Part seven of my “short” story

Late summer greetings to you all! This month’s AV theme is inelegance –an intriguing motif for any writer! (Thanks to Diana and Joana for the theme idea, and thanks to Leslie for the graphic!)

While I had aimed to include the word somewhere in this post, I’m afraid the only inelegance you’ll find is in the mode of my storytelling!

(If you’re looking for earlier parts of this modern P&P story, you can find them here: part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, and part six.)

(Also, there are several inconsistencies cropping up in this story, mainly because I’m writing each installment a few weeks apart. I’m sure there are typos, as well. Bonus points if you can find them!)

In spite of my inelegant inconstancies, I hope you enjoy!

The Hunsford Grill had become the team’s post-Ramsgate dinner destination mainly because of its location: far enough from the natatorium so that the other teams didn’t swarm it, but close enough to their hotel that the girls could practically fall into bed after slurping down their milkshakes. Despite what she’d told Will, Liz certainly wouldn’t have chosen the restaurant for its food (yes, the fries were great, but a girl couldn’t live on fries alone). And its decor? Eek! The lights were dim, the booths were sticky, and above the chimney hung the taxidermically preserved head of an eight-hundred pound bear.

Still, on this night, sitting next to this man, Liz couldn’t have chosen a better place to be.

It wasn’t just Will who had helped transform this chaotic day into a magical one: there was Charlotte, who summarized the results of the meet with both humor and precision; there was the email from Colonel Richard (sent also to Cathy deBourgh and Charlotte, who’d read it aloud from her phone), congratulating Liz on the team’s performance (third overall, with a particularly strong showing in the 200-yard medley  relay) and making absolutely no mention of a certain “bag” incident; and of course there were her swimmers, who alternated between talking, laughing, and singing the school song (in the silliest voices possible).

Honestly, though, it was Will who brought her the most joy—and this scared the hell out of her. Her work, her colleagues, her students: these had been the cornerstone of her existence for the last five years. Will Darcy? Sure, every exchange with him had left her feeling more alive than she’d ever felt before, but she had only spent three hours of her life in his presence (and she’d disliked him for the first of those hours).

Could they really have a meaningful relationship, or was this just a ridiculous infatuation? (Never mind her persisting concern that she was not exercising professionalism, given his status as her student’s guardian.)

Stealing a glance at him, she prepared herself for the jolt she felt each time she met his gaze—and then saw that he was not looking at her. He was watching his sister, a small smile tugging as his lips while Georgi, Anne, and several other girls dipped their french fries into every condiment available at their booth: ketchup, of course, but also mustard, mayo, sriracha, maple syrup, and yes, even grape jelly.

“They ought to try chocolate frosty,” he said, just before offering Liz a tentative smile—and damn if she didn’t just fall a little bit harder for him then. The way he carried himself, his family history, his high-powered job—none of these aspects seemed to be anything more than an outer shell. They were a part of him, yes, but not the whole of him, or even the most of him. She suspected he was, deep down, a little bit shy and more than a little uncertain of himself. Then again, what did she know?

“Just who are you, Will Darcy?” she murmured aloud, feeling herself blush when her unintended comment caught not only Will’s attention but Charlotte’s, as well.

She sat across the booth from them, her gaze sliding from Liz to Will then back to Liz again. It was not uncommon for family members to join their student for dinner after the Ramsgate meet, especially if they lived nearby. But never had one of those family members joined the coaches’ booth. Still, Charlotte had asked no questions when Will had, after giving Georgi a congratulatory hug, come to sit beside Liz. Perhaps she figured that his sister had dismissed him, preferring to hang out with her friends.

That did not, however, explain how the gap between Liz and Will had continued to grow smaller over the course of the meal—or how, when their food had been served, Liz and Will had both grinned at each other when reaching for their french fries.

Charlotte was too clever not to suspect something, so Liz wasn’t surprised when she scooted out of the booth with the excuse that she had to use the restroom, and then needed to send some texts, and she might check the news, and well — “Just keep at least one eye on the girls, eh, Coach?” she finished, winking at Liz.

