The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (20 page)

“Oh, my gosh,” I said quietly. I felt for him. And I actually felt for Darcy, too. It does kind of explain why he’s so closed off. But it doesn’t excuse what George said
next.

“I tried to be there for my friend, but he just cut me off. Finally, it was time for college, and I got into a great school, with the most incredible swimming program. But when I went to
Darcy, and reminded him of his dad’s promise, he said no.”

“He said no?” I blinked, a little in shock, even though I was expecting it. “Just flat out?”

“Just flat out.” George nodded. “I couldn’t believe it. But Darcy . . . he’d become really cold, and snobby. He didn’t want to play with the
housekeeper’s kid anymore.”

“So . . . what did you do?” I asked.

“What
could
I do?” he replied. “It’s not like there was anything written down, so I didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Which Darcy told me in so many
words. So I applied for loans, financial aid, I even got a little swimming scholarship—it wasn’t much, but it helped. Still, with all that, I only had enough money for a year of school.
So I had to drop out and piece together a career coaching swimmers.”

“Wow,” I said after a moment. “I just . . . Wow. I don’t really know how to process this.”

“Can I confess something to you?” he said, putting his hand over mine. “I’ve been watching your videos.”

“Well, I know,” I said. “Since you wanted to be in one and all.”

“Not just recently. You told me about them the first time we met, and I looked them up. They were so cool and addictive I kept watching, and then you mentioned this Darcy guy. I just
didn’t think that your Darcy and my Darcy could be the same person. Because the one you describe doesn’t match my memories of the friend I used to run around the woods with as a kid.
But it was. And now I can see that he’s only gotten worse with time.”

“Was Carter’s the first time you’ve seen him since you were eighteen?” I asked.

“No. I’ve seen him once or twice, just for a minute, though. His sister Gigi, too—she used to be such a sweet kid, but last time I saw her, she was becoming a lot like her
brother.” His eyes hit mine and I melted into a puddle. “But it was still kinda shocking, seeing him here with you.”

“Not with me,” I quickly corrected. “Christ, he must have stalked out of the bar that night because he was ashamed of what he did to you.”

“I don’t know why he left the bar, but it wasn’t because he was ashamed. That would mean he felt guilt. Hell, that he felt anything about how he ruined my life.”

“George—you have to let me tell my viewers this. Darcy doesn’t deserve to be walking around free of guilt. The world needs to know what kind of person he is.”

He seemed to think it over. “Well, you can tell them if you want—but you should protect yourself. The Darcys have a bunch of lawyers, and if they found out, and decided to sue . .
.”

“I think we can find a way around that,” I replied.

So we turned the camera back on and told the Internet a “hypothetical story” about two boys who grew up together, and one betraying the other. Then, after Lydia came in and spilled
water all over George—executing a convoluted plan worthy of Mom to get him to take his shirt off—he kissed me good-bye, and we made plans to meet up for lunch tomorrow.

I’m still having a lot of trouble processing what George told me. I’m willing to believe a lot of bad about Darcy, having personally witnessed his terribleness, but this? This is not
just being insulting and rude. This is actually negatively affecting someone’s life. How could anyone do something like that? Especially to someone he once called a friend.

I sort of wish Charlotte were here—even though I’m still mad at her for giving up on her dream. I could use another person’s perspective, and she’s always been my trusty
eyes and ears. But you know what? Charlotte would probably try to play devil’s advocate and justify Darcy’s actions, or take George down a peg for making muscle tone a priority in his
life. And that’s not what I want right now. I want someone to be outraged with me.

And besides, as stated previously, Charlotte is most definitely not here anymore.

It’s very quiet in the library today. Which is, I suppose, as it should be. I don’t have any tutoring students anymore; they’re all back in school. And I
don’t have any classes of my own yet, and won’t until October. The thing is, I could use some distraction in the form of droning lectures right now. It makes me wish my course
curriculum had offered the last few classes I need for my degree during the summer session, just so I didn’t have to be alone and ponder right at this very moment.

But days like today lend themselves to reflection. Especially days with this date.

