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This, Lizzie thinks, is actually the worst. She’s absentmindedly stirring her vodka tonic, her elbow against the counter and her head resting against her open palm, as it has been since she slumped onto the barstool a few minutes ago. Her bare feet are perched on the stool’s base, her heels forgotten underneath. She knows that the combination of her posture, exposed feet, and the surly expression she is certain is written all over her face can’t be winning her any points with Bing’s guests, but she can’t bring herself to care.
Despite her fervent wish for the night run smoothly, Lizzie has already heard her mother’s voice carry across the room, telling Bing’s grandparents that she wants to learn how to pronounce their names the “proper Asian way,” as she’s sure they’ll see each other quite often in the future. Lydia’s shriek of incredulous joy when she saw that there were actual ice sculptures, Lizzie! definitely drew stares. Darcy had been staring at her family from the moment they walked in. Thinking back, she doesn’t know what had grated on her nerves more, her family being her family, or Darcy’s frown marking his clear disapproval, his expression even more severe than was normal. Clearly, Lizzie notes with more than a hint of vindictive pleasure, smiling isn’t the only thing that contorts Darcy’s face.
Thankfully George knew how to smile. And laugh. And interact like a normal human being. After a month spent around Darcy and Ricky Collins, she was glad to discover there were men other than Bing who could still do that. George was also proving to be a nice sounding board — a position which, given Jane’s preoccupation with her fairytale summer love, had been vacant recently. It felt nice to tell someone who wasn’t an anonymous Internet audience about how uncomfortable she had been at Netherfield. How frustrating it was that Ricky didn’t take what she said to him seriously. How angry it made her that he was going to treat Charlotte the same way…
Charlotte, who would normally be occupying the barstool next to her, providing some solidarity through this torture. And if she couldn’t rely on Charlotte to have her back tonight, she had been counting on George. Unfortunately, for all his pleasant virtues, apparently sticking to his word wasn’t one of them.
Which is why she’s sitting alone at a barstool in the middle of a lively party, unable to leave for Jane’s sake, but unwilling to exacerbate her bad mood by engaging anyone in conversation. God, she realizes, I’m pulling a Darcy.
“Excuse me, Lizzie.”
Well, speak of the devil.
She clearly hasn’t been keeping track of her surroundings, because just like that, Darcy is at her side, close enough that the fabric of his jacket is brushing against her bare arm.
His voice cuts through the suffocating loudness of the party, his speech exact, as though he has made a conscious effort to enunciate each word properly.
“Is this seat taken?”
Darcy does this sometimes. He seeks her out to sit or stand where she is. It makes her pause and consider Jane’s claim that Darcy genuinely likes her as a person, but he never does anything that would prove it true. He always stays as far away from her as he possibly can while still occupying the same space, as if determined to make clear the boundary between them. While he has no qualms about arguing with her when they’re with a group, he barely speaks to her if they’re ever alone. More recently he has stopped making eye contact with her, reserving his looks in her direction for those odd moments when she’s caught him scrutinizing her intently. She understands Jane’s attempt to rationalize his behavior. It’s hard to explain why someone would intentionally put himself in the presence of another person, only to ignore her completely. Lizzie has simply chalked it up to another example of his unpleasant social behavior.
She could lie about the seat. She could say yes, it was taken. It would be rude, but no ruder than anything he has said (or not said) to her. From what she’s learned from George, Darcy is spiteful and more disagreeable than even she knew. Maybe he deserved a taste of his own medicine. She doubts, though, that he would be too torn up about it — he’d simply walk off and find another corner to sulk in. There’s also something within her, maybe some spitefulness of her own, which wants to punish George for standing her up.
For leaving her dateless at her sister’s boyfriend’s birthday party. For leaving an empty seat beside her that makes her think of the fight he was supposed to be helping her forget. For reminding her that, despite the influx of people in her life over the past few months, she has been feeling oddly lonely. Maybe that’s why Darcy does it. Maybe company you don’t like is better than no company at all.
She downs the rest of her drink in one gulp.
“You know, it was supposed to be, but now it’s all yours, Darcy.”