Maybe it was the wink, or more likely it was just the reminder of her role here. Dread filled Liz as she turned to Will and said, “Look, maybe what happened in the lobby…”

Made her heart soar? Made her wish for so much more? Was meant to be?

“Wasn’t something we should have done,” filled in Will, his voice flat, his expression guarded.

Liz looked away and nodded.

For few minutes, they focused on their meals—not that either of them ate. She dipped her spoon into her soup, only to watch it sink to the bottom, while he used his fork to drag a wilted piece of letter around his plate.

“Are you attempting to draw molecular formulas in your salad?” she asked, attempting a light tone.

“Do you know much about chemistry?” he asked, glancing at her.

A half-formed thought sprang to mind, some corny joke about their chemistry. She could almost see it, this other version of themselves: they were on a date—not at the Hunsford Grill, and not at some fancy artisanal restaurant…maybe a picnic on the Boston Common while they watched Shakespeare in the park? After the performance, they’d banter and share food (but not fries; they would have moved on to a different food quip by then). Eventually, they’d lie back against the blanket, staring up at the stars—and then at each other.

No, too neat, too perfect. Life wasn’t like that. (For one thing, the Boston Common could be loud and raucous, especially on a summer evening; for another, just how late was their picnic? Stars didn’t come out in the city until at least nine or ten o’clock—if ever.)

No, life was unexpected and inexplicable. Life meant staring into a pair of fine eyes, wishing for one thing and resigned to another.

“Chemistry?” she echoed, wondering if he, too, was thinking about that kind of chemistry. “Er, no. I wouldn’t say I know very much about it.”

He turned back to his food. “Right.”

“But you must know a great deal about chemistry!”

She could hear the desperation in her voice, the plea for him to keep talking, to throw her a lifeline, in spite of the many signs she had given him that there was nothing here to rescue. (How could there be, when there was nothing real between them at all?)

Goodness, Liz, can you be any more pathetic?

“My graduate work was mainly in neuroscience,” he said, as if that answered her question. (She supposed it did; there must be chemistry involved—but she had no real conception of neuroscience—or chemistry, for that matter.)

They were silent for several long moments before he said, “But I always loved inorganic chemistry. Look.” He put down his fork and picked up the salt shaker. “So much of nature, so much of life, is an energy-intensive effort to fight entropy, to make order out of natural disorder. But put sodium and chloride ions together and”—he snapped his fingers—“crystallization! Regular, uniform shapes, naturally occurring! Of course, entropy is still involved—it always is; you can’t fight Delta S—but this…” He gave the salt an enthusiastic shake, and crystals soared through the air—and into Liz’s water glass.

Their eyes met, and they both burst out laughing.

“Here,” he said, reaching for her glass. “Let me get you another—”

“Absolutely not! I’m a swimmer. I love salt water!” She took a large gulp to prove her point, and then turned away to cough. “I’m out of practice. Not much ocean swimming in Western Mass.”

“Actually, pool chlorine comes from passing electricity through salt water, which causes the atoms to…” He stopped when she raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m being a little nerdy, aren’t I?”

“A little?”

They laughed again, then looked away from each other. Ergh, why did he have to be so much fun to tease?

“I don’t suppose you get to talk much about science these days,” she said.

“Actually, I talk about science a great deal.” He sighed. “I just don’t get to do much science.”

“You’re out of the lab completely, then?”

“No, I go in every Saturday night and some Sundays, depending on my schedule.”

She studied him, noting the slight shadows beneath his eyes and thinking of Georgi’s comment before the swim meet: “He works like 12 hours a day, six days a week, and then on Sundays he goes into the office for four or five hours!”

“But what I do in the lab now…” He shook his head. “Vanity projects, mostly. You can’t do good science when you only show up once or twice a week. Still, there’s something about being in a lab, about using my hands, even if it doesn’t amount to much.”

“Don’t you get tired?” she asked quietly. “Don’t you need more rest?”

He glanced at her. “Don’t you? I hear boarding school teachers work long hours, too.”

She smiled. “It’s not quite the same. Every day brings something new and unexpected. And—as a bonus—I don’t have to look at a single spreadsheet!”

“Believe it or not, the same is true for me.”

She shot him a skeptical look.

