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“Mr. Darcy?” he asks, scrunching his face.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask that.”
I’m sorry, Jane.
“Do you think he’s going to kiss you again?”
“No way. He’s definitely learned his lesson. Besides, isn’t he still with Camila? He shouldn’t be kissing anyone besides her.”
“I thought they were done.”
“Yeah, well she came over the other morning and apologized for how she acted at the dinner party. I saw them hugging.”
“Were you spying on them?” he asks, like he’s just found out some titillating piece of gossip.
“Would you think less of me if I was?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I was spying.”
“Elizabeth,” he says, feigning horror.
I laugh and shrug. “Whatever. I think they’re together again. He’s been away from the apartment a lot this week.”
“Could just be avoiding you,” he points out.
“Sure, or maybe he’s off having sex with his super-hot girlfriend.”
“Why does it sound like that bothers you?”
I hold up my hand to stop him right there. “I didn’t ask for any psychoanalysis, thank you.”
“I’ll bite my tongue then.”
“Good.”
We each take a bite of our sandwich, chew, swallow, then he asks, “Do you want me to text him about Camila?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, I shove my food aside and lean forward with wide eyes. “Yes.”
He nods and tugs out his phone.
“You need to be subtle about it, though,” I say quickly. “Don’t make him think we’re talking about him or anything.”
He slides the phone across the table so I can read the text he’s already sent.
Matthew: Hey, you and Camila still together?
“MATTHEW.”
“What? We don’t dance around stuff. He’d think it was weird if I peppered in tidbits about feelings.”
I’m blushing from head to toe. It’s like I just texted Walt.
“Has he replied?”
“I just sent it.”
“Okay, well what about now?”
“Relax, psycho. Eat your sandwich and we’ll see if he gets back to us before we’re done with lunch.”
I do my best to participate in decent conversation. Matthew tries to talk to me about one of the students in his class, and I do a wonderful impression of Friend Listening until he asks me to repeat what he just said and I come up short.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, all high and mighty.
“Can I just see your phone, please, to see if he’s responded?”
“He hasn’t. I would have felt it vibrate,” he says, tugging it out of his pocket to check.
He shows me the blank home screen. No text.
“What’s he doing anyway?” I ask, annoyed.
“Running a Fortune 500 company.”
Okay sure, big whoop. So he doesn’t have time to be texting with us at one o’clock in the afternoon, but that just leaves the question burning in the back of my mind. We wrap up lunch and say our farewells. Matthew promises to let me know if Walt texts back, and then I walk home in an anxious fit, checking my phone every time I feel a phantom vibration.
I try to get some work done in the library at the apartment, but it’s impossible to focus on my canvas.
I put my phone near me, then, annoyed that it’s taking up so much of my attention, I place it clear across the room as if it will be out of sight, out of mind. That doesn’t work though, because then I continuously worry I’ve missed a call or text. I dart back and forth across the room, running to check if any new messages have popped up the last several seconds since I last checked.
Around 8:45, I cave and text Matthew.
Elizabeth: Anything?
But before he can reply, the elevator dings.
I hear the ominous sound of Walt’s shoes on the marble floor, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
I drop my phone on a chair and tiptoe toward the door of the library so I can peer out. To my horror, Walt is headed down the hall, in my direction, devastatingly handsome in a navy suit.
I flee back to my easel, pick up a pastel crayon, and scratch vigorously across my canvas.
His footsteps near, and panic grips hold of my spine. It’s like I’m in some kind of horror movie and the monster is stalking closer.
When he stops at the door of the library, I glance at him over my shoulder. He finishes loosening his tie and then starts to slide off his jacket.
“If you’re curious about me or my life, I’d prefer if you asked me about it directly instead of going through my brother.”
He’s not even looking at me!
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Good, Elizabeth. That almost sounded true!
He chuckles under his breath—in plain disbelief—turns, and walks away.
I don’t see or hear him the rest of the night.
Matthew texts me back just before bed.
Matthew: Still no word yet. Sorry.
Elizabeth: I doubt you’ll ever get a response. He knows we’re in cahoots.
Matthew: Damn. He always was the smart one.
The next morning, I find Walt in the kitchen, reading on an iPad while sipping his coffee. It’s Sunday morning and he’s already dressed like that. A different day, a different suit. How does he get them all so perfectly tailored?
