Page 43 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Now, a cheap pizza is not, in romance-novel speak, a grand gesture … yet right in this moment, it feels like one. Especially in combination with the note and, well, the whole house, really. Coming to my rescue when he had no obligation to do any such thing. When he was the one who really needed rescuing.

For the first few hours after Geoff’s texts, I was fueled mostly by fury at the idea Fisher lied to me by not telling me who he really was. But all of that began to ebb sometime yesterday evening as we talked. And now, as I’m standing here looking at this greasy pizza box, my anger is at low tide, and other feelings start to edge their way back in.

At the smell of food, Bing Bong appears as if from nowhere. “Come on,” I tell him as I pick up the pizza and carry it into the kitchen. When he hops onto one of the barstools to watch me, it sets up the perfect shot. I snap a pic of him eyeing the box and send it to Fisher.

You didn’t need to do this—but thank you

I don’t expect to get a reply since he’s presumably in the air by now. But I guess when you’re Fisher Davis III, the upcharge for in-flight wi-fi isn’t prohibitive, because a second later he texts back.

Glad to see you two are settling in. Enjoy!

My thumbs hesitate over the keyboard. There’s a lot I could say, and a lot more I probably shouldn’t. Finally, I settle on:

Let me know when you land

Behind that simple request stand generations of taciturn Midwesterners expressing concern and affection in the best way they know how: lingering in the driveway, waving goodbye after half an hour of leave-taking, calling out to their friends with an unnecessary reminder to watch for deer!

I doubt he understands the subtext, of course, being from Connecticut and all. And also a literal-minded STEM kind of guy. Nonetheless, I’m relieved when he texts back.

I will

Several hours later, when the pizza is gone, along with more of a bottle of Gaby’s wine than was probably wise, and I’m curled on the sofa with Bing Bong and that fluffy blanket, wondering whether it’s hypocritical of me to enjoy all this and still be a little mad at Fisher, he doesn’t text. He calls.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?” He sounds every bit as weary as he did before he left, so I’m guessing he didn’t sleep on the plane.

“Not at all,” I say as I push myself more upright against the arm of the sofa, which seriously disgruntles the cat. “So you’re at the hospital?”

“On the way. Landed about twenty minutes ago at LaGuardia.”

“Well,” I say after a beat of silence, “I appreciate you letting me know you made it safely. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate …”

He doesn’t immediately latch on to that opportunity to extract himself from the conversation. “Is Pizza Stan’s as awful as ever?”

“Possibly worse,” I confess. Maybe chatting about something inconsequential is how he hopes to take his mind off everything else. “But you know what they say, there’s no such thing as bad pizza.”

“New Yorkers do not say that.”

“But you’re a, uh … a Connecticutian?” I venture.

“The preferred term is Nutmegger, actually.”

“For real? Why?”

“Long story involving counterfeit spices and, uh, well, let’s just say as a proud son of the Nutmeg State, I come by my saltiness honestly. Or maybe dishonestly.”

I laugh. We both do. And then silence falls again, a sort of guilty sound, as if both of us feel like we shouldn’t be able to find anything amusing in this moment. Maybe inconsequential chatter isn’t such a good idea after all.

And then I get an idea that might be awful or amazing. “Fisher? I know it’s got to be hard, being alone right now, worrying and wondering. Would it help to talk about your dad? You could tell me a story about him, or …”

He hesitates long enough that I’m pretty sure the verdict is awful. Or maybe even worse than awful.

“Sorry. You don’t—” I begin.

But he speaks across me. “When I started high school, I had to pick a student group or activity to join. School policy. My dad nudged me toward the computer club—good preparation for my future, he said. And of course, being a pasty, scrawny kid who wore glasses, it was obvious I’d fit right in.” Instead of imagining him at fourteen or so, I picture his face now, sharp features both softened by the recollection and painted by the harsh glow of neon signs and headlights as his car weaves its way to his father’s bedside. “I signed up for rowing instead.”

As teenage rebellions go, it’s hardly stealing his dad’s vintage Bugatti (an obscenely expensive sports car that I totally did not have to look up after it was mentioned in that article about Fisher Davis, Jr.’s net worth) and taking it for a spin.

“The precision, the orderliness of it appealed to me. And I came to appreciate the physical demands. But I was terrible at first,” he continues with a self-deprecating laugh, and somehow I don’t think he’s just being modest. Those biceps of his didn’t develop overnight. “One day, after a particularly lousy practice, someone said to me, ‘It’s pretty clear why you’re still on this team. You’re Fisher Davis’s son, right? The Fisher Davis?’ Like there could be only one. And even though I knew what that guy was insinuating wasn’t true, I was frustrated and a teenager, so I went home, looked my father dead in the eye and told him that if I ever had a son, I would never name him Fisher.”