Even on My Weakest Day
summary: "I still wish I was your peach." Lydia Bennet, trying to mend a broken heart and move on with her life. Easier said than done. Lizzie Bennet Diaries. Spoilers for episode 84 on.
Dear George, I—
She puts her letter down and stops reading. She doesn't know what to say. She's never been a writer. She wishes she could be like Darcy. All that guy had to do was write a letter to her sister and—bam! Misunderstanding over. And eventually love.
Of course, there's a huge difference between what happened with her sister and Darcy and what happened to her and George.
She was so selfish. So stupid. She crumples up the letter and throws it into the trash can. She's never going to send it. Even if she did, why would he read it? He doesn't care anymore.
I still wish I was your peach.
Lydia wakes up, and her vision is groggy. Her head feels like it's going to explode, and her muscles are stiff. Where is she? Oh, home. On the couch. She then tries to remember what happened the night before. Oh yes. Drinking herself silly at a bar. Nearly passing out. It's a miracle she got home.
Alcohol helped for the time when she was drinking, but now it's like she's back on square one. Her heart is throbbing along with her head as she tries to orient herself. Lizzie and Jane won't be pleased. Forget them. Forget everything.
She sits up, and she can see a bowl of peaches on the table. She's hit with a memory so clear it seems real. George telling her that peaches were supposedly good for hangovers, her laughing and not believing a word but eating the peach anyway. George had eaten a peach too, telling her that peaches were his absolute favorite fruit. She can remember the image of the perfectly pink skin of the peach being lifted up to his perfect lips as he took a bite.
I love you, peach.
She pushes the bowl of peaches away from herself. The peaches tumble onto the ground. Her mom won't be happy. Forget her. Forget everything.
She wishes she was like the peach. Beautiful. Sweet. Delicate.
Loved by him.
Do you still think about me?
Sometimes, there are moments, when Lydia is sure that she's getting better. And then something will pop up—a sunset, a peach, a pair of abs, and then all of a sudden she'll be bawling again.
She tells herself she's not thinking about him, not at all, no. She tries to pretend everything's okay. She wears bright colors and goes out to parties. She drinks alcohol. Alcohol does help, for a moment, at least. But the next day she'll wake up with a splitting headache and vomit. And she knows Lizzie and Jane get worried about her when she drinks like that. She can't pretend that there are no consequences anymore.
She has to be more responsible.
But not today, she decides. Today she is going to an amusement park with Mary. She's going to force Mary to have fun, and laugh, and they're going to take a ridiculous amount of photos.
She dresses for the occasion in a bright loose tank top and some denim shorts, and makes sure to put on the necklace Jane and Lizzie gave her. It's a great accessory, after all. Sneakers, make-up, sunglasses, and a smile. She grabs her bag. She's ready.
She meets Mary, who, ugh, hasn't changed. The girl doesn't know how to dress up for a day of fun—she's still in black.
"Mary, could you, for once, look cheerful? Ugh, you could be so much more if you didn't insist on your emo-ness," she chirps.
Mary only cracks a smile. "Yup, you're back."
Lydia jostles her. "Are you regretting this? You're the one who peer-pressured me into coming here."
And this time Mary laughs. "Not at all, Lydia. One condition: no rollercoasters."
Lydia laughs. "And do you know what my condition is? No conditions, Mary!" She drags her resisting cousin to the line, brushing off Mary's excuses on how that is a contradictory condition. "You are going to have fun, whether you want to or not."
Throughout the entire day, they go from ride to ride. She's having so much fun she forgets to think about George. Mary forces her to ride the sissy teacups, insisting that any other ride and she's going to puke. The teacups actually end up being a lot of fun, her spinning them so fast that it looks like Mary might puke anyway. She doesn't, thank goodness. And then they eat overpriced amusement park hot dogs and cotton candy.
In fact, she doesn't think about George for the entire day until she says goodbye and goes back home.
I still think about you. A lot, actually. Sometimes I think you still love me—
With Jane's help, she gets involved in the fashion industry for a short while. But fashion, as fun as it is, isn't something she wants to dedicate her entire life to. Lizzie offers to get her a job at her new video company but no, that's not what Lydia really wants either.
She tries so many things. According to Lizzie, the key is always education (typical nerdy older sister response), so she actually tries to take Lizzie's advice and gets involved in various classes. It'll help her résumé too; most companies aren't that glad to hire her when they learn she's only gone to community college.
But what does she want to do? She can't live off her sisters' charity—because that's what it is, charity. Her sisters have good intentions but really, it's charity. And there was a time when The Lydia Bennet didn't even accept pity, let alone charity.
George. All of a sudden she wants George. George who was so strong. Who gave such good advice. Who was so wise. George had always, always known what to do, always known the solution. She'd always been able to lean on him.
—and then I remember.
Forget him, she tells herself. Lydia Bennet is going to do something without George Wickham. She doesn't need him anymore. She's already healed this much, healed enough that she can think of him and not burst into tears. It's just, sometimes, the thoughts will catch her off guard.
She remembers that time she had woken up before six a.m., something she wouldn't do for anybody ordinary, to go and watch the sunrise at the beach with him. She tried doing that again, a week or so ago. Went to watch with Gigi, who had been in town.
"The colors aren't the same anymore," she had said disappointedly.
