Page 28 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

Like, for example, on our second flight, from Atlanta to Manchester, the partition between our first-class seats made conversation difficult, so he texted mePride and Prejudicememes until we both fell asleep—something old Zane and Macey used to do. Well, not those particular memes, but something silly and pointless, like the ones fromThe Officethat we used to send each other, with little or no context. It felt like a glimpse back to the way we used to be—easy and light.

“Here we are,” he says, stopping in front of a door with a small gold plaque engraved with the number 106.

I unlock the door with the key, and Zane holds it open, ushering me in first with a lift of his chin. I walk in and flick on the light to find a larger room than I was expecting, with quaint yellow walls and floral curtains. Most importantly, there are two beds. Two glorious beds covered with cream-colored duvets. Ireserved a room with two double beds for Derek and me, but it would have been fitting to walk in here to find only one. That would be my luck.

Zane insists on giving me the bathroom first, and even though I push back, I’m relieved to finally get out of my wet clothes. I take a quick shower and change into another T-shirt—this one saysCan’t. I’m In Character.—and a pair of cotton shorts.

When I exit the bathroom with my things, my wet hair combed and no makeup on my face, I feel my cheeks heat as I see Zane sitting in an upholstered armchair that matches the curtains, holding some clothes and a toiletry bag.

“Sorry,” I say, thinking maybe I spent too much time in the bathroom.

His brow lowers as he stands up and walks toward me. “For what?”

“For . . . taking too long?”

“You were in there for ten minutes,” he says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” I say, fumbling for words. “The bath ... I ...” I pause, take a breath, and try again. “It’s all yours.” I gesture toward the open bathroom door, steam from my hot shower curling out and drifting toward the ceiling. We do an awkward little dance—me stepping one way, him the other—before he finally manages to squeeze past me.

I said things were better between us, not perfect. Besides, I think the intimacy of sharing this room is making me revert back to my old, forgot-how-to-act-like-a-human ways.

Deciding that my best course of action is tonottalk to him, I quickly repack my suitcase and then hop into bed, pulling the covers up to my neck and willing myself to fall asleep before he comes out of the bathroom, and I have more time to saydumb things. A good night’s rest will hopefully cure me of my shortcomings.

Probably not, though, because I’m wide awake. I’m sure because of the jet lag and time change, but also because Zane has just walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel. Just a freaking towel.

“I forgot underwear,” he says, his skin dewy, his dark hair dripping, his not-so-defined but still very nice abs on full display.

Whyyyyyy.

“Sorry,” I say, not because he forgot his underwear but because I saw him like this, and now Zane Porter in a towel will be burned into my brain forever. At least, adult Zane Porter in a towel is. I saw teenage Zane in a towel plenty of times, especially when I was living with his family. You’d think I’d have seen him in this state of undress already given our living situation, but I’ve been doing my best to avoid him since moving into his family’s condo.

“Why are you sorry?” he asks, and I pull the duvet up over my head to block my traitorous eyes, which can’t seem to stop staring.

“No reason,” I say, my voice muffled.

I wait until I hear the bathroom door click shut, then fling the blanket off my face and throw the sheets and covers down in a frustrated huff.

This isn’t how this trip is supposed to be going. I’m supposed to be excited for Pride and Prejudice Park. Sure, if Zane hadn’t shown up, I’d probably be feeling lonely right now and possibly in danger of being kidnapped, but I also wouldn’t be grappling with all this gnawing vulnerability.

We need to talk about the letter. I need to bring it up and get it out in the open so we can move past it. Or maybe I just need to move past it, because I don’t know how Zane feels.It’s just making all of this harder. It’s true that even if all that hadn’t happened and Zane and I had gone on like we used to, with joking and teasing and an easy camaraderie, I still might have felt weird bringing him along. But I think the cloud of my former (and a few lingering) feelings hanging over me—and the letter about those feelings—is making this one hundred times worse than it needs to be. Zane is here, he’s going to Pride and Prejudice Park to play Mr. Darcy, and I want to have a good time, so we need to hash this out. Right now.

But when the door to the bathroom cracks open, my little mental bout of confidence disappears, and instead I close my eyes and purposefully slow my breathing. I don’t have it in me to bring it up. What if it doesn’t go well? What if he really doesn’t remember the letter, making the entire conversation moot? What if we really did just grow apart and there wasn’t some big catalyst that I’ve only been making significant in my own head? It might be a waste of my breath and could potentially make things worse.

I hear Zane tiptoeing around, trying not to wake me up. He slowly closes the zipper on his bag and then quietly gets in his bed, making as little noise as possible. Which is very sweet ... but why can’t he just be a jerk? It would make everything better if Zane were a butthead. But he’s not—he’s Zane. And a butthead wouldn’t change his entire plans for someone. Heaven knows Cheating Caleb wouldn’t, and he’s the king of the buttheads.

“Macey?” he says, his voice somewhere between soft and a whisper.

I don’t move. I stay stock still, making my breathing sound even deeper. I’m an actor at heart. This is simply acting.

“Macey,” he says again. “I know you’re not sleeping.”

“Yes, I am,” I say. Apparently I’m terrible at acting.

He chuckles.

I turn my head toward him and can barely make out his figure in the dark.

“How did you know?”

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