him come in.
“Yeah,” I say, turning toward the doorway where he’s standing, arms crossed, an easy smile on his face. “Almost done. Just trying to wrap it up.”
He steps into the room and pulls out the chair across from me, sitting down with a quiet sigh. “You’ve been working hard. That’s good.” His gaze sharpens slightly. “But I can tell something’s weighing on you.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, buying myself a second. This conversation has been circling my thoughts for weeks, but saying it out loud feels harder than I expected. “I guess I’ve just been thinking a lot about the future.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Graduation’s coming up fast.”
I nod. “Everyone else seems to know what comes next. Dylan always did. You did. And I just…” I trail off, annoyance flaring in my chest. “I feel stuck.”
“Stuck how?” he asks gently.
“I don’t know if my life is really supposed to stay here,” I admit. “I love this town. I love home. But lately, I keep wondering if I’m meant to do something else. Something bigger. And I don’t know how to tell the difference between fear and instinct.”
Dad studies me for a long moment. “Not knowing right away doesn’t mean you’re behind, Lucy. It means you haven’t found the thing that feels like yours yet.”
“What if I never do?”
“Then start with what you already love.”
His words loosen something I didn’t realize I was holding onto so tightly. Then, he tilts his head. “You’ve always loved stories. Have you ever thought about writing one of your own?”
The question catches me off guard. “Writing?”
“You’ve always had a way with words,” he says. “You see things differently. Writing might help you sort through some of this.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know if I’d be any good.”
“You just have to start.”
I nod slowly. “Okay. I’ll try.”
He smiles and squeezes my hand. “That’s all anyone can ask.”
After he leaves, I finish the paper quickly, the last few sentences coming easier than the rest. When I finally hit submit, relief washes over me, but it doesn’t last long.
Before I can close the browser, an email from the university career center catches my attention.
Publishing Internship—California.
Normally, California alone would be enough to make me scroll past.
I don’t.
I click the listing.
Editorial assistance. Manuscript review. Proofreading. Working with authors. Six months.
My pulse quickens.
I read it twice before opening the application.
Once it’s filled out, my fingers hover over the button longer than it should
Then I click Submit.
Instead of closing my laptop, I open a new document.
The cursor blinks at me, expectant.
What do I even write about?
The answer comes instantly.
Dylan.
The name alone sends a rush of memories through me.
His laugh.
The way he used to lean against the counter while I talked about books he’d never read, listening like it was the most important conversation of his life.
The steady reassurance in his voice whenever I doubted myself.
Loving Dylan changed me in ways I didn’t fully understand until he was gone.
It forced me to look beyond the safe, familiar edges of the life I built for myself.
And now that he’s no longer part of it, those edges feel smaller than they used to.
My fingers hover for half a second before moving, and then the words pour out. I write about how some people spend their whole lives waiting for courage. About how loving someone forced me to discover mine, then how I pushed him away when I was afraid of what that love might require.
I write about Dylan. About us. About the way love doesn’t always end cleanly, or kindly, or with answers.
And beneath it all, I write about the thing that scares me most—the unknown. The not knowing if Dylan and I are truly over, or just unfinished.
By the time I stop, pages fill the screen. My eyes settle on one sentence.
Some people spend their whole lives searching for home. I found mine in another person. And I lost it by trying to protect it.
No matter how many words I write, one truth remains untouched and undeniable.
Dylan was the greatest chapter I’ve lived.
And I’m not sure I’m ready for it to be over.