And Gigi had nodded. "Yeah. They're dimmer… or brighter… or something…"
Lydia had wanted to ask so many things—how did you get over him? Are you over him? How did you figure out who you were supposed to be? I leaned on him for so long but he just let me fall. How did you stand back up?
But she doesn't ask. Or say anything more. Maybe Gigi understands. They eat picnic sandwiches together and decide that they have to meet up together again the next time Lydia is in San Francisco.
They eat sandwiches, and Lydia wonders so many things. She wonders if it's possible to get a decent job having only graduated from community college. She wonders if it's possible for her to ever fall in love again. She wonders if the sunset is really dimmer. Or brighter. Or something.
And that's how she gets interested in natural science.
And you can't do this, George. You can't make me believe in love and then tell me it was all a lie.
Jane and Bing's wedding.
Who would've known this day would come?
Their mother is crying and laughing all at the same time, and Lydia swears that even her father is getting teary. Jane looks stunning in her wedding dress. Lizzie is the maid of honor, and she and Charlotte and Caroline are the other bridesmaids.
The perfect union of the two most perfect people in the world.
She wishes her own life was that easy. Not to say Jane's road here was easy—but honestly, Jane makes it look so easy.
The two of them are so happy and beautiful. Pretty much every eye is on them all the time. At the wedding reception, Lizzie dances with Darcy, and when Jane throws the bouquet, Gigi catches it. Gigi dances with the man who got the garter, eyes lighting up.
Lydia wishes it was her.
So she's kind of in the shadows, which, strangely enough, she's okay with. It's Jane's turn to shine today. She's not going to push her way into the spotlight and be the life of the party. Not today. It's only a bit lonely.
"Hey, peach, want to dance?" Her breath hitches as she recognizes that voice, that tone, that pet name.
"G-George." She curses herself for stammering. He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve for her heart to be hammering at a pace too quick for comfort and for her to be sweating and stammering all around him.
"Yeah, peach. So good to see you." After everything that's happened, he has the nerve to grin, calm and cool and charming as he always is. "A dance, please?"
Something rushes into her head and all of a sudden, she snaps. He's not going to be able to melt her into putty with that gaze anymore. "No," she says. She feels giddy. "No! No, I'm not going to dance with you! I'm not going to do anything you tell me to do! You don't control me anymore! So just—leave! Who invited you anyway? Leave, get out of my sight! You can jump off a cliff and die for all I care—just—go! Go!"
She's drawn a crowd. Every head is turned towards her. And then Jane is rushing over and shrieking for security and Lizzie looks like she might claw George's face off. How did you get here? Who let you in? Who invited you? The entire wedding party is thrown into chaos—a blur of voices and yelling and faces.
Lydia only has a sinking feeling that she's ruined Jane's perfect wedding and stumbles back into the shadows. She gropes around for a bottle of champagne. She promised Jane and Lizzie that she wouldn't drink so much anymore, but this is too much. She drains the bottle and reaches for another. She's ruined everything.
But that's okay. You can keep your lies and promises. I don't want to be your peach anymore.
She wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache and a sinking feeling that everything is ruined.
She tries to orient herself. She's on the couch. In the living room. And then she remembers last night. The wedding. George. Champagne. After that it gets blurry.
"You passed out last night after you had some of the cake," Lizzie explains, coming out of her room. "How do you feel?"
Lydia tries to orient herself. "Awful," she responds.
"Yeah, you had a lot of alcohol last night," Lizzie says. Then she softens. "Not like it's your fault; I mean, you deserve to party."
Lydia wants to cry because she wishes that she drank all that champagne to party. But she and Lizzie both know that's not the reason she drank that much, and they're avoiding it.
Then Jane comes out of her room. "Oh hey, you're both awake."
Lydia blinks. "I thought you were going to honeymoon."
"And leave my baby sister alone? I would never," Jane says with a smile. "Do you want me to make you some tea?"
"I don't deserve tea," she mumbles, a feeling of guilt running over her. She suddenly realizes how bad it must have looked for the sister of the bride to get so drunk that she passed out. "I ruined your wedding—and your honeymoon! I—I've made a huge mess of everything…" She tries not to cry. George doesn't deserve her tears.
"It's not your fault," says Lizzie. "It's George's fault—the monster. I hate him. I don't even understand how he got in, how he knew that Jane and Bing were having their wedding today, and, oh, Lydia, it's not your fault. No one's blaming you."
She cries harder.
"Actually, it was pretty cool what you told him." It's Jane speaking. Lydia's surprised. Her peace-loving, be-kind-to-everyone oldest sister? "It was really brave of you to say all that. And someone needed to tell him."
Lydia has to smile. "I really didn't think it through," she admits. "I just screamed at him on impulse without thinking of the consequences…"
"Do you regret what you said, though?" Lizzie asks.
She thinks about it. The answer is unanimous. She shakes her head. "No. He deserves it. The jerk. Every word."
The three sisters smile together, and then it is silent. Lydia's head is still throbbing, and her eyes fall onto the bowl of peaches on the table.
"Oh, do you want me to remove that?" Jane asks, worried.
Lydia shakes her head. "No." And unlike last night, when she makes her decision, it isn't on impulse. For the first time in a long, long time, Lydia's making a well-pondered, thoughtful decision.
She reaches out and feels the peach's perfect, delicate creamy skin.
And she eats it.
Because I'm stronger than that, George. I'm stronger than the peach you want me to be.
End.