So I
should
be pondering. But the problem is, I should be pondering more substantive things. About the state of the world, the sacrifices we make for privilege, and the hope for peace.
But instead, I’m thinking about guys.

Way to be enlightened there, Lizzie.

Specifically, I’m thinking about George Wickham and William Darcy. It’s not hard for me to reconcile what George told me with the Darcy I have come to know—just the opposite,
in fact. The problem is, it’s hard to reconcile
anyone
doing something so egregious to someone else outside of a mustache-twirling cartoon villain. How can he, who destroyed a
friend’s life on a whim, even get to exist among us more civilized yet common people?

George hasn’t talked about it since, really. We hung out yesterday, and he was his normal “everything is awesome” self, but sometimes he would get quiet and look out into the
distance, and I could tell he was thinking about it. I asked him, and he made a self-deprecating comment about how his life was ruined, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

I don’t know if George has been thinking about it for the past—what, eight, ten years?—or if it’s just gotten all churned up because he saw Darcy in town. But either way,
it’s something that still really bothers him, and it’s something I can’t make right.

Maybe I’ll confront him about it. Darcy, I mean. After all, Bing’s birthday is coming up this weekend—which will be a fine opportunity for forced interaction with
everyone’s favorite killjoy. It promises to be a doozy of a party, too. Although I don’t know if Caroline knows how to throw anything other than a doozy of a party. But this time,
Bing’s not only inviting us “young folk” but our parents, too. Caroline also said that her parents are coming into town, as well as some other relatives and a bunch of
Bing’s friends from college.

Oh, God—I just realized . . . what if this is Bing’s way of introducing Jane to his parents? And introducing his parents to our parents? Or what if it’s a secret wedding that
he and Jane have been planning this whole time?!?

No. No, that’s not possible. I just channeled my mom for a second, that’s all. Besides, Jane would have told me. She really can’t keep a secret, and especially not one like
that. All that she’s said is that she’s looking forward to the party because she and Bing still haven’t had much opportunity to spend time together lately, what with him having to
fly out for med school meetings (admittedly, I know nothing about med school, but I didn’t think it involved so much travel) and Jane’s doubling down at work, sadly suspending the
Cutest Carpool Ever (™ me, because I’m sappy like that).

Here’s the thing, though—if I had the “meet the parents/surprise wedding” idea skitter through my brain, you KNOW my mother has latched onto it with the ferocity of a
bulldog. Perhaps I should bring reinforcements to the party, just to distract Mom from her convoluted planning.

I could ask George to be my plus-one. He’s a solid possible-son-in-law-sized distraction. But would he want to go with Darcy there?

Actually, maybe I’m thinking about this wrong. Given that Darcy was the one who ducked out of Carter’s in shame, it could be Darcy who avoids the party if George is there. Granted,
this means that I wouldn’t get the pleasure of confronting him over George’s grievances (if I have the guts to do it, which is in no way a guarantee), but I would instead have the
pleasure of slow dancing with the ridiculously hot guy I’m seeing.

Now, that’s something worth pondering.

Another party, another 2 a.m. journal entry. And another reason I can’t sleep. And no, Lydia isn’t passed out in my bed due to over-indulgence, nor has Jane stayed
out all night with Bing. No, this time, my anxieties rest squarely on my own shoulders. Because only at 2 a.m. can I wonder about what’s so wrong with me that a perfectly nice guy would stand
me up?

George didn’t make it to the party tonight. And I guess I would have understood if I’d had some warning, but he not only didn’t show, he didn’t call or text to let me
know that he wasn’t coming. If he didn’t want to come, he could have told me. Instead he said that he wouldn’t miss it for the world, Darcy or no Darcy.

I still haven’t heard from him, and trust me, I’ve sent the maximum allowable number of texts someone with dignity can send (four) to find out what happened.

Then I was thinking, what if something did happen? What if he got in a car accident, or fell and is in a coma? What if he’s injured and unable to call for help?

That’s when Lydia’s voice popped into my head and told me I’d been stood up. Except, it wasn’t her voice in my head. It was her voice, next to me at the party.

