Page 54 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I wish there was one other person in the world I could talk with about my dilemma, someone who understood what the world lost and why it’s important to me to try to bring some small fragment of it back. Fisher would say something encouraging, but I know Austen never was his thing, and he’s got enough on his plate.

For just a moment, I consider texting Cassie. But how could I possibly explain?

I’m in the heart of a city of eight million people, and I have never felt so alone.

And at precisely that moment—when I’m balanced on the precipice of elation, staring down into the valley of isolation and despair—my phone rings.

Naturally, I jump and drop my phone, which falls to the floor of the closet, so I have to get down on hands and knees to fish it out, groping blindly beneath the luggage rack. The screen is lit up with Fisher’s name.

I promised to text him as soon as I landed, and instead I’ve let almost two hours elapse.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out as I swipe to answer, trying to disguise that the scramble to recover my phone has left me a little breathless. “I’m here—I’m here—”

“I hope everything’s all right? Was there a delay?”

“Yes. I mean, no—no delay. Sorry for not texting earlier. I sort of fell down this rabbit hole … Did you get your dad moved?” I ask, eager to shift the conversation. “How’d it go?”

“About as smoothly as could be expected, under the circumstances,” he answers. I wonder, briefly, what circumstances he’s referring to, or whether that’s simply a euphemism for his dad’s irascibility about his slow recovery. “The new place is only about fifteen minutes from our house, so that should make things more manageable. Gaby’s almost got Mom convinced she can sleep in her own bed instead of staying with him.”

I doubt Laura Davis needs me to take up for her, but I do it anyway. “Well, she’s worried. And it’s got to be hard sleeping alone, after so many years together.” I know his parents didn’t make a love match, but since then, they’ve shared a home, children, a life. That has to mean something.

“Yeah,” he agrees after yet another pause. “Yeah, I suppose it is.” Then it’s his turn to change the subject. “So, what do you think of New York?”

I wander to the window and look out and down at the tall buildings and crowded streets that surround our Midtown hotel. So many cars, so many people. It’s exciting and overwhelming all at once, and I know I must sound like an absolute hayseed when I say, “It’s, um, OK.”

I fully expect and probably deserve to be mocked for that lukewarm endorsement. But he gives me a pass, though there is a hint of a smile in his voice when he replies, “Well, it’s no Grantham. But if that’s how you feel, I guess you probably don’t have any interest in being taken out to dinner?”

My heart leaps, only to plummet when I recall the schedule. “Professor Pedersen asked Geoff and me to meet with him tonight, to go over things. But he probably just wants to check in. I’m sure I don’t have to—”

“You do, Elle. He’s your advisor.”

I want to argue, but deep down, I know he’s right—I can’t afford to miss any important conversations or information I need to ensure this conference is a success. Falling out of Pedersen’s good graces before I finish my dissertation would spell doom for my job prospects.

“Unfortunately, I’m also on the hook for staffing our booth tomorrow,” I say, scowling at the cardboard box of swag Professor Pedersen asked me to lug up to my room because his is on a higher floor.

“It’s all right,” he insists. “Now that my dad has access to his phone again, he set up a bunch of appointments with all the C-suite types for me, so I’m booked all day too.” He sounds anything but enthusiastic, even though I suspect these meetings are just one more sign that he is steps away from joining their ranks.

I’m reminded of those characters in Christmas rom-coms, people who can’t get away from their high-powered big city jobs, even though the rest of the world is on vacation and no one should even have to know what day of the week it is. I guess the stereotype had to come from somewhere. But since those movies no longer exist, maybe no one thinks to complain about how their bosses—or graduate advisors, or fathers—are ruining their chances for holiday romance.

“How about the day after?” I suggest. I don’t actually know the schedule for Saturday yet, but I’m determined to make it happen.

“It’s a date.”

After we hang up, I stand at the window, weaving the hemmed edge of the sheer curtain between my fingers and watching darkness fall over the city that never sleeps. Somehow, I felt closer to Fisher when I was alone in his house in Minnesota than I do here.

It’s an illusion, of course. Because this is his real home.

I flop onto the bed, pick up my phone, and resume scrolling the comments in Wordstitch, which are now approaching 11,000. They reassure me that I do in fact know something about happy endings.

ONE-AND-TWENTY

The convention gets off to a good start, by and large. Though I have to admit I’m surprised by the discovery that Geoff and Professor Pedersen are sharing a two-room suite. I suppose it was more economical for the college to put the two men together, rather than booking three entirely separate rooms. Outside of class, I’ve never seen them together much, but now they’re downright chummy—Pedersen has invited Geoff to call him Julian—and I can’t help but be a little jealous or to wonder what my experience might have been if we’d been traveling with Julia instead.

Also, I don’t make any egregious mistakes when describing the database to prospective subscribers, though it’s never not going to weird me out to see OWEN-C on the tote bags and keychain flash drives I’m handing out, rather than AUSTEN-C.

Anyway, Friday goes well enough that Pedersen is happy to grant me two free hours on Saturday afternoon, after our first presentation in the convention hall. I text Fisher that I will meet him in the lobby at 1:30 and stake out a spot near the abstract display of oversized gold and silver Christmas baubles—they’re impossible to miss.

Geoff passes by while I’m sitting there, on his way to the overpriced coffee shop across from the registration desk, and pauses to compliment me on how I answered one of the questions we received during our presentation. A moment after he’s gone on his way, I’m approached by a dark-haired young woman with outstretched arms.