A/N: Sorry I took so long to update, but I've been in France and Maine (quite a combo, I know), so I couldn't update faster. I'm now seventeen, by the bye, which is weird beyond measure. I also understand that lots of you will be reading/have read the new Harry Potter, so please prioritize, and read that first. I won't spoil it for you, but I will say that it's AWESOME.
Merrily we roll along, to
Chapter 35 Prelude to a Kiss
I grunted as I pushed the twelve yards of felt into the washing machine, trying not to notice how everyone else in the Laundromat was staring at me.
Not that there's anything to be embarrassed about twelve yards of humongous cow print in this day and age.
Perhaps I should explain: I, Lizzy Bennet, queen of the couch potatoes, lady of the lotus eaters, and diva of the drugstore cowboys, had gotten a job.
Now, you may be wondering why a beautiful, talented, sophisticated woman such as myself would need to wash an obscene amount of felt in the high-paying, high-powered job she is currently deigning to fulfill.
Let me explain: I am not a skilled worker. I have no money, no connections, nor any talents needed in today's "growing" economy. I touch a computer and break it, I have no patience with parents, my people skills are low, and I would be a sucky doctor.
That being said, I had recently been hired to play the part of Daisy the Cow at my local Captain Skippy's Happy Fun House Restaurant and Playroom (Where Playing Becomes Fun!).
Perks: I don't have to deal with people on a face-to-face level. The mask (Daisy the Cow is cross eyed and yet can still manage to see as she "plays" her guitar in the party room) tells everyone that I'm happy happy all the time, and yet inside the shrunken husk that is the now-soulless me, I can be just as ticked-off as I want to be.
Cons: I HAVE TO WEAR A FREAKING COW SUIT AND WORK AT CAPTAIN SKIPPY'S HAPPY FUN HOUSE RESTAURANT AND PLAYROOM (Where Playing Becomes Fun!). There is no worse punishment than being a drone for the masses at a place where the felt animals pretend to play the tambourine and sing the "Fa la la Birthday Song" to a roomful of suburban ankle-biters. Don't get me wrong, I like kids and all that, but the kind of parents that let their offspring have a party at C.S.H.F.H.R.P. are not the kind of young uns I want to hang out with on a daily basis. Twice already I had had my pay docked for being "too happy" and scaring the seven year old Colby Masterson, who had actually had too much cake and Slice and passed out from a sugar overdose during the second rendition of the "Fa la la Birthday Song."
Apparently, I would have to pay for the doctors' bills.
I shoved the costume in a little further, then used my foot to kick it in. Unnecessary, maybe, but cathartic in the extreme.
As I kicked the door closed, I imagined it was Wickham's face, and it was only through my complete lack of anything resembling muscle that I didn't crack the front glass.
That "meeting" two weeks ago had lasted four hours, and I still had no idea what had happened.
It was driving me crazy. I couldn't look at the clock without remembering how often I'd glanced at the time during the day. I couldn't see Lydia or Rowan without experiencing the desire to strap them to a chair in an all-white room with a light shining in their eyes and interrogate them. I couldn't eat breakfast without wondering if they had gone out to eat or walked through the park.
And I couldn't freaking wash my clothes without wondering how much longer we afford Laundromats after the baby came.
I wanted to know. There was something going on that they weren't telling me, and I was climbing the walls imagining what it could be and what it couldn't be. I mean, it was not only me who had been right about Wickham, and had done everything I could to try and get things right, but it was me who had gotten a job to support everyone, and had completely screwed up her personal life in order to get back to her friends.
Damn straight I was self-righteous. It felt like I had a right to know what the hell was going on, even if I didn't approve. Up until now, all I had been told was that Wickham was paying a huge child support payment, and that Lydia's mom had "rethought her previous stance" and was going to help support the kid too.
Which undoubtedly is a lot of information, but there was one vital piece missing.
That, of course, being how the hell had Wickham a.) been convinced by a fifteen-year-old pregnant woman and my teddy-bear cousin to actually take responsibility for the baby without having to press charges; b.) coaxed Mrs. Marlow into taking Lydia back; and c.) raised/stolen/earned (like that was likely) the cash to pay the freakin' enormous amount of child support every month.
I'd tried asking the question, or course, and gotten lots of eye-rolling, fake-coughing, oh-would-you-look-at-the-timing, but no answers at all.