“G-Dubs better have a solid excuse for ditching you, because no Bennet should put up with the ghost act. Not even the lame Bennet,” Lydia said, as she put a drink in my hand. How she
carried a drink to me when she was already double-fisting two of her own is unknown, but Lydia does possess unseen skills.

“I can think of only one reason,” I said, my eyes finding Darcy as he stood awkwardly on the other side of the parent-sanctioned room.

It was pointed out that having a party with twenty-somethings and their fifty-something parents was a recipe for awkward, and a solution to this might be to utilize the echoing vastness of
Netherfield and have essentially two parties. The older crowd mainly stayed in the lounge and patio area, where a jazz trio (I think it was the same one from the Gibson wedding) was set up for
those inclined to foxtrot, while we younger folk had a nightclub-type setup with a DJ in the rec room and finished basement area.

We all came together for cake.

It was a bit like those parties we had when I was in eighth grade, where all us kids watched a movie and had pizza in Dad’s den and the parents drank wine in the kitchen and gossiped. But
on a massively different scale.

Anyway, it was getting later and later, and I had migrated upstairs to the parent-sanctioned area, mostly because it provided a sight line to the front door. I had just sent my fourth text to
George when Lydia came up to me.

“Ugh, Darce-face.” Lydia scowled, seeing my line of vision. “Why do I get the feeling you’re already plotting the next mean thing you’re going to say about him on
the Internet?”

“You know me too well,” I replied.

“Hey, I fully support you in this endeavor,” Lydia said. “I mean, if
Darcy
is the reason we are denied the sight of a sweaty George Wickham dancing downstairs . . .
and it gets too hot, and he has to take his shirt off . . .”

“Stay on topic, Lydia,” I replied.

“Right, whatevs. Anyway, if Darcy’s to blame, give it to him with both barrels. God knows you keep them loaded.”

I didn’t ask what Lydia meant by that.

“What are you doing up here, anyway?” I said instead. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs rubbing up against some of Bing’s college buddies?”

“Obvs,” she replied. “But I had to come up here and find you or Jane.”

“Why—what happened?” My radar immediately started going off. I glanced around the lounge. No Mom. Oh, no. In my worry over George, I had let her out of my sight!

“Nothing much,” Lydia hemmed. “Just, you know, Mom wandering down to the kids’ party. Talking to people. Telling everyone about the wedding arrangements.”

“Oh, my God, did you stop her?”

“Stop her? I took video!” Lydia held out her phone and treated me to a reenactment of my slightly tipsy mother talking to a couple of baby stockbrokers about how she was “the
inevitable future mother-in-law of the host,” and “do you have any advice for investments once the couple settles in?”

“Oh, Lord,” I moaned.

“I know, right?” Lydia grinned at me. “It sucks that Dad came down and stopped her then, but I’m so going to post the first bit on YouTube. Just so our audience knows
that we aren’t exaggerating about Mom.”

“First of all, it’s my audience, and secondly . . . can I see that a sec?” I asked sweetly. Lydia handed over her phone, and I let my thumb
accidentally
slip to the
delete button.

“Aw, look at that, it’s gone. Sorry, Lyds,” I said, handing the phone back to her.

“I can’t believe you did that!”

“Of course you can,” I replied. “Think about it. What would Jane say if she saw that video posted online?”

“Huh,” Lydia replied, obviously not having considered Jane’s feelings and embarrassment. “Where is Jane, anyway? I haven’t seen her all night.”

“I think one of Bing’s friends had too much to drink. I saw her and Caroline helping him down the hall.”

I don’t think Jane had a very good night at the party. She’d had her hopes so high, getting to finally spend some quality social time with Bing, but every time I saw them get within
a few feet of each other, Caroline or their parents or one of the out-of-town guests would pull him away to play host. And when Caroline was free, she certainly tried to be by Jane’s side,
but she’s a poor substitute for her brother.

But Jane is nothing if not resilient. She put a smile on her face and chatted with everyone she didn’t know, delighted to make new friends as always.

“Maybe we should go find her,” I said idly. “See how she’s doing.”