Page 52 of Inventing Mr Darcy

He does not invite me to call him Fisher, for which I am absurdly thankful. He echoes the sentiment, then returns the phone to his son, whose face is a carefully studied blank. “I’m going to step into the hall for a moment,” Fisher (Trey?) says to his family.

The background shifts as he leaves the room, but neither of us speaks until he’s once again framed against a drab hospital wall. “I’m sorry about … you know … before,” I begin, but he shakes his head.

“No, I’m sorry.” He runs his free hand through his hair, which has been recently cut. All that gorgeous scruff has been shaved away too. “Your plan for that call would have been a lot more fun.”

“Maybe later?” I ask, hopeful.

His shoulders rise and fall on an inaudible sigh. “Can’t. I’ve been informed I have a, um, social obligation this evening, on behalf of the Davis Family Foundation. And tomorrow, when I’d hoped to be in the city to welcome you, I’ll be helping to get my dad settled in the rehab center.”

“I understand,” I say, although I’m disappointed. “But that last part is good news, right? Hopefully the move will make things easier for everyone, especially your mom.”

“Yeah,” he concedes. “Are you free for lunch the day after?”

“I’ll check the convention schedule and let you know.”

A beat of silence follows. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Umm …” I consider updating him about my parents’ move and Cassie’s engagement, but it’s too much. “Interesting,” I say.

“Listen”—he glances over his shoulder at the door to his father’s hospital room—“I should go. But thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.” Just then, there’s commotion in the hallway, the rattle of some equipment being wheeled past, accompanied by hurried conversation in medical-ese. I can only see his mouth move, forming the words, “I love you.”

I lift my fingers to my lips and blow him a kiss as he disconnects the call.

My sleep is fragmented, which only adds to the next morning’s chaos.

Because of course I didn’t pack or stop by my apartment the day before when I should have, and I still need to drop off the key with Fisher’s neighbor so their kid can pop in and feed the cat.

I skid into MSP airport like a character in a cartoon, my suitcase banging along behind me in a futile attempt to keep up, even though it has wheels. My impatience in the security line results in being pulled aside for an extra search, and by the time I step onto the plane, I feel like I’ve already survived a day and a half, and it’s only 10:13.

As I’m making my way to my seat, I hear someone call out my name in a plummy accent and I actually flinch at the sound.

I hadn’t forgotten Geoff Winkworth was coming on this trip, of course. But after the weirdness on Christmas Eve, I had hoped for a couple more hours’ reprieve from his company. The only consolation the universe has seen fit to grant is assigning us to middle seats in rows on opposite sides of the aisle, and maybe our neighbors won’t tolerate us leaning around them to chat.

“Glad to see you made it!” Geoff speaks across his seatmate, offering me one of those charming, crooked smiles. “Kind of fitting that we lowly plebes are setting out on this big adventure on Boxing Day, isn’t it?”

I fix him with a narrow-eyed stare. I need coffee. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

I actually do know, however, and my punishment for lying is twofold: the woman next to me offers to change seats with Geoff, which perfectly positions him to spend the next three hours mansplaining British holiday traditions, including the one where masters and servants—or in this case, tenured professors and grad students—trade places. But I can mostly ignore that, and do, grabbing my phone even as I nod along like I’m listening.

Prior to this, I haven’t had a spare moment this morning to check my messages. There’s no text from Fisher—understandable, given how much he has going on today—so I scroll through BeeSocial. As luck (ha!) would have it, the algorithm feeds me a post about the Davis Family Foundation’s Christmas Cotillion, which must be the social obligation he mentioned. I swipe past, but not before catching a glimpse of the man I love in a designer tux dancing with some socialite.

As the flight attendant closes the cabin door, I think to check my email and find a message, flagged as potential spam, from the website where I posted my story two nights past.

Welcome to Wordstitch, EllieB! It looks like “First Impressions” is getting noticed.

You have notifications: click here to see what readers have to say!

(Yes, I did steal Jane Austen’s working title for Pride and Prejudice. But who will ever know?)

I start to swipe the email into the trash, then at the last minute click the link instead. I can’t deny I’m curious. But the app opens sluggishly. I can hear the flight attendant coming up the aisle behind me, giving out last-minute instructions.

“Ma’am,” she scolds me in a weary voice when she reaches our row. (Ma’am? Maybe it’s time to invest in a night cream.) “You need to shut down your device and stow it for takeoff.”

“Uh-huh, sorry,” I say, powering off just as the app finally loads.