Edit the Sad Parts
(part two)
Your call has been forwarded to an automated message system for…
A sigh was uttered.
A scream was stifled, a Blackberry was pocketed, and Georgiana watched with the kind of rapt, morbid attention usually reserved for slowly passing by the site of a gory accident, the gradual slumping of his shoulders as he moved dejected and lumbering towards the living room couch.
Today marked the seventy-fifth time Will had attempted to get in touch with Eva only to reach the standard automaton voice of her wireless provider, and Georgie feared he was now well past the limit sanity deemed acceptable.
Propelled by the success of their own reconciliation, Fitzwilliam continued 'operation: feel less like a twat' with slight overconfidence. Getting Eva's voicemail the first time didn't faze him; he left a pleasant, if unbelievably awkward message that inquired after her health and the health of the baby (their baby?) and ended it with a request for her to get back to him with due date information and the like. Calls two through ten repeated the same sentiment, but included apologies for being a massive asshole.
Number eleven occurred after a long night in which Owen apparently felt like testing his lung capacity, and that message was an incoherent mix of babbling and weeping he prayed would never see the light of the internet.
By the twentieth call, the confidence was nonexistent, the message was a simple "Call me", but the hope was still there; Fitzwilliam was determined to do the right thing even if in the end his push for self improvement didn't aid in getting Lizzie back, and that optimism kept him going because when all of this was over, at least it would have been worth it.
The fifty-fifth defeat, however, loudly declared him to be a fucking sucker, his optimism to be for shit, and when the contact attempts reached a futile sixty and a pathetic seventy the idea that he'd been played for a fool took hold and refused to let go. Darcy's mind settled on the reason for Eva's not answering being due to all of the time laughing at him and taking bikini shots for Wickham's prison love letters must've taken up; and if he was quiet long enough he swore he could hear Auntie Catherine cackling from atop her bell tower in Beverly Hills.
He didn't want to think Eva could be so cruel as to lie to him about possibly carrying his child, but he'd so famously misjudged her character in the past. Add to that the fact the only reason Auntie even bothered to open her eyes is to crush happiness, and it no longer seemed like such a stretch of the imagination to believe their intention was to break him.
After call seventy-one ended, he was treated to the happy news that model Eva Lane had given birth to a girl over the weekend – and it came straight from E! by way of that bobble head Giuliana Rancic's mouth.
Her name was Abigail and she and her mother were doing just fine.
A sigh was uttered.
A scream was stifled, a Blackberry was pocketed, and Darcy practically numb over the idea he'd potentially missed the birth of his child (and seething over the name 'Abigail'), shuffled his feet towards the living room couch where he would remain for the next four days.
Georgie did everything she could; she reminded him to shower (and occasionally to put on pants), she made sure his meals consisted of more than potstickers and cheerios, and she forced him to trim up the 'sad beard' before it reached prospector level, but, convincing him to leave the couch altogether was absolutely impossible. If she dared to speak a sentence that remotely sounded like "it'll be alright" she was met with derisive snorts and rolling eyes, and so she was stuck as a witness to her brother drowning in his own self pity.
But today, as she eyed the sorry lump swathed in blankets and making dents in the cushions, Georgie felt something inside of her snap. One of the long discarded couch pillows made its way into her hands and she stood over Darcy.
"No luck?" she asked sarcastically while drumming her fingers on the pillow.
The lousy groan Georgie got from him in response tipped her over the edge and that pillow came crashing down on Darcy's head, repeatedly.
Half disoriented and all pissed off, he scrambled to sit up; curses were shouted, his long limbs got tangled in the covers, and his hair stood on end. If she hadn't been so completely fed up with his bullshit, Georgie would've killed herself laughing.
"What the fuck is your problem!"
