Page 20 of Inventing Mr Darcy

All undisputed classics.

Also indisputably grim.

I slide the syllabus back to Camry with a muttered “thanks” and turn my attention to the classroom itself. Most of the faces are familiar. But Rain is absent. Along with Samantha, the creative writer. And now that I do a quick head count, I note there are more men than women here.

I’ve only just realized that Geoff isn’t among those men when Professor Pedersen walks in.

I have tried especially hard to convince myself that the whole Julian Pedersen thing was just a bad dream. But honestly, in a world without Jane Austen’s novels and their lasting impact on literature by women, would someone like Julia Pedersen decide to become an English professor?

And if not, then it stands to reason her absence would leave a space for … Julian.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I’m sorry to report that Mr. Winkworth has had a family emergency and will be away for a couple of weeks.”

I make a mental note to text Geoff and ask if everything is all right.

Pedersen gestures toward me. “In the meantime, if you have class-related questions, please reach out to Miss Bradshaw instead.” Which is really his job, not mine, but OK …

Then he launches into a fifty-minute lecture on the masculine imagination behind Frankenstein.

I’m not trying to paint him as a bad guy. But by the end of class, if not before, it’s clear that even if he lived in a world where you could devote your life’s work to studying the novels of Jane Austen, he wouldn’t make that choice.

Back at home, I throw myself into preparing for my … well, I still think it’s a date. But I’ve checked the balance on my banking app three times just in case Fisher expects me to pay for my own dinner right before declaring that last Friday was a huge mistake and we should never speak to each other again. And though I’m queasy-nervous every time I think about how badly tonight could go, parts of me (OK, my lips—but not only my lips) still really want this second chance, even if “second chance” has never ranked higher than my fourth favorite trope.

I nearly collide with Cassie as she’s passing from her bedroom to the bathroom, evidently in search of better lighting so she can put her earrings in. She’s dressed nicely, though the style is more conservative than her usual. It occurs to me that maybe she has a Zoom job interview and didn’t mention it because she doesn’t want me to feel bad. Even her hair looks different, restrained from its usual magnificent twist-out, which I suppose is consistent with it being a job market thing. Some people are weird (read: racist) about natural hair.

“Sorry,” she says as she blots her already subdued lipstick. “I’ve got a date.”

“A date?!” I screech (and without a trace of irony).

Though maybe I shouldn’t be shocked by her news. Cassie is smart, pretty, funny, the whole package. The kind of woman men ought to be falling all over themselves to ask out. And in fact, back when we were baby grad students and had time to go to the occasional club, they often did.

But for as long as I’ve known her, she’s never really done the dating thing. Runs counter to her stated intention to “stay serious” and “focus on her future.” Meaning, of course, her career.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” I ask.

She doesn’t turn from the mirror as she answers, “Bill.”

It takes a moment before I manage to come up with “Conklin?”

Her lips twitch at my incredulous tone—maybe amusement, maybe annoyance—and she shoots me a defiant look. “Yeah?”

The lift in her voice says, who else could it possibly be?

How the hell did that happen? I want to ask. Is it possible she’s doing this for me? Did she slip him her number on his way out the door to get my mom off my back?

Cassie and I have been friends a long time, but it’s hard for me to imagine even she would willingly make such a sacrifice.

“Well, have fun,” I tell her—though personally, I can’t imagine she will. “Actually, I’m going out too.”

She passes a critical eye over me, taking in my dark wash jeans and my fitted, pale green sweater with the wide navy-blue stripe across the chest. Nothing fancy, but it’s one of my favorite tops for the, um, asset-enhancing quality of the design. All that’s left is to run a brush through my hair and maybe swipe some gloss on my too full lips.

Her eyebrows lift. “Then I should let you have the bathroom since you obviously still need to get ready,” she says, her voice cool enough to send a chill scuttling down my spine.

Cassie can absolutely wield her tongue like a weapon—but it’s rarely directed at me, and never about something as insignificant as clothes. Or makeup. Or a guy.

I’m on the point of snarkily suggesting that I hope she gets a chance to “clear her head” tonight—maybe sex will help her shake off this weird mood. But then I remember that she’s going out with Bill, and no matter how much her words smart, I can’t wish those clammy hands on my best friend.

Fisher picks me up in a black Jeep that’s definitely got some miles on it. The kind of vehicle my dad would call “practical when it snows.” In comparison to his house, it’s … normal. I like it—or rather, what I think it says about him.