Page 36 of Inventing Mr Darcy
His trip was arranged before we got together, though he invited me to come along, all the same. I declined—I have too much work to do, and I am not going to be that girlfriend. (Is it too soon for that word? Not after last night, right? But is it really the best word for someone who’s staring down thirty?)
The truth is, I’d been thinking of the coming Fisherless week as prime time to get my friendship with Cassie back on track. But of course, this is also peak season for the academic job market. She’s probably got interviews and, even if things have been a little strained between us, she’s still too big of a person to rub it in. And it’s certainly understandable that she’d want to be with her family before finally striking out all on her own as a young professional.
Well, more dissertation time for me. “I’ll take good care of Bi—” I catch myself just in the nick of time and reach out to scratch the cat behind the ears. “I’ll take care of this big boy while you’re gone.”
Mostly, I find it reassuring that she’s voluntarily putting a few hundred more miles between her and Bill. Things between them can’t be too serious if she’s willing to do that.
Only after I’m snuggled alone in my bed do I remember his White Sox hat.
Maybe her parents aren’t the only people she’s intending to see in Chicago.
FOURTEEN
I celebrate Thanksgiving with a day-old turkey sub from the Eagle’s Nest convenience store, washed down with a questionably cranberry-flavored sparkling water; a phone call from my mom in which she mostly complains about the drive to Florida and how my dad tried to stick to a strict schedule of stops that left her car sick; and a true-crime-inspired murder mystery on Netflix that creeps me out to the point of insisting that Bing Bong sleep in my room, because an eleven-pound orange tabby who loves everyone is better than no protection at all.
The rest of the week, both before and after the holiday, proceeds relatively smoothly. I finish a draft of almost the entire first chapter of my dissertation (which I choose to celebrate, despite the fact that it’s only so-so, and I’m about four chapters short of where I need to be). I get regular texts from Fisher to check in. He sends reports on ski conditions and his friends’ antics, and just this morning, a selfie in front of the lodge fireplace; he’s wearing a t-shirt with a tortured pun on the front about pie and π.
Planning to get one more run in
before hitting the road
Home tonight by dinnertime
Can’t wait to see you
The Fisher is texting … bubble appears, then disappears. A few seconds later, one final message pops up.
How can one tiny heart emoji make my own actual heart leap?
I don’t want to read too much into it. But Fisher is not an emoji person. So it has to mean something, right? Unless maybe his thumb slipped on his keyboard and somehow landed on—
No. I am not going to play coy with myself. He likes me. I didn’t need a heart emoji to tell me that, but I’m glad I have it. And obviously, I like him, too. A lot.
So, should I send one back?
I hesitate over the keyboard, my armpits prickling with sweat like a lovesick girl. But it feels so fast. An invitation to court disaster. Before things can spin out of control, I tuck my phone into my bag beside my laptop and head for the Grind.
The coffee shop is quiet; most of the students won’t return for finals week until tomorrow. But it feels good to be out of the house. I order a pumpkin spice latte—“last one of the season,” the barista warns me with a smile—and take over my usual table near the back. I’ve made progress with the Great File Reorganization Project, but there’s still more to do and caffeine always helps.
The first three gibberish files open to reveal undergraduate papers that would have been no great loss, but I dutifully rename them and save them to their new proper places. The fourth is a draft of an application letter for a job I didn’t even want, and that one, I simply delete. File five takes a moment to open, which either means there’s something wrong with it or it’s something large. I can’t imagine what it could be. And then, the first words appear.
Chapter 1
For a young woman of no fortune and few prospects, Elinor Bishop had given shockingly little thought to marriage.
Oh, my God. It’s the historical romance I started writing the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college. It has to be bad.
Well, not bad bad, I concede after reading a few pages. Mediocre.
My fingers move and the cursor hovers over the little X to close the document. I do not need to get sidetracked.
A dialogue box pops up in the center of the screen, because new and improved Elle has enabled autosave and automatic file backup.
Update filename, it prompts. I type HorridNovel as a sort of Austen-inspired inside joke.
Save changes? Y/N
I hesitate, shifting the cursor between options before choosing yes. Not that I’m intending to take it up again, of course. I have better things to do.
