Page 50 of Inventing Mr Darcy

There’s the slightest pause, and I swear his voice drops another octave when he says, “Very.”

Suddenly, the fireplace seems to be giving off a lot more heat.

Before I can come up with a suitable response, however, I hear someone in the background on his end, a woman’s voice, call out, “Ready to go?”

“Yep,” he says (to her), his voice clipped. “Sorry,” he says (to me, in his normal register). The sigh that follows those words is heavy with frustration. “Maybe later, we can, um, pick up this conversation where we left off?”

“I’d like that. In the meantime, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.” There’s more to say, of course, but I’m suddenly shy.

He seizes the space left by my hesitation. “I will,” he says. “I have a lot to celebrate. I love you, Elle.”

A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding shudders past my lips. I hope the noise of it rushing into the phone doesn’t deafen him.

I really hope he hears me say, “I love you, too.”

After that, I decide maybe the best thing for me is a shower. And even though it might be a good idea to take a cold one, instead I lose myself in the luxury of his bathroom for like an hour and a half. I know tomorrow morning will be rushed because I have to be at the airport early. So I take this opportunity for something like a spa day.

When I finally emerge, I have a text

Merry Christmas from the future

Mrs. William Conklin!

I’m not surprised, but I also can’t help feeling like the future Dr. Cassandra Lewis has been erased.

I plop onto the unmade bed, belly first, and Bing Bong, who unbeknownst to me has burrowed under the covers, alerts me to his presence with a weary groan. Cassie’s message has been sitting there for half an hour already, but it’s another twenty minutes before I can make myself type

Congratulations!

To him, I want to add, but don’t.

Thx

I try to muster some enthusiasm.

Ring pic?

Oh, we agreed

a ring wasn’t necessary

Which, I suspect, means he decided a ring wasn’t necessary and she went along with it. I drop my face into the fluffy down comforter; let it swallow my scream. This is what happens in a world without romance novels. I mean, even if he couldn’t afford a big diamond, he could’ve made some sweet gesture—a candy ring pop, or a little circlet of sparkly Christmas ribbon. The old Cassie would’ve eaten that shit up with a spoon.

I can’t decide whether it’s better or worse that she doesn’t even know what she’s missing.

Over the years, I’ve heard many people complain that romance novels gave women false expectations—and I was always tempted to retort, By which you mean you don’t think we should expect orgasms. And yeah, I’m not going to lie. The depiction of people having great sex was sometimes part of the appeal.

But more than that, romance taught so many women the power of choice. I want this. I don’t want that. I deserve more. Whether more was a better job, or respect, or unconditional love didn’t matter as much as knowing that it was—or should be—possible to get exactly what you want.

And now all I can think about is Bill’s proposal, how he probably couched marriage in purely practical terms—just like Mr. Collins did when he proposed to Elizabeth in Pride and Prejudice. And how Cassie, who can no longer imagine love and happiness and romance, must have felt that telling him no wasn’t a choice she could make.

News that should be elating but is instead depressing is also really exhausting. And that, combined with the fact that I started my day at an ungodly early hour for almost anyone, but especially me, means that I decide I’m entitled to just lie there for a good long while.

I wake up a couple of hours later thanks to a combination of chilly air and the buzz of an incoming text from Fisher.

Video chat in 10?

Just great—ten minutes to get camera ready, and I’m sprawled on his unmade bed, wearing nothing but a towel. I wanted to look perfect when he called again.