Page 20 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“So are you looking forward to this trip?” Zane asks, after I’ve nodded my head and given him brief faux smiles, like a moron, for a very cringeworthy amount of time.

I want to say “yes,” but what I actually say is, “Yepperso.” It’s like my mouth couldn’t decide between “yep” and “I think so,” but somehow my brain decided to blend them into whateverthatwas. I can feel my cheeks burning, and I’m pretty sure I look like a flustered Ronald McDonald.

That stupid letter. I want to go back to my eighteen-year-old self and slap some sense into her.

But even if it didn’t exist, I think I’d still be flustered right now. Maybe not as big of an idiot, but still a partial one. Zane is so handsome, especially right now with his blue eyes popping perfectly with that charcoal-gray hoodie he’s wearing. His dark hair is mussed, and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow only add to his appeal.

He wasn’t always this gorgeous. Zane went through an extended awkward phase with teeth too big for his face and hair that refused to cooperate no matter how much gel he used. But then, somewhere around his sophomore year, things startedto shift. He grew into himself—still the same Zane, but more confident, more at ease in his own skin.

It took me a while to notice. To me, he was always just Zane—the one who teased me, sometimes shared his fries, and occasionally made my blood boil. But when I did finally notice, it wasn’t just his looks that stood out. It was everything that made him who he was. And then I went and wrote that stupid letter telling him everything I felt about him.I’m in love with you, Zane. I think I have been for a long time, maybe even before I realized it myself.Oh, the cringe. Love? What did I even know about love back then? I don’t even think I know what it is now. I was definitely not in love with Cheating Caleb.

This is why even now, ten years later, standing in line with Zane can feel like the most difficult thing in the world. We probably should have talked about it, maybe cleared the air. But now it feels like it’s been too long. Besides, he might not even remember it, and I don’t want to be the one to remind him.

“Huh?” he asks, a perplexed-looking smile on his face.

I let out a breath. “Yes. I am excited,” I say, in a robotic-sounding voice.

“What’s in Costa Rica?” I ask, and then quickly amend, “I mean, what are you doing in Costa Rica?”

Wow, a whole sentence. Five more people in front of me and then I’m free from this torture.

He lifts a shoulder. “Beach time and hiking, I think.”

“Sounds nice,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes distant, like he’s not entirely convinced himself.

We go silent, and I reach up and tuck some hair behind my ear and then grab on to the strap of my backpack like a lifeline.

“So how does this whole dress-up-like-Darcy-times thing work?” he asks after a long enough bout of silence that I thought maybe he was done talking. No such luck.

Embarrassment courses through me. I don’t want to talk about this trip. He must think I’m an idiot for even wanting to go.

But, with his eyes looking at me expectantly, I answer him. “It’s what Amelia told you. We ... um ... dress up in period clothing and then ... reenact scenes from the book. It’s ... dumb.”

I can’t help but add that last part, downplaying it. Saying it out loud to him makes it all sound so silly. So absurd. Like adults playing dress-up ... which is exactly what it is, I guess.

“Right,” he says, reaching up and scratching the side of his well-defined jaw. “But, are there like scripts or something? Or do you just wing it?”

“Oh,” I say. “Right ... um, yes. There are scripts.”

“And do you read from them?” His brows are pulled downward, with no teasing look like the ones he used to give me. He seems genuinely interested, which buoys me a bit.

“No ... they’re supposed to be memorized.” Or we’re supposed tobe well acquainted with them before arrival, as it says on the instructions.

His eyebrows move up his forehead now. “Oh. That’s some serious reenacting.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling stupid again.

“Next,” a gate agent yells, and I look up to see that it’s me she’s waving over.

With a bumbling “See you later” and a goofy wave, I hoist my backpack up on my back and wheel my bag over to check in.

“Destination?” a woman in a purple suit jacket and skirt asks when I approach, her long, ornately painted fingernails clicking on the keys.

“Manchester, England,” I say.

She asks for my passport, and before I know it, she’s handed me my ticket, and I head toward security, backpack over my shoulder.

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