Page 6 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

An email from Macey to her mom, Friday, September 6, 5:45 p.m.

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

Subject:Never Mind

Hey Mom,

Please disregard my last email. I no longer need vibes.I’ll never get out of this job and will probably die alone. I now need a miracle.

–Macey

AS IT TURNS OUT, I do need a miracle, because only a few hours later, I found out that I don’t have a Mr. Darcy. Just as I got home from work, I received a text from Derek, canceling on me.

And the disappointments just keep on disappointing.

“What am I going to do?” I say, my words muffled as I lie face down on a plush leather sofa in the upscale condo my best friend, Amelia, is kindly letting me stay in after I was unceremoniously kicked out of my apartment three months ago.

You are not strong or brave, you can’t do hard things, and you still have a freaking wedgie.

I should have changed out of these pants as soon as I got home, but I opted to wallow on the couch instead.

“Is there anybody else who can go with you?” Amelia asks as she sits beside me, running her fingers through my hair. The gesture feels a bit foreign, since physical touch is at the bottom of Amelia’s list of love languages. She’s much more the gift-giver type, which is funny because giving gifts is last on my list. I overthink it, and I’m terrible at receiving them.

I suspect her newly developed desire to comfort is more out of worry. A few months ago, I had a panic attack—my first one, according to the doctors. They called it an “acute anxiety episode.” They gave me meds, but I haven’t needed them since. Still, it feels like Amelia’s been walking on eggshells, worried I might fall apart again. She witnessed the hyperventilating, the shaking, and the sweating. I think it traumatized her, because she’s been treating me like I might shatter at any moment ever since.

“There’s no one. Not this late. I’m leaving in eight days, and now I have no Mr. Darcy.”

That should be the title of the autobiography I’ve always wanted to write:No Mr. Darcy for Me.

Ugh. This whole trip—the bright spot in my life—feels sort of tainted now. This trip feels like more than just a prize—it’s a lifeline. After months of feeling stuck and small, winning this trip felt like the universe finally cutting me a break, a way to prove to myself that things could still change for the better. And now Derek has gone and ruined it.

“There has to be someone who could go with you,” she says.

“I mean, the paperwork said they’d provide one for me if I couldn’t bring someone,” I remind her.

The package did say this, among all the other instructions that were sent in the large, ornate envelope Amelia and I giddily went through together upon its arrival. It also came with a script to memorize, which I’ve spent so many nights going over. Pride and Prejudice Park is very serious about their reenacting.

“That’s true,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Too bad you can’t go,” I say.

Amelia should be there with me. She’s been myPride and Prejudicecoconspirator since high school. We love all Jane Austen’s works, butPride and Prejudiceis our favorite. We’ve read it countless times and used to watch the 2005 movie weekly—even keeping the tradition in college, watching it together over the phone.

We have our favorite scenes that we rewind over and over. Darcy walking across the meadow to declare his love? Still gives me chills.

Of course, we also watch the 1995 BBC version, though it’s a bit more of a time commitment. But who’s turning down Colin Firth as Darcy, emerging from the pond with a white shirt clinging to him? Not this girl.

“I wish I were going too,” Amelia says. “But the collection launches next week, and I can’t miss it. Plus, there were no spots left.”

I know. The cast is full for my week, and Amelia’s collection—her big project at her job as a marketing director for a luxury home goods brand—is about to be revealed. It’s a huge deal, and she’s worked hard. We’ve probably had this exact conversation before—me wishing she could come, her reminding me why she can’t. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing. It sucks to have a dream we both share come true for only one of us. I didn’t even know there was a contest until she submitted our names and I won, Lady Luck coming in clutch when I needed it the most. It feels unfair. We should be doing this together.

“Well, Mr. Darcy is available now,” I say grumpily.

“And you know I’d do the role justice.You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” she says, pitching her voice lower.

“Nailed it,” I say, flatly.

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