Page 38 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I’ve rolled my eyes at a million such pictures and stories in my life, while scrolling BeeSocial or waiting in line at the grocery store. I never imagined actually knowing—to say nothing of having slept with—the kind of person those posts and tabloid articles are written about.

I follow one link and read all about Davis Investment Group and its president and CEO Fisher Davis, Jr., whose net worth has a whole lot of zeroes at the end.

Ever since the day Fisher told me his dad bought a house in Grantham for him to live in, rather than paying rent, I’ve known his family had money—more than mine, anyway, which isn’t saying a lot. And I’ve always known he was smart; smart in a way the world values and will always see as smarter than someone getting a degree in the humanities, digital or otherwise. In short, even without the clean vs. messy, calm and collected vs. chaotic duality we’ve got going, there was ample fodder for my not-so-secret worry that he was out of my league.

But what I’m seeing now is clear evidence that we’re not just talking intramurals vs. pros. We’re talking different sports entirely.

He’s playing for team celebrity, with paparazzi cheerleaders and a 10,000 square foot apartment in Manhattan as well as a waterfront mansion in Connecticut. Like a flashback montage in some painfully unoriginal movie, memories carousel through my mind: how quickly we were seated at the crowded sushi restaurant, Bill’s eagerness to make a good impression, Geoff’s face the first time he heard Fisher’s name.

A scrawny tech nerd who doesn’t know how to talk to girls? Ha!

This is a guy who could have anything—anyone—he wants.

I stuff everything in my bag and hurry from the coffee shop. It’s dark now, and it feels forty degrees colder than it did earlier in the day, though it’s probably more like ten. A drizzly rain is falling, and you get the sense it could change to snow with very little effort. But you also know it won’t change, because snow would be pretty and why would the powers that be do anything to make the world a slightly less miserable place?

Sometimes I fucking hate the Midwest.

Eyes to the ground, I walk at a brisk pace to keep myself from feeling the cold (though the fury bubbling inside me certainly ought to be enough to keep me warm). Though I don’t consciously have a destination in mind, I’m not exactly surprised to end up at 804 Elm Street.

Fisher’s large front porch is bare except for the wooden swing, in stark contrast to his neighbors, whose houses are either all decked out with bales of straw and pots of chrysanthemums and big, bright orange pumpkins, or who have already transitioned to tasteful Dickensian Christmas complete with white twinkle lights.

I’m breathless at the realization that everything here—the quaint small town, the school, even me—is nothing more to him than a fling with normalcy. I don’t blame him for wanting the experience, I guess, but understanding the reality doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Though the house is dark, I climb the wide stone steps and raise the old-fashioned brass door knocker, which is in the shape of an eagle’s talons gripping a ball. No one answers, so I sit down on the porch swing and settle in to wait for Fisher to get home.

FIFTEEN

“My God, Elle,” Fisher says as he jumps from his Jeep and lopes up the steps two at a time. “How long have you been here?”

I don’t answer; can’t answer. Because a) I have no idea, and b) my jaw is clenched to keep my teeth from chattering.

He helps me up and steers me inside, right to the living room and the spot on the couch closest to the fireplace. After wrapping me in a large, fluffy blanket from a basket near the hearth, he lights a fire, which draws my eyes first to his broad shoulders, and then to those framed photos on the mantel.

It’s all too fucking perfect. Why couldn’t I see that before?

He disappears into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with a steaming mug. Hot water and lemon, naturally. Because even in my fantasy, it would strain credulity for a guy to keep herbal tea on hand. After he gives it to me, he perches on the edge of the ottoman at my feet. He’s got that notch of concern between his brows again, and his eyes scan me like he’s checking for signs of hypothermia. “Are you all right?” he asks while I cradle the mug and breathe in the warmth. “Did something happen?”

I take one cautious sip, then another, letting the hot liquid seep into the void inside me. At last, I lean forward to set the mug on the tray in the center of the ottoman, no doubt placed there by some high-priced interior decorator, and fish my phone from my pocket.

“Why did you lie?”

His brows dive downward. “I—what?”

I click on one of the links at random, opening a story about a bachelor auction for charity at which he was the prize, and hold it out to him, inches from his face. “Why did you lie to me about who you are?” By some miracle my voice is still quiet, but its evenness, the little pause between words, makes my emotional state clear even before I toss my phone face down onto the ottoman, where it almost hits his thigh and bounces dangerously close to the half-full mug.

“I didn’t—” he begins. But something about my expression stops him short. He clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together, as if trying to iron out some better, more honest words. “For a long time, I assumed you knew who I was. Everyone seems to, whether I tell them or not. When I started to suspect maybe you didn’t, I …” His long fingers pluck at the blanket’s heavy fringe. I can’t feel the movement, yet somehow, it’s as if he’s touching me, and I know I should instinctively recoil from it, given what’s happened.

But I don’t.

“It was that afternoon you first came here, the day your laptop died, and you seemed … surprised by this house, and I started to wonder … or maybe hope is a better word …” He’s looking into the fire now, rather than at me; the play of light and shadow over his face makes his angular features sharper yet, and when he swallows, his Adam’s apple jerks in his throat. “But I, uh, I convinced myself it was no big deal, either way. Then we, um, we went out, and you said some things that confirmed my hunch. When you came here for dinner and we talked about where we’d grown up, I knew you didn’t know, that I should tell you, but I …” He pauses again, and the crackle of the flames is loud in the otherwise silent room. One shoulder rises and falls. “I like you. A lot. And, well, you seemed to return the feeling. It was really nice.”

“What was nice?” My voice is sharp. “Getting away with deception? Making a fool out of me?”

His gaze swings back to me, and even through the glare of firelight on his glasses, I can see the sorrow in his expression. “Being able to imagine, even for a little while, that someone could like me for … me.” His dark eyes scrape over me, like he’s gathering up one last look. “I guess that’s all over now.”

Those words would be my cue to leave, if I needed one. But I don’t.

Leave, that is.