Page 62 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Now, ready or not, the story comes pouring out.

“It’s, um, about the database. You see, there was this really important nineteenth-century novel, and somehow it … disappeared from the record. I knew it existed—it left its mark in so many places. I’d seen references to it for years. Then, just when I’d given up hope, almost convinced myself I’d imagined it, I found it. We were in New York, and I was so excited that I had to tell someone. I thought about calling you, but I didn’t know whether you’d … and, well, Geoff was right there. So I–I showed him instead. I figured he’d understand what a big deal it was.”

Cassie takes all that in stride, and if there’s a flicker of surprise, or even hurt, that I didn’t reach out to her, it’s gone before I can even be sure it was there.

“And did he understand?” she asks.

“You could say so.” I have to pause and take a breath before I can utter the next words, and even then, they stick in my throat. “He, uh, he took credit for my discovery.”

At that, Cassie stiffens—but only a little. Like she’s surprised by his deceit, but not that surprised.

“And now he’s getting job offers and book contracts,” I continue, “and I get … nothing, I guess. I uploaded it to the database the same night I showed it to him, but somehow … somehow it shows up now tagged as his contribution. I can’t prove I found it. I can’t prove”—I sweep my hands apart, a gesture of emptiness, desperation, defeat—“anything.” And then I shut the lid of my laptop with a snap. There’s nothing more to say.

Her arms slide away from my shoulders as she sits up, processing what I’ve told her. “Do you mean he messed with the database record, somehow?”

“I don’t know how he could have,” I say with a shrug. “He’d have to have administrator access. But the only alternative I can think of is that Pedersen did it for him.”

She grimaces. “That’s not better.”

“Definitely not.”

We sit side by side at the table, staring at my closed laptop, thinking. At least I presume she’s thinking. The only thing inside my head right now is static.

“If it’s a technical issue,” she says after a few moments, “why don’t you ask Fisher for help?”

A harsh sound bursts up from my lungs, part gasp, part laugh. All I can hear is his voice telling me how much he hates it when people think computer stuff is all he’s good for.

Cassie draws back a little, startled. Or confused. Or both. I’m reluctant to tell her that Fisher and I are through. Given Cassie’s present view of relationships, she’ll probably think it’s proof she’s better off having no spark with her significant other.

Because if there’s no spark, it’s a lot harder to go down in flames.

But I can’t lie to her anymore. “We broke up,” I force myself to say—the first time I’ve had to admit it aloud. Hearing it makes it more real, even to me. “On New Year’s Eve.”

After a beat of silence, she asks, “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I mean, not particularly,” I say with a sigh. “He showed up at my hotel room while I was showing Geoff my discovery. There weren’t any chairs, so we were sitting on the bed, and it looked—well, I’m sure it didn’t look good.” I don’t want to believe Geoff set me up, expecting Fisher to stop by. But now that I know what he’s capable of, it seems far from impossible. “I tried to explain, but Fisher said …” I have to pause and bite my lip, though I’m not sure whether I’m stifling a laugh or a sob. “He reminded me that I’d promised him not to trust Geoff, and I, uh … I broke my promise.”

“Oh, Elle,” she says, reaching for another hug. “Have you spoken with him since?” I shake my head. “Why don’t you call him? Tell him what that asshole has done.”

I pick up my phone, which is lying face down on the table beside my laptop. Fisher is still a favorite contact. As my thumb hovers over the screen, I wonder whether he’s blocked my number. Or will he watch it ring with awful satisfaction as he lets it go to voicemail? And—oh, God—what would I say if he actually answered? I put the phone down again and meet Cassie’s disappointed expression with another shrug. “He’d probably just say, I told you so.”

“Then let’s go get some coffee and talk this through some more,” she suggests. “Surely between us, with a little fresh air and caffeine, we can figure out some way to set the record straight.”

I don’t really want to go anywhere. It’s obvious I’ve been crying, for one thing. But I let her fetch my coat and lead me down the stairs anyway. By the time we reach the Grind, I do feel a little better—or at least I tell myself I do.

Until I see Fisher standing at the counter.

Any hope I have of convincing myself I’m imagining him, or of dodging the encounter, slips away when Cassie all but pushes me over the threshold. I stumble, which of course draws his attention right to me.

He looks much the same as he did the last time I saw him—a bit more rested, perhaps. I take small consolation in the fact that the girl behind the counter has to speak his name twice before he realizes she’s holding out his black coffee to go.

“Elle,” he says, finally, and the effort requires him to clear his throat. Whatever he feels in this moment, I can’t read it on his face or in his dark eyes.

“Fisher,” I reply, lifting my chin as I take half a step closer. “I, um, I didn’t know you were back in town.”

“Just for a few days.”

“Oh. Is your dad—?”