Does this strike anyone as weird and ungrateful? I mean, okay, so I'm not entitled to know every last detail of Lydia's life or anything, but I had at least hoped she would let me in, when I had done all I had to help her out.
Though it looked like my working at Captain Skippy's was no longer necessary anyway.
Dammit! I give up one thing for another, and it turns out I didn't have to in the first place. Where's the fairness in that? What happened to justice?
Not that I'm saying justice would be served if Lydia had actually needed me to keep my job to support her because Wickham had decided to pull a runaway daddy on us. I just—was feeling sorry for myself again.
I seemed to be doing that a lot more than usual. Now that clinch time was over, I'd had time to start daydreaming, and since there was one thing I wanted, he was the thing that occupied my thoughts when I drifted of in the middle of Daisy the Cow's Big Dance or when Lydia started talking about which color to paint the baby's room.
I couldn't get over the thought that I had screwed something up, something good and happy and right, and that it was all my fault. I couldn't get away from my burning need to apologize to him, to explain things.
Not to mention the fact that I was really craving alcohol. Apparently, I was more fond of it than I had thought, and now I would start thinking about it so much I could barely stop. I would shake sometimes with wanting it, that's how bad it was.
Frankly, I was terrified. I needed to quit drinking for my own peace of mind, but the fact that I still needed it meant I was weak, didn't it? And knowing that wasn't doing anything for my peace of mind. And the thought of going through this alone was even worse.
Because how could I tell Jen that I desperately wanted to down the next bottle of Grey Goose that I came across? How could I say to Lydia that I needed some attention when she needed all the support we could give? How could I admit to my mother that I was weak enough to be an alcoholic?
I couldn't, that's how. I was terrified, and I was ashamed, two extremely teen-girl things that, when combined, create an effect so lethal that Hollywood scriptwriters bow down to it year after year.
I viciously slammed on the "Start" button, and sat down, trying to absorb myself in the soap spin-cycle like they do in all those indie movies.
"This might just be a random observation, Liz," Rowan said, looking up from White Dwarf, "but it's just possible that you have unresolved anger issues with the cow costume." Rowan's laundry was sitting next to him, waiting for me to be done so that I could teach him for the umpteenth time which colors go in which spin cycles.
"It's not the cow costume, Rowan. Okay, I lied, it is partly the cow costume. The rest of it is the fact that I'm deliberately being kept in the dark about something I don't deserve to be kept in the dark about."
Rowan sighed and put down the magazine, getting ready for a big, mushy heart-to-heart session. "It's not spiteful, Lizzy, it's just that we agreed not to tell anyone, including you. I know it's wicked unfair that you get shut out when you did all that stuff to help, but I have to keep my promise to them, okay?"
"To them? Who's them?"
"No, Lizzy."
"Rowan—"
"No!"
"But I need to under—"
"I'm sorr—"
"That's not enough! Can't you tell me why Wickham agreed—"
"No, okay? I promised—"
"This is really important to me! If it's not that important to you…"
"Hey! I never said that!"
"Well, you're acting like it's true…"
"No, I'm not! I care, I just can't…"
"Look, if it's all a really big joke to you, then—"
"It's not a big joke I just…"
"Because personally, I don't think it's funny—"
"I JUST PROMISED WILL DARCY I WOULDN'T TELL YOU!"
"What?"
"Oh crap."
"Yeah, bigtime, buddy. You're going to have to explain a thing or two."
"But I promised…"
"Nice try."
He looked at me and sighed, realizing that he wasn't going to get out of this one. "Okay, so here's what happened…"
Reader's Digest Version: Wickham and Lydia do the nasty. Lydia is pregnant, tells Wickham. Wickham dumps Lydia after mother dumps Lydia. Angst. Jen calls me, tells me news, I flip out, get drunk, yell at Darcy, fly back to America. Darcy flies back to America, finds Wickham, and persuades him to reconsider his stance on the matter. At stake is a high-paying, cushy job at a company Will owns, and no charges pressed against Wickham for the statutory rape of both Lydia Marlow and Georgiana Darcy. So Wickham gets what he wants and can give Lydia what she wants at relatively no cost to himself. Darcy forced to swallow pride and therefore makes Rowan and Lydia promise not to tell me, which is unsurprising after the way I treated him.
