First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 47.2

Darcy was afraid. Though he had found it difficult to fall asleep the night before, he woke early and completely in the cool of the morning. With the curtains pulled open, pale fingers of morning light filtered through the clouds and into the hotel room.

Rising, he moved from the bed to sit in the wheeled desk chair. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't imagine what would happen next. When he tried to think, his heart thrummed in his chest and his throat felt tight. So, he didn't. He blinked slowly, calmingly, slumping in the seat.

He swiveled the seat back and forth, back and forth, for nearly an hour, fingers holding numbly to the sides. It was the closest he had ever come to meditating; his mind was empty of all conscious, waking thought for the first time in years, decades, even. He stared at the black pad on the desktop, his ears filled with the slight, swishing sound of fabric. It would have been eerie, if he was master enough of himself to consider the situation. Instead, it was just on the edge of peaceful. 

Under the impetus of no obvious thought or external stimulus, Darcy pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the closet. He pulled out his small bag and began to pack; the movement of cloth, the rhythmic motion of pressing it into flat, crisp creases, ceased in a few moments. He dressed slowly and just as methodically.

His mind still strangely, blissfully blank, he stepped out of the room and walked towards the elevators. He could not muster the energy to be quick. Though he knew the day ahead of him would be long, there was no urgency left within him. The hope was too exhausting and all-consuming. The maybe was too strong to energize the actual.

For there was hope there, somewhere, under the floating numbness that had filled his mind like a fog. It ballooned inside him with each breath, growing in size with every step that brought him closer to her. But he could not address it openly; he feared a head-on glance would cause it to burst, leaving not just the hope, but the whole of him in tatters.

After he checked out of his room, he put his bag in the car but left it parked. He walked an unnecessary distance, passing several cafés before picking one at random. He sat with his coffee and his pastry and, staring into middle distance, finally began to consider his day.

Of course, Darcy would go back. Believe that he could keep away had been a fanciful idea; like a magnet pull, he was drawn back again and again. And yet, even when he checked out of his room, he had not really decided to return until he was sitting at his little round table, a bubble of silence in the early-morning typing.

Simultaneously, he wished to never communicate with Bingley again and to desperately pour his heart out to his friend. Pulling a sip of coffee, he watched his fingers twitch on the table. That was another problem to work on... Though the tenor of their texts had been nothing but his usual cheerful, excited tone, the terror of his anger had not receded in the slightest.

Darcy sighed and downed the last of his coffee, which had cooled significantly while he sat there. It was a long drive ahead of him and he wasn't entirely sure what reception he would receive on the other end. 

~~~~ 

It was the cardigan that did it. He couldn't place it at first, in the dark. There was just something about the shape of it... It reminded him of snow? As the headlights flashed over it, he realized—the winter, at his aunt's home.

But the person wearing it was too tall to be Elizabeth. Her hair was blonde and too long. As he pulled into the open spot, he realized it was Lydia. Her hair was loose over her shoulders and she held the cardigan closed with arms folded over her chest. Her feet were bare in the grass.

"Lydia?" he asked as he pulled himself out of the car, needing confirmation for what he saw.

She didn't say anything, but crept closer. He closed the door, the thud of it loud in the near-silence of the night. "What are you doing out here?"

She walked until she was just at the edge of the parking lot and stopped. She tucked the cardigan more closely around her body. "I knew you'd come back."

He shook his head. "That makes one of us."

They lapsed into silence. He could hear crickets and other insects in the direction of the water. The sky was clear and bright, far enough from town that he could just begin to make out the specks of stars. With the headlights off, they could barely make out each other's in ghostly shadow from the lights that poked their way out of the windows of the inn.

"It's late. Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Her laugh sounded more genuine. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "When Jane stopped having bedtime, we all stopped having bedtime. Everything had to be equal or we'd fight about it." She paused, looking up at him through her pale lashes. Her eyes searched his face, but he wasn't sure for what. "Lizzie was just as bad about it as I was."

Too late, he realized she was gauging his reaction. He had no idea what his face had done, but she smiled at it, so it must have been correct. "I would believe that."

"Don't let her convince you it was any other way."

"I'm sure she wouldn't."

She eyed him meaningfully. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that. She's very persuasive." Another once-over. "And you look like you're easily persuaded."

He wondered if she was softening her words for him. She probably wanted to call him a push-over. Was he? Probably. He pushed the thought away, trying not to grimace.

Delicacy was not one of his strong suits. When faced with a difficult moment, he would either blurt it out or, more likely, tiptoe around the problem until anything he wished to say was no longer relevant. He didn't know Lydia well; her external personality was strong enough to hide behind. But he could observe her. There were circles under her lines and she seemed pale, even in the dim light. She seemed... diminished. Less vibrant. "How have you been doing... since?"

She looked down.

Darcy knew that his general somber countenance did not express the wealth of emptions beneath the surface. That he could not modulate his face was a barrier between him and the rest of the world. He wanted to say, "Look at me. It's okay. You did nothing wrong. You will be okay. Your sisters are here for you." But he didn't. He couldn't.

Instead, he said, "Can I give you the number of someone who can help? When you're up to it?"

She raised her head up, looking at him with a blank expression. He refused to break the silence first. After almost a minute of quiet she said, in a small voice, "I don't have my phone with me."

"Can I write it on your hand?"

Lydia nodded.

As he fished in his pocket for a pen, he felt time mirror itself. He hoped this time his pen would offer her not just freedom, but peace. He had had a taste of that peace already that day; it was alluring. He wanted to share it. He found a pen and pulled off the cap.

Hesitantly, she offered her hand. He took it softly in his own; her fingers were chilled and a little damp from the night air. He turned it palm up and the cardigan draped down towards her elbow.

He tried not to press too hard, but the pen was a bit dry and he had to push it into the skin to mark up the numbers. "This is my sister's cell. Georgia. Georgie. I think she might be able to help with that. She knows what it's like."

Lydia grimaced.

"No," Darcy said gently, putting the pen back in his pocket. "I promise, she really, really does."

She pushed her sleep up again and lowered her hand. "I guess you probably want to check in now."

He made a noncommittal gesture, half a shrug, half a nod. "Yeah."

"You're going to get an extra charge for not having a reservation."

Darcy chuckled. "I'm not really worried about the money right now."

Lydia grinned too. "See you tomorrow." Without waiting for him to answer, she turned and seemed to float away through the grass, her bare feet hardly disturbing the vegetation. In only a few steps, she was a dim figure, and in a few more, she was swallowed by the night.