Page 48 of Inventing Mr Darcy

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.

NINETEEN

I fully expect Christmas Day to be lonely and comparatively dull.

The reality is something else entirely.