She hit him again for good measure. "I can't take it anymore! All you've done is lay here and I'm sick of looking at the sweat pants and the defeatist facial hair. I know it hurts, and I know doing anything outside of curling up into the fetal position seems exhausting and useless, but goddammit Will you're stronger than this! Eva won't answer the phone? Fine, go and see her in person and demand an explanation about Abigail, because the longer you keep doing this shit, the longer it'll take to fix you and Lizzie."
The 'weapon' was tossed back into the pillow pile on the floor and all Darcy could do was stare at his little sister in bewilderment as she casually took a seat next to him.
"You are going to drive me to drink," Georgie said and slipped an arm around his shoulders.
He chuckled, leaning his head against hers. "What if she is mine? I mean, I don't care what the press does to me, but they'll eat Lizzie alive and she doesn't deserve that."
"Well," she began after taking a deep breath, "and I say this with every confidence – then you're fucked."
"Spoken like a true sage." Darcy smiled.
"I know."
"I'm terrified, Georgie."
Her arm tightened around him.
"I know."
"Are you going to vomit? Because you're kinda looking like you're going to vomit and all I ask is for fair warning before you do," Georgie said.
The street lights kicked on and a faint breeze sent the smell of barbeque wafting through the crack in the windows of the car where they sat conspicuously parked across the street from Eva's house. The journey here had been quite a harrowing one; most of Darcy's energy had been exerted in rolling off the couch, and its reserves depleted with the combination of arguing over Georgie's insistence on coming along ("Just incase you get the kind of news you don't want and decide to drive into the Pacific."), and the ditching of a rouge paparazzi that followed them for a good five miles.
On the drive he'd kept himself distracted by blasting black metal so dark it could've only been recorded inside the charred hull of a Norwegian church, but now that things were still and there was nothing to dispel the quiet except the odd bit of sarcasm coming from his sister's direction Darcy could concentrate on nothing else but the churning of his guts. Reclining the seat back, he puffed out his cheeks and shut his eyes tightly. The idea of being sick hadn't even entered his mind until Georgie's little ramble, but now as his insides knotted and twisted, he could think of nothing more.
With a deep sigh he gave her a sideways look. "I'll be sure to let you know," he said flatly.
"So…how much longer are you gonna sit here?"
"Until everything stops spinning," he grunted. "Or until my balls decide to quit hiding inside of me. Whichever comes first."
"Oh." Georgie nodded. "Christ, we're gonna be out here all night."
Since he'd walked in the door, Lizzie kept a close eye on Charlie. Sure her redheaded brother in arms appeared relatively normal on the outside – his thousand watt smile was in full effect, he blew raspberries on Owen's tummy until his lips were probably numb, and most importantly he still looked at Jane as though she were the most beautiful woman on the planet, yet something was off.
He didn't take up Lizzie's protest against emotional manipulation when Jane suggested they watch The Notebook. He fidgeted. He stopped talking in the middle of sentences or changed subjects completely, and even though the temperature in the apartment sat at a comfortable seventy-five degrees, Charlie had to toss his polo aside because it'd soaked through with sweat.
When Jane quietly wept over the movie, and Lizzie rolled her eyes hard enough that fainting became a real threat, Charlie suddenly leapt to his feet.
"I could use a drink!" he exclaimed. "How about you guys, huh? Janie, can I get you something?"
There was a loud, watery sniff in response.
"Lizzie?"
"No thanks, I'm cool," she said.
"Are you sure because you look like you could use one, too; I mean, you really look like you're dying of thirst over there…"
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm not thirsty, Charlie. I promise."
"I don't know, Lizzie…" he started, "I'm getting stranded in the desert vibes from you – I'm sensing you're parched beyond belief and that you would very much like to join me in getting a drink out of the kitchen." He gave an exaggerated yank of his head in the direction of the other room for emphasis and finally Lizzie humored him by leaving the comfort of her chair.
"Fine, you caught me. I've got total cottonmouth going on," Lizzie said, reluctantly following. Once they were safely behind the kitchen door she added, "Charlie, do you have cottonmouth going on?"
"What?" he blinked.
"Are you high?" Lizzie asked in all seriousness.