The End.
This is what I wanted, I told myself as I lugged my laundry back to the house. This is what I wanted, and this is what I got. But I had never considered the possibility that Will, not I, would be forced to humble himself and give Wickham a chance, that Will, not I, would be the one on whose shoulders this all fell.
It's weird to feel like you should have more responsibility, and not having it. I could have been, and probably should have been, relieved. Will had considerably more assets to work with, and could bribe anyone to do anything. I, however, would have to find someone with a deep-seated love of bubblegum chains to get any leverage at all. Will also had the power to keep tabs on Wickham, while the Bennet Scooby gang was not so well organized.
But the thing was, I didn't feel better. First of all, I was almost ungratefully unhappy that Will had shouldered all the responsibility; the first real responsibility I had ever taken in my life. Rather than be like "golly Will, thank you so much for being someone who can convince Wickham, because I really can't" I was like "Why did you have to do it alone, kid? I AM responsible, you know, I could have helped you."
Even more than that, though, I was humiliated. If I had been able to handle it, Will would never have had to offer partnership to the man who had abused his sister. But of course that would have been impossible, because I had no money, and that was the only thing talking in this situation. Will was admittedly the only person who could have solved this, and I felt sorrier for him than I ever had for anyone.
And I was confused, for God's sake. I mean, I yelled at him, I blamed him, I had mistreated him before, and still he comes, in a really freakin' cliché way, to my rescue? Does he still love me? Does that mean that he still wants to talk to me? To see me? What did it mean?
Because even with all the strange emotions and absolutely unfounded resentment I had toward him/the situation/the world at large, I loved him. Hearing Rowan's story, I had been able to picture him sitting at the Panera table, cool and collected on the outside but secretly on edge, unsure of what to say, angry beyond anything he had felt before. I could hear his voice (though which accent he had chosen to use, I didn't know and couldn't very well ask) commanding attention, laying it all down for everyone involved. I could see his hands clenching underneath the table whenever Wickham spoke or smiled, could see his dark eyes flickering over Lydia's tiny face, her pigtails, her baby pink dress. The more Rowan told me, the clearer the picture became, until it was strong enough to follow me home from the Laundromat, to make me gasp painfully for air as I refused point-blank to cry.
I really did love him. Not "like," not "fond of," I didn't think he was "cute."
As Cher would say, I was "butt-crazy" in love with Will.
Maybe we had a chance. Maybe this was all some sign he was trying to send to me, to tell me that whatever had happened didn't matter. I mean, if he had managed to like me even when I was a complete bitch to him, would one drunken rage really do us in?
But I would never know unless he came to Boston again, because I definitely didn't have enough money for a new T pass, let alone a trip to New York or Scotland or London or Paris or wherever he was. If he was still interested, it would have to be up to him to make the first move. I didn't even have his phone number.
Ahhh, the information age…
I hauled my basket up our front steps, knee-juggling it while I tried to find my key. Unfortunately for my future as the world's best knee-juggler, Kat opened the door for me, grabbing my basket from my hands. I could hear shrieking in the background, which, while not unusual in the Bennet-Marlow-Hammond household, was nonetheless both attention-getting and annoying.
"What the hell's going on?" I asked, closing the door behind me.
"Charlie Bingleton's back. Where's Rowan?"
"Comic book store. Charlie's back in Boston?"
"Yeah, man. He came back last night, wicked late," Kat set our laundry down on the floor and glared at Mary, who was busy spinning in circles and jumping up and down.
"What's she so excited about?"
"OmigodomigodCharlieisbackthisisfantasticthey'regonnagetmarriedandhavebabiesandlivehappilyeverafterandletmestayattheirhouseandshopwiththemandI'llmeetarichboyandwe'llallberichtogetherthisisamazingI'msoexcitedI'msohappyIcouldcry!"
"Well that cleared that up," I said.
"So much for selfless joy," said Kat, smirking.
"Where's Jen?"
"She's upstairs. Oh, your dad's here, by the way."
I froze halfway up the stairs. "Does mom know?"
"Aerobics class, Tuesdays and Thursdays."
"Woot. Thanks, Kat." I walked down the hallway and opened Jen's door. Jen was sitting on her bed, apparently having trouble tying her shoe, while my dad stood at the window. They looked around as I came in, and I ran to hug dad as Jen gave up on her shoes.
