Page 23 of Inventing Mr Darcy

(That’s what we literary types call understatement—aka, the humble brag.)

“A sophomore?” I exclaim, intending to tease him. “That’s a travesty. An indictment of the American education system. A—”

“When was your last math class?”

I pretend there’s a catch in my throat as an excuse to make the next words barely audible. “High school?”

His eyebrows rise above his glasses, but he doesn’t say anything, merely takes another sip of his beer and waits.

And of course, I cave. “So, anyway. Yeah. Naturally, the idea came from my work with the database”—I find it’s easier if I don’t name it; less risk of slipping up and sounding crazy; more protection from feeling crazy—“and my interest in recovering literature by women. As you may or may not know, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women wrote a lot, but they were ambivalent about attaching their names to their published work. So I’m exploring the differences between their public and private voices, as seen in letters and things like that. Ultimately, I want to reflect on the ethics of the database itself as a means of discovery and distribution. Does that … um, does that make sense?” I’m afraid my explanation was neither as smooth nor as clear as his.

He pays me the compliment of looking thoughtful for a moment. “I think I get it. Basically, these women in the past were conflicted about going public as writers, and now you’re wondering whether you digital humanities types should feel conflicted about using the internet to make their work more public than they could have imagined. Right?”

“Right.” Though it’s not my main argument, that idea will form a significant part of my conclusion.

“Do you?” His tone is pointed. “Feel conflicted, I mean.”

Somehow, that was not the follow-up question I anticipated. “Well, maybe on some level. I hate being reliant on subscriptions to share these amazing works. And of course, I think women should have control over their own stories, so—”

“So, technology is evil, computers are bad.” His fingertips catch the corner of the bottle’s label and tear a third of it away in one ragged strip. If I did that, it would just be normal fidgetiness. But the same behavior from him radiates frustration.

See? Landmine.

“I never said that,” I protest.

“You didn’t have to. It’s implicit.”

I try to clarify. “I wouldn’t say that. I don’t believe—”

“My philosophy professor sure did,” he snaps back, then abruptly squeezes shut his eyes. “Oh, my God.” When he looks at me again, his dark gaze is softer. Chastened. “This is what you meant, isn’t it? I’m sorry.” As I suspected, the word sounds a little rusty, like it’s rarely used. “It’s just …” He drags in and slowly releases a deep breath that’s almost a sigh. “Every computer science major at my school was required to take ‘Ethics of Technology’—the running joke was, the administration was afraid that without that course, we’d grow up to let the machines run amok and terrorize the villagers. But, uh, it wasn’t a joke—at least, not to that professor. And I guess, even after all these years, I’m still a little …” He gestures with one hand as if fishing for a word, but comes up empty.

Salty? I’m tempted to suggest.

But I can also understand how such an unpleasant classroom experience might make a person defensive, and I’m on the point of saying as much when the server arrives with our dinner, so beautifully presented it’s almost a shame to eat it. He gestures at the food with his chopsticks without removing them from their paper holder. “If you’d rather just declare this date a disaster now, I can ask them to wrap all this up to go.”

I rest my arms on the edge of the table between me and the brimful bowl. “I would never have taken you for a quitter.”

He sits up a little straighter and leans toward me as he unwraps his chopsticks, and there’s a compelling sort of light in his eyes that I’ve never seen there before. Like he’s not used to being challenged, but he kind of likes it. “I believe it’s your turn to ask a question.”

It’s conversation by the rules, but I’m willing to play along. Uncrossing my arms, I pick up my spoon and dip it into my ramen. “All right, here’s an easy one. Have you always wanted to work with computers?”

“I suppose you could say that,” he replies, smearing wasabi on a piece of sushi before raising it to his lips with enviable dexterity. I think of his long fingers dancing across a keyboard and wonder whether there’s much he’s not good at—other than conversation. “On the other hand,” he continues after he’s chewed and swallowed, “I’m tempted to say I never did and still don’t.”

I pause with a spoonful of ramen broth lifted to my lips. One of the noodles slithers back into the bowl. Is he, a bona fide tech bro, actually trying to convince me he doesn’t like computers? That intro-level philosophy course really left a mark.

“I mean, I’ve always been great with technology.” He spreads his hands, palm upward, in a gesture of surrender, like he can’t help being a genius. “But the work itself can leave something to be desired. And in my experience, when people discover you’re good at something tech-related, they try to use you for their own ends.”

My throat burns like I just swallowed the rest of that little bowl of wasabi in one gulp. I choke and reach for my water. “I did apologize, you know,” I protest when I can speak again. “For dropping by your home on a Saturday and expecting you to fix—”

Surprise darts across his face and he shakes his head sharply, as if to drive off my words. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t referring to you.”

But I’m a little dubious. Who else does he feel is taking advantage of his abilities? I stir my noodles without scooping any onto the spoon. “If you don’t love the work,” I venture, “then what are you doing at Grantham, getting a graduate degree in computer science?”

Something wry, not quite a smile, curves his lips. “What am I doing in Grantham? Mostly pissing off my dad.” He pops another piece of sushi in his mouth, and I have to wait for the rest of his explanation. “Nobody was more surprised than I was when my advisor said he’d been lured to flyover country by a joint position at the University of Minnesota and Grantham College. When I told my dad, he insisted I should finish my degree remotely. So I, uh, I took him at his word.” The corners of his mouth turn up higher, like he’s enjoying his private joke at his dad’s expense. “After all, Grantham’s pretty remote.”

I nod like I understand. And maybe a part of me does. You can love your parents a lot and still need your space.

We eat in silence for a few minutes, until the follow-up observation that’s been knocking at my teeth bursts out. “You didn’t really explain why you chose your degree program, though.” Especially if you don’t actually like the work.