To her astonishment, he unbuttons his suit jacket and lays it on the barstool next to hers before sitting down. She hears him order a scotch, neat (because of course he does), but her eyes are fixated on his forearms rather than his face as he buttons back his dress shirt to his elbows. Though the rest of him remains uncommonly precise, from his gelled hair to his wrinkle-free attire to his probably-shined-that-day dress shoes, his bare forearms disconcert her. She has always found the look attractive on men, and apparently the rule holds true for Darcy.
She blinks in surprise at the thought. Do I find Darcy attractive right now? He’s watching the bartender, his long fingers lightly drumming against the countertop, allowing her to sneak a more thorough look at him. Much to her dismay, his arms aren’t the only part of him worth appreciating. Glancing at him from the side, she has to admit that Darcy has a handsome profile, highlighted by his thick neck and strong jaw. She can see the fabric of his dress shirt straining against his large shoulders — had she never noticed that before? His tie is hanging lightly from his neck, and she errantly wonders what it would be like to smooth it down against his firm chest.
Her train of thought is arrested when the bartender clunks Darcy’s drink down in front of him. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment as she realizes that not only was she objectifying Darcy, but she was also enjoying it. Deciding she needs more alcohol, immediately, she quickly orders a refill.
Soon enough, she and Darcy sit nursing their drinks in silence, and Lizzie feels the terrible cloud of angst settle upon her once more. It’s really rather unfair that the one person who could cheer her up is also the predominant source of her misery.
You know, Lizzie, the reason you feel all alone in a room full of people is that you isolated yourself in a room full of people. There is someone right next to you. Talk to him!
It’s fitting that her scolding voice of reason sounds exactly like her estranged best friend. Yet as much as she has been mourning the loss of Charlotte’s company, she would prefer it if her imaginary bestie weren’t as pushy as her real life counterpart. Why did not listening to Charlotte enough have to be what caused their fight?
She swallows down her reluctance, and though she swears she can actually taste rust in her mouth as she bites the metaphorical bullet, she orients herself on her stool so that she’s facing towards Darcy. It takes her a few more torturous seconds to take the final leap. I change my mind: personal growth is definitely worse than sitting alone and miserable at a bar.
She forces on her best smile and manages to ask, to her satisfaction, in a pleasant and inquisitive voice, “So Darcy, what was it you wanted to say to me the other night at Carter’s? Something about Shakespeare?”
He blinks in surprise at her question, but then he smiles at her. It’s a small smile — no teeth — but it’s warm and makes his whole expression more welcoming. It reaches his eyes and he looks years younger. It’s nice. Both bemused and curious by the dramatic alteration, she allows her eyes to investigate the terrain of this mysterious new Darcy’s face. She finds her own smile loosening up, becoming genuine. It’s almost like they’re having a moment.
Except then Darcy promptly clears his throat and responds, his speech clipped and unnatural, his demeanor as stiff as she has grown accustomed to. Eye contact is obviously too much to ask for. Soon enough, he says something that demands her rebuttal and they get caught up in a heated debate about the merits of Shakespeare’s works as texts versus plays. To his credit, Darcy isn’t boring or stupid. Though his opinions can be so frustrating that she sometimes wonders whether he doesn’t play the devil’s advocate simply to rile her up, getting the upper hand is a challenge. When not in front of a camera, she can admit it’s a challenge she enjoys. Until Darcy inevitably says something that makes her want to punch something. Preferably him.
They trade arguments back and forth for over thirty minutes before this happens. Darcy is insisting that no one can have an educated opinion about Shakespeare productions until they’ve seen a live one put on by the Royal Shakespeare Company in Stratford. His point is the kind of aggravating demonstration of his massive wealth and snobbery that normally would sour her mood instantly, but she forces herself not to snap and calmly explain that even someone highly educated in Shakespeare’s works might not have had that opportunity. After a few moments spent puzzling out her meaning, he appears truly abashed by his thoughtlessness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft and sincere, “Sometimes when I’m talking with you, I forget that you did not grow up as I did. If I hadn’t met you in your home town, I would have assumed that you had.”
It’s an odd apology. She’s not even sure what he means by it. His intense focus on her, which, now that she is returning his eye contact, is hitting her at full power, distracts her from thinking any more about it. She knows, in the back of her mind, that she doesn’t want to be staring at Darcy, doesn’t want to notice the blueness of his eyes or the crease patterns woven across his forehead, but when she commands her body to look away it refuses to listen.