"Wha—oh no, god no!" he laughed loudly. "No, I…" he trailed off while fishing around in the pockets of his jeans.
A gasp escaped her mouth at the sight of the ring now clutched between his fingers. "Oh, Charlie…"
"It's too soon isn't it? We haven't even been together for a year and she's probably going to think I'm crazy, it's just that I love your sister so much and I can't imagine spending my life without her and I'm totally rushing this right? I've had this thing for like two weeks already and it's like it's been whispering to me. I keep taking it out of the box, putting it back in, taking it out – I even tried it on my pinky finger." With his free hand he pulled at the ends of his hair. "I'm like Smeagol the stage-five clinger, aren't I?"
She threw her arms around him, laughing. "You're perfect! God, I'm so happy you're not high."
"So you think I should?" Charlie asked, beaming.
"Absolutely; Charlie, she's gonna love it."
"How do think I should do it? I mean, how did Darcy propose to you…?" he blurted, his eyes widening at the slight fall of her face. "Shit, Lizzie I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay," she said waving off his apology. "Darcy was – it was great," Lizzie finished with a wistful smile. "He got down on one knee and all that; although he did puke beforehand."
"I'm sure we're gonna have that in common," he said with a self deprecating chuckle. "I feel like I'm gonna have a heart attack."
"Are you guys bottling the Coke's yourselves, what's taking you so long?" Jane burst through the kitchen door and stopped dead once she caught a glimpse of the ring in her startled boyfriend's hand.
And though all of the perfect proposal scenarios that had been running through his mind failed to include a sink cluttered with dirty dishes, Lizzie standing to the right of him in her pj's, and Jane slightly puffy-eyed from the combination Gosling, McAdams, and Alzheimer's, Charlie couldn't help feeling the moment would never be more perfect than this. So, he took a deep breath and stepped forward.
"Janie, there's something I've wanted to ask you for a while now," he said with a sheepish grin. "I hadn't pictured this going down in the kitchen, but I really can't hold out any longer."
Her eyes darting from Charlie's handsome, earnest face, to Lizzie's clearly amused one, Jane brought a delicate hand to her chest and expressed her surprise like only a Bennet could.
"Oh Jesus shit."
Lizzie giggled at the uncharacteristic swear and watched as her big sister dissolved into a teary mess when Charlie dropped to his knee. "Jane Bennet, do you wanna marry me?"
Not another word passed between them; Jane pulling him to his feet and kissing him for all it was worth conveyed her answer quite nicely.
"Are you sure you don't want to come in? This could take a while."
"Maury knocks out this type of thing in ten minute segments; I'm sure I'll be fine." Georgie grinned at him. "Besides," she continued as she pulled her iPod out of her purse, "I've got an audiobook of War and Peace. I'm in it for the long haul if need be."
"War and Peace?" Darcy cocked an eyebrow. "So you're saying I'm going to come back to find you in a coma?"
"Nope, I'm saying quit stalling and get your ass out of the car."
With a quick hair ruffle of encouragement from Georgie, Darcy placed his hand on the door handle and cracked it open. One foot slowly made its way to the pavement, reluctantly followed by the other and when he was out of the car at last, she wasted no time in locking the doors.
Call seventy-six was placed while he drug his feet up the walkway (your call has been forwarded to an automated message system for…), a Blackberry was pocketed, a deep breath was taken, and a shaky finger lifted to ring the bell.
The sound of the deadbolt clicked in his ears and Darcy kept his eyes trained on the ever widening crack in the door. What he expected to be greeted with was perfection from head-to-toe; Eva Lane was not the sort of woman who dabbled in casual. During the course of their relationship she'd never been anything other than totally put together. She awoke in a pristine state – not a hair out of place, not a speck of drool or a bit of crust in the corner of her eyes, or a funny sleep-line to be found, and she continued looking the part of a walking airbrushed magazine cover throughout the day until her head was forced to hit the pillow once again (rinse and repeat). Chaos was not something to be hinted at, her private life echoed her tightly controlled public image, and as he stared at Eva's messy ponytail and her sweats, Darcy realized that in a full decade of knowing her and with four of those years spent dating her, that this was the first time he'd ever seen her human.