"Lizzy, love, you look three feet shorter!"
"Same goes to you, you damn leprechaun. Hope you haven't been staying away on purpose?"
"At first, no, and then when yer mam came, yep."
"Well, you're braving the harpy today, old man, I admire you."
"Ah aerobics, that faithful friend."
"Heard the news, I suppose?" I asked, settling myself next to Jen, who was now staring at the impeccable knees of her jeans.
"We have indeed, which was partly why I came here. I wanted to meet this young man of Jen's—"
"Dad he's not my—"
"Don't believe her, da, he's totally in lo—"
"Quiet, Lizzy!"
"Girls! Let me continue, please! I came to meet yer Charlie, Jen love, and to see if I could wrap me hands around that damn Wickham's neck, which seems impossible. But I also came to give you a message for yer mother—"
"What?" Jen and I goggled at him. He'd never given us messages since they had stopped talking to each other when I was twelve.
"Right. Tell her she can stop sending me back those damn papers, because she's as good as divorced anyway. Why not make it official?"
Jen and I looked at each other, lost for words. For anyone who's gone through divorce, you'll know that there is a huge difference between separated and divorced, even when the separated couple has had nothing to do with each other for nine years.
Dad could read our faces, for he knelt down in front of us, and took one of our hands in each other his.
"It has to be better this way, girls. We're not right for each other, and we never were. That doesn't mean," he said, correctly interpreting the tears that came to Jen's eyes, "that I regret having you girls. You were what made it worthwhile for fourteen years, loves, and I know your mother feels the same." Here I snorted. "What, Lizzy?"
"Having Jen was worthwhile for mom. But me? I'm just a big disappointment and easy scapegoat for her."
"Lizzy, that's not—" Jen started, but Dad cut her off.
"You're right, you were a scapegoat," I nodded, staring at my lap. "But that doesn't mean she hates you. You're just too much like me, and she never really got a chance to rail at me. You were there all the time, like I never was, and your mother was never very patient. She blamed you, and you blamed her, and now here we are. It is all my fault, girls, and I'm sorry."
"We'll tell her," Jen said quietly. It was weird, at twenty three and twenty one we were crying over a divorce that should have happened when we were twelve and ten.
"Get married for love, girls, and never settle or handle your future rashly. If you're obsessed or infatuated, chances are you'll end up in a bar on yer beautiful, wonderful daughter's birthday just to escape yer spouse's anger, or miss yer kid's first bike-ride because ye were hiding from a family picnic. Love, total love, absolute love, mad love, whole love, true love, or nothing. Understand?"
We nodded. Dad hugged both of us, and then went to stand by the window.
"So, Charlie Bingleton is here then?"
"That's what they're saying on the street," I said, wiping my eyes. I glanced at Jen, who was now blushing and breathing strangely, like all her organs were in danger of falling out of her body and onto the floor. I looked back at Dad, who winked at me, and said, "Are you pleased, then, Jennifer?"
"Why should I be pleased or otherwise? It makes no difference to me." She was trying to tie her shoe and failing miserably. "At least he doesn't have any women with him, because then we'd have to throw a party or actually talk to them. This way, we can go about our separate business and we'll both be fine."
"Ah yes, fine. That beautiful word," Dad said.
"Don't lie to yourself Jen, you're still in love with him."
"I am not! And anyway, that doesn't really matter."
"You watch," I said. "I bet you anything it'll matter, and not just to you."
"Want to test your theory, Lizzy?" said Dad, looking out the window.
"Um, sure, but why now?"
"Well, I thought it would be excellent timing, considering he's coming up the walk."
I beamed at Jen, who looked liked she'd been hit over the head with that troll from Harry Potter's club. Slowly, she reached up to smooth her hair and check her clothing, still not speaking.
"How do I look?" she asked, her voice still dreamy and distracted.
"Like you've been beat with the pretty stick, now go!" I tied her shoes hurriedly, and pushed her off the bed.
"There's someone with him," said Dad, and though I couldn't see his face, I could tell he was grinning evilly.
"Who?"
"That old friend o' yers, Lizzy-love. Mr. Darcy."
I got up and ran to the window as Dad shepherded Jen downstairs. There, standing on the pathway, looking up at my window, was Will Darcy.
He wasn't smiling.