She stays like that, suspended by his powerful gaze, until Darcy breaks his hold by jerking his head away. With a new understanding of the phrase “locked eyes”, Lizzie inhales deeply to relax her suddenly racing pulse. Taking a glimpse at Darcy and noticing his clenched jaw and the clear determination with which he now directs his inscrutable expression at the wall behind her, she wonders yet again what his problem is.
“Why do you do that?”
She’s asking the question before she can stop herself. If only she could blame the alcohol, but she hasn’t had nearly enough to drink tonight to justify her inability to keep her stupid mouth shut.
Darcy eyes are trained back on her, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.
“Sorry?”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She shakes her head and waves her hand dismissively in front of her as though that would erase away her words.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Darcy is not so easily deterred.
“Why do I do what, Lizzie?”
She wants to brush him off, but his use of her name bothers her in a way she can’t ignore. It’s attentive and condescending. It’s familiar in a way he hasn’t earned. It makes her shudder. Or shiver. Whatever it is, it makes her uncomfortable. What gives Darcy the right to make me feel so goddamn uncomfortable every moment he’s around?
Suddenly she’s seething with indignation. She is aware that for weeks now Darcy has occupied a disproportionate number of her thoughts. Her frustration him has been perpetual, always fed by another incident whenever it might have tapered off. But she’s done. Done with managing her temper near him. Done with holding onto her anger until she can use her video blog as an outlet. She has a problem with Darcy, and she’s going to tell it to his face.
“Why are you always staring at me like I’m a walking traffic accident?”
She can see his brow furrow and his chin tuck in, as he often does when she says something he doesn’t seem to comprehend. It’s like he’s a robot that needs time to compute. She smirks at the thought, happy to give fuel to her growing ire. Her internal voice, which now sounds suspiciously like Jane, warns her that her dislike of Darcy is making her cruel. Well, it’s not as though he doesn’t deserve it. Remember what he did to George? Before he can open his mouth to respond, she cuts him off. She’s broken the dam, and now all she wants to do is to let her weeks of irritation flow freely.
“And why do you go from picking apart everything I say to complete radio silence from one moment to the next? It’s like I’m only worth your time when you can put me down in front of your friends.”
“I—“
And why do you do this?”—she gestures at the ample space between their seats—“It’s like I have the plague and you need to sit far enough away so that you won’t catch it!”
“Lizzie—“
“I mean if you hate me so much, why don’t you just leave me alone!”
The echo of her rage hovers in the air. The silence between them makes her realize how loud she must have been yelling. Anxious that she may have put herself in a painfully awkward situation, Lizzie searches the crowd around them for any reaction, but luckily the music and general party ambience have drowned her out. Her harsh words belong to Darcy alone.
Darcy is wearing a full frown, but his expression is more confused than angry. Lizzie waits impatiently, rearing to counter whatever he throws at her, but he must be lost in his own thoughts because he doesn’t say a word in response.
Well, that cleared everything up. Thanks a lot, Darcy.
Lizzie jumps down from her stool in exasperation. The motion is enough to drag Darcy out of his stupor, and he watches her in that infuriating way of his as she kneels down to pick up her heels. She leans on the stool to shove one back on, then the other.
“I don’t know why I even tried.”
She moves to storm away, only for Darcy to unexpectedly grab her arm and keep her in place.
“Don’t go.”
His plea is plaintive yet insistent.
She raises an eyebrow.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
His thumb brushes lightly against the inside of her forearm, making her breath catch at the unexpected contact. His expression so earnest it disarms her.
“Please.”
In an instant her anger is dialed down to a dull simmer, the bulk of it replaced by profound confusion.
Now that she is staying in place, Darcy doesn’t seem to know what he wants to do next. He scans the crowds of guests scattered around them, surveying the room — unlike her, he doesn’t have to crane his neck to do so. Making up his mind, he drags her lightly by her captured hand, weaving them both through and away from the throngs of partygoers. She soon recognizes his path as the way to the hallway of bedrooms on the first floor, the corridor of which has been left unlit to indicate it has been sectioned off from the party. She lets him lead her in silence, uncertain but curious about what he has to say.