“Okay, maybe there are a few spreadsheets involved in running Pemberley,” he said, “but spreadsheets are a lot easier to deal with than teenagers.”

“And that’s why my job is more fun!” Liz looked around the room, remembering she wasn’t exactly doing her job. Once she’d made sure none of her swimmers had choked on a hamburger or snuck out of the restaurant, she added, “But at least I have my summers.”

“Hmm. If I were to guess, I’d say you’re always thinking about how to make your classes better, whether it’s summer or not.”

She tilted her head at him. “You mean, because my classes are merely tolerable?”

“You are never going to let me forget that comment, are you?”

She smiled, but it hurt to do so. The way he spoke, as if they’d be joking about tolerable classes for the rest of their lives together—god, she was such an idiot!

“In truth, I really liked your class,” he said, face reddening as he spoke.

She frowned. “You know you don’t have to patronize or flatter me, right?”

“I’m not. If you really to know why I said that your class was tolerable…I just didn’t want to spend ten more minutes chit chatting with Congresswoman Forster.  I knew if I told her that I loved your question about Valley of Ashes, then she’d never leave me alone.”

“You remembered that question? What, are you a fan of The Great Gatsby?”

“Not especially. It’s just…well, as I said”—he turned to look at her, holding her gaze—“I really liked your class, Liz.”

She swallowed and looked away. “Thanks.”

Another period of silence—this time, she did her job without prompting and looked at each of the girls, still happily eating—before she said, “I imagine Georgi gives you a hard time for working so much.”

He smiled. “Yeah, she does. Every Wednesday evening, when she calls for our weekly chat, that’s the first thing she asks me: ‘How much have you worked this week, Will?’”

“Wednesdays, huh?” Liz smiled. Wednesdays were game days—or, for the swimmers, meet days. She’d noticed Georgi pulling out her phone the moment she got off the bus when they had away meets. This had surprised her, as Georgi was one of those rare students who wasn’t always on her phone during her free time. “Must be a nice way to break up the week, checking in with Georgi.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my three favorite days of the week.”

“You have three favorite days!”

He winced, and she laughed.

“Why would you feel bad about that? Three favorite days means you like almost half of the week, so you’re doing pretty well for yourself! Let me guess: Saturday evenings are another of your favorite days, since you’re in the lab.”

“What about you? How do you make it through a long week?”

She furrowed her brow. “Wait a second. You’re changing the subject. What’s your third favorite day?”

“Only recently did I have a third…look, it doesn’t matter. And I’m not changing the subject; I’m asking you a related question.”

“All while avoiding mine.” She grinned. “Here’s what I think: every Tuesday, you meet with other Meryton alums to sing the school song together.”

“No, but you’ve certainly given me a great idea for how to use my copious free time.”

“Hmm, let’s see: you’re in a bowling league.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a snob, Will! Even rich, preppy guys like to bowl on occasion.”

“Believe it or not, I’m a tolerable bowler—just not in a bowling league. Do you bowl?”

“Don’t think you’re fooling me with your attempts to turn my questions back on me, Dr. Darcy. What’s the third day?”

“Listen, I…I misspoke.” He picked up his fork and resumed torturing that poor piece of lettuce on his plate. “I don’t have a third favorite day of the week.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “Right. Okay.”

This was the problem with him—or rather, the problem with her when she was around him: she lost herself in their exchanges. Emails, letters, in-person banter: it didn’t matter. She wanted more from him than she had any right, as a mere acquaintance, to expect.

“Look…” She took a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry. I was being nosy—god, I was being just like my mom—and…”

He turned abruptly toward her. “Whatever day your letters came.” He stared at her, unblinking. “That was one of my favorite days of the week, Liz.”

Her heart gave a great lurch. Conflict of interest? Professionalism? Who the hell cared?

“Ahem! Miss Bennet, I must have a word with—why, is that Mister Darcy?”

When she heard that voice, speaking that version of his name, Liz’s metaphorical heart didn’t lurch so much as sink to the depths of her metaphorical soul. There, marching across the dining room of the Hunsford Grill, was none other than Cathy deBourgh.

Thanks for reading! Here’s part eight, if you’d like to read on…