A faint smile crossed her makeup-free face. "Fitzwilliam."
He swallowed. "I hate to just drop in like this, but I did call ahead about seventy-times," he said.
"I've been expecting you. I figured it would've been sooner, actually, because I believe you've been sitting across the street for at least thirty minutes."
"Twenty," he quickly corrected.
"My bad," Eva said smiling crookedly and stepping aside to allow him to enter.
"Where is she?" Darcy asked.
Eva chuckled a bit, seemingly caught of guard by the abruptness of his question. "Wow, I thought we were going to do the awkward pleasantries thing first. I didn't even get around to asking if you wanted anything to drink. Do you? Because, I for one could really use a glass of wine…"
"No more games, Eva." Darcy shook his head. "I'm exhausted and I'm miserable and I just don't have a fucking sliver of the patience it takes to dance around with you, so if you could maybe conjure up some compassion right now I'd be eternally fucking grateful."
Her dark eyes cast downward for the briefest of moments. "Abby's upstairs; I just put her down for the night."
"Is she mine?"
"What do you think?" Eva snapped as she brushed past him on her way to the kitchen.
Darcy was hot on her heels. "I don't know what to think!" he shouted. "I don't hear a word from you and all of a sudden you turn up and your five months pregnant!"
"Well, laying low seemed like the only option especially after reading about you and Lizzie in People!" she shot back. "Silly me for thinking our sleeping together was some sort of reconciliation."
"I'm not excusing my behavior! I'm sorry that I hurt you…"
She put her hand up to stop him. "It's okay, Fitzwilliam. It's just, you were one of the good one's and I screwed it up, and after the way Lizzie talked about you and seeing how you looked at her – even for a second, I was so incredibly jealous and I let Catherine insinuate that you're Abby's father and you're not…."
He stood slack jawed and feeling quite like his world had just stopped and exploded. "Could you repeat that?"
"You're not her father," she said, "and I never intended for any of this to happen. Catherine invited me over for Easter brunch; I had no idea she planned to use my pregnancy to make trouble for you and Lizzie. I thought you knew I was coming, until I gotta load of Richard's face. I know I should've spoken up, but like I said, I was a little jealous and well, you know sometimes I can be a real cunt."
Darcy laughed at that, raking a hand through is wild hair. "Yeah, I know." A beat, "So, is it Wickham, then?"
"Seriously?" Eva rolled her eyes. "God no, I learned my lesson as far as he's concerned." A blush settled on her cheeks. "His name's, Bill; he's Anne's assistant, actually."
He blinked. "Bill Collins?"
A nod.
"Henry Collins's brother?"
"We hit it off." She shrugged. "He's sweet and I could really use sweet again. He's actually out picking up dinner right now."
And Darcy found himself making another mental note of firsts when it came to Eva Lane; this was the only time he had ever seen her look truly smitten.
"I wanted to tell you sooner, Will but I couldn't make myself answer any of your calls; I was ashamed at my behavior on Easter and too scared to face you." She paused to pour herself a glass of wine. "I honestly thought Lizzie seemed very sweet. Maybe one day she'll be up for having lunch."
After months of agonizing, of beard growing and couch dwelling, the weight of Eva's words finally sunk in and Darcy was struck with the urge to not only dance around the room, but to cap it off with a scream of "Yes!" and a fist pump. However, he reined the impulse in and took up a seat at the kitchen bar instead.
He grinned like a dope. "I'll take that drink now."
Author's Note: This was the chapter of a thousand revisions. I hate I had to make you guy's wait on it, but I'm much happier with this result than the crap pile I had before it (really, it was shit). I hope you liked it, too.
Just an epilogue left. :)