Once they’ve walked far enough down the hall to be hidden from view, Darcy stops walking, but he doesn’t give back her hand. Instead he stares at it while wearing a look of deep contemplation, as though her hand were a stubborn problem that refused to be solved. When she tugs against his grip, though, he immediately releases her and lifts his gaze to her face. It shocks her discover that he looks hurt.
“You think that I hate you?”
She responds to his disconcerting behavior with a bitter scoff.
“It’s pretty obvious that you do, Darcy.”
“You think…that I hate you.”
This time he says the words in disbelief, muttering them to himself.
His reaction makes her defensive, unwilling to be persuaded that his bizarre behavior has all been an exaggeration of her own invention.
“Yeah, well, that is the only explanation for how you act around me. I mean, why else would you—“
While he has looked bewildered since she yelled at him back at the bar, as she speaks a peculiar emotion suffuses over Darcy’s face. Fondness. There’s no mistaking it.
And it’s directed at her.
No. No, no, no. NO. Impossible. Absolutely not.
Her mouth falls open in surprise.
“You like me?”
Her incredulity amuses Darcy, who has the audacity to smirk as her worldview shatters. He entwines his fingers into the hand of hers he recently released, bringing it up between their bodies and brushing his thumb against her knuckles. His motions are hesitant and tender, and she is in too deep a state of shock to protest.
“I admit, I have been intentionally subduing my feelings for you, but I never would have supposed that my feelings appeared so oblique as to be mistaken for the exact opposite.”
He smiles, that small but transformative smile that turns him into a friendly and foreign Darcy, which makes it harder to dismiss her growing belief that she is dreaming, or perhaps was transferred into an alternate reality without her knowledge.
Standing less than an arms length apart, she is closer to Darcy than she has been since The Most Awkward Dance Ever. The way his fingers are tracing along her hand is giving her goose bumps and is making her hyperaware of her body and his. She can smell the cloak of cologne around him and feel the heat radiating off of his tall, solid frame. She can hear each of her shallow breaths and feel her heartbeat in her ears. Darcy’s breath is shallow as well, and now he’s staring at her lips.
She knows she has to do something, quickly, but her thoughts are too muddled to communicate a clear purpose to her muscles. Darcy lets go of her hand in order to place one of his own flat against her waist. The other moves up to rest gently on her neck. It’s the way his eyes darken as he moves to lean in that finally jolts her into action. She places both hands on his shoulder blades and pushes him away.
“Stop.”
Darcy yields and pulls back, but his hands remain in their positions at her waist and neck. They stay like that, with him holding her and her allowing herself to be held, each listening to the sound of their heavy breathing and their hearts beating frantically against their chests.
“Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But here’s my number. So call me, maybe.”
Her ring tone blares against the backdrop of their tense silence, and the sound is enough to snap her out of her near hypnotic state. She quickly pushes Darcy away with enough force that he drops his hands and steps back. Once he’s far away enough that she can think clearly again, Lizzie closes her eyes and winces in mortification. Maybe she should be grateful that her phone went off when it did, but did it really have to be one of Lydia’s crafty hacks of her personal ring tones that saved her?
Still shaken from what almost just happened, she reaches an unsteady hand into the pocket of her dress to grab her phone, but it falls from her grip onto the floor as soon as she pulls it out. Swearing and wondering to herself if it were possible for her present situation to get any worse, she hunches onto the ground to pick it up. When she rights herself, she leans against the wall behind her, shaking her forehead in disbelief against the palm of her hand. She accepts the call.
“Yes, Lydia?”
“Lizzie, where are you? If you don’t get your ass in the car soon, you’re going to have to walk. And we both know you’d fall on your face trying to get home in heels.”
Lizzie rolls her eyes, but she is grateful for the familiar territory.
“I would obviously take the heels off, Lydia. But tell Mom I’m on my way out.”
She hangs up and looks back at Darcy, who is now the Darcy she knows. His fists are clenched, his face devoid of emotion. He is not even looking in her direction; his stern glare is directed down the hall.
Unwilling to give any more thought to the Jekyll and Hyde situation she just experienced, Lizzie turns on her heel and strides purposefully back into the party and through the front door, leaving Darcy standing alone in the hallway with the darkness and his thoughts.