Page 39 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I pluck the blanket off my knees, not because I’m too warm but because I’m suddenly afraid of how cozy I feel here. “You get that it’s not simply a matter of whether I like you anymore, right? I don’t even feel I know you. And—oh my God, Fisher.” Even his name feels strange to me now, like I can feel that Roman numeral hanging off the end of it. “I slept with you.”

Color sweeps across his cheekbones; I catch a brief glimpse of it before he hangs his head. “I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before things got that far. And I meant to. But then you … No. Sorry.” I’m honestly a little worried he might hurt himself saying sorry so many times in a row, because lord knows he hasn’t had much practice. “That makes it sound like I think you bear some responsibility for what happened, and you absolutely do not. I saw you standing there, in my office, with your wet hair, wearing my clothes, and you just looked so …” I think for a minute he’s going to say beautiful again, at which point I really will walk out. But what he says instead is, “real. So comfortable and … I don’t know another word.” So he says the same one again. “Real. And I wanted that. Wanted you. And so I kissed you. And then I—”

I interject: “And then you fu—”

“No.” He jumps to his feet and cuts off my word while it’s still a soft sound, before it becomes a harsh one. “I mean, if that’s what it was to you, or all you wanted it to be, then that’s … you’re entitled to your feelings. Of course.” He’s pacing now in front of the bookcase. “I just … I want you to know it was more than that to me.”

If I were Elizabeth Bennet, I’d have the perfect stinging retort. I’d make him hurt for all the ways he’s hurt me. But I’m not Elizabeth and I don’t have a pithy comeback. In fact, I’m afraid that what I do have runs dangerously close to sympathy. His words from earlier wind their way through my thoughts. What must it be like never to know whether someone likes you for yourself, and not your family name or your family’s money?

But I can’t let him off easy because of that. I can’t.

“When you say I look real,” I ask after a moment, “is that a dig at all these women?” I pick up my phone, gesture with it to indicate the scores of pictures I’ve seen. I mean, my God, the man once judged a beauty contest! “Or is it a dig at me?”

His sharp inhalation brings his restless pacing to a halt. He squeezes shut his eyes. “Can you—will you come into the kitchen with me?”

I was not expecting that. “Why?”

“Because this is hard to talk about, and I’m not good at conversation, as you know. But I’ve found it helps if I do something physical at the same time. Preferably something with my hands.” It’s the first indication I’ve had that maybe I’m not the only anxious, restless, messy one in this—well, I’m not sure I should say relationship now.

“Like cooking?” I ask, understanding beginning to dawn.

“Or working out. Or debugging code. But I figured if I invited you to come upstairs with me—”

“I’d throw this mug of hot water at you and walk out the door? Yeah.”

He shrugs, as if he knows he deserves that and more. “Also, the other options don’t produce anything you can eat,” he remarks as he walks through the doorway and into the dining room, treating me to an eye-level view of his ass in that deliciously worn pair of jeans.

I narrowly avoid quipping, I beg to differ. I remind myself that I’m angry at him, that he hurt me. That a lie by omission is still a lie.

I also get up and follow him into the kitchen.

But I take the mug with me, just in case.

By the time I get there, he’s already begun to gather ingredients from the fridge and the pantry, and as I slide onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar, he bangs a stockpot onto the stove, sloshes some oil into it, and turns on the gas.

“It’s not that I ever thought that any of the other women I’ve dated”—he starts peeling carrots and piling them on a cutting board—“or any of the women who’ve made it clear they wanted to date me”—celery next, and occasionally a word is muffled by running water—“weren’t real. I don’t mean to—”

He twirls a large knife in the air as he fishes for the right words.

“Dehumanize them?” I suggest.

Whack. The knife slices crisply through three carrots at a time. “Definitely not. But it was only after I met you that I understood what I’d been sensing then. Those women weren’t being themselves with me. Maybe they thought they couldn’t be. For sure none of them called me ‘salty’ or dumped salsa in my lap,” he says with an attempt at a smile. “They never told me they were scared or let me see them cry. Not real tears, anyway. Dammit.” Another sharp stroke of the blade, and for just a minute, I think he might have cut himself. “That makes it sound like I got off on your pain, doesn’t it? I swear I am not a horrible person.”

“I know you’re not,” I say quietly. Sincerely. “Misguided, maybe. With a ridiculously inflated ego. But not horrible. I’m sure those women believed it was to their advantage to look a certain way. Act a certain way. Because they knew … as I didn’t … that you could pretty much have your pick.”

The vegetable chopping has slowed while I’ve been speaking, and now he lays the knife aside. He wipes his hands on a towel and turns toward the freezer, as much to hide his expression, I think, as to rummage for another ingredient. “The thing is, I never had much luck convincing myself that, without my dad’s money, a single one of them would pick me.”

I could point out that I did know his dad has money. This kitchen alone is proof of it. But I know now it’s a matter of scale. Without impugning anyone’s motives, I understand that a 150-year-old, perfectly restored house in Grantham, Minnesota isn’t enough to turn some people’s heads, especially not when compared to a place on Central Park West. And a smart, cute-in-a-nerdy-kind-of-way computer guy isn’t the same kind of catch as the heir apparent to a multi-million-dollar investment firm.

He finishes chopping the celery and a couple of cloves of garlic, then slides all of the vegetables into the piping hot stockpot, where they hiss and sizzle so loudly that for a moment, all conversation is at a standstill. He pushes them around with a wooden spoon, then adds salt and pepper and other seasonings.

“So you came to Grantham to get away from all the women throwing themselves at you,” I say when he turns away from the stove.

“I suppose that’s part of it,” he concedes with a little rumble of laughter.

I let him focus for a while on what he’s cooking so I can think about what he’s said. Did he really appreciate me for my authenticity? Or just my gullibility?

I’ve spent so much time searching online for Jane Austen. Why didn’t I take a minute to look up Fisher Davis? Was it possible I just didn’t want to know the truth?