Page 18 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“A fact that she was apologizing for daily until I asked her to stop.”

I pause, thinking about that. Macey apologizes for everything these days—bumping into someone in the kitchen, asking for themailbox key, even just quietly asking Amelia about coffee filters, like she’s afraid of taking up space.

It’s strange, because when I look at her, I still see the same Macey I’ve always known—big, expressive eyes and a face that’s easy to read, with the way her cheeks heat up like they do. But there’s something missing now, something muted, like she’s hiding parts of herself that used to shine. And maybe that’s the part I feel guilty about, even if I don’t quite know why.

She barely glanced at me last week when she asked if she could use the kitchen to make something to eat. She had her red hair pulled back in that messy, effortless way she always does, but her expression was like she was bracing for me to say no.

I’m not sure if I did something wrong or if it’s the lingering awkwardness from that letter she wrote me all those years ago. Back then, it completely caught me off guard. I didn’t know how to respond—so I didn’t. Which was immature, I know. I was young, too focused on college, and clueless. I could have handled it better. I should have.

It’s been a long time, but I can’t help wondering if she’s still embarrassed by it. Maybe that’s why it feels like there’s this unspoken weight between us—something neither of us knows how to lift.

“Well, I can’t help you this time, Amelia,” I say, definitively.

“You could, though,” Amelia says, a slight begging quality to her tone. “She’s been counting down to this trip for months. It’s the only thing that’s brought her any joy lately, and now she seems less excited about it because she has to go alone.”

“I really don’t love that she’s going by herself,” my mom says again. Maybe I need to remind her that, like me, Macey is an adult.

Amelia lets out a long-suffering sigh. The one she uses when she’s lost hope. “Well, if you change your mind, there’ll be an open seat next to her on the flight. That she’ll be on. All alone.”

She’s really leaning into the guilt now. I won’t deny that picturing Macey all by herself rankles, but it’s not enough for me to change my mind, even if it causes some pain between Amelia and me. We’ve gotten through worse things. I’ve got my own mess to sort out, and I highly doubt cosplaying Mr. Darcy will give me the clarity I’m looking for. If that makes me selfish, so be it.

Right now, I need to figure myself out—even if it means letting someone else down.

MACEY

An email from Christine to Macey, Friday, September 13, 11:15 a.m.

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

Subject:Enjoy your trip

Macey,

I know you’re leaving tomorrow, and I hope you have the most wonderful time, but before you go, I printed a stack of programs before I left for San Diego, and they are on my desk. Could you staple them, please? Thanks.

See you when you get back.

Best,

Christine

AFTER THREE MONTHS OF ANTICIPATION, waiting, dreaming, having a Mr. Darcy, losing a Mr. Darcy, and then feeling slightly disappointed and not even sure I wanted to go due to my lack of Mr. Darcy, the time has arrived. I’m finally (finally!) going to Pride and Prejudice Park. I’ve got my bagpacked, my carefully blown-out hair pulled into a bun, and am dressed in comfortable travel clothes—leggings, myI’m Only Here for Mr. DarcyT-shirt, and my favorite zip-up hoodie.

I wish I could just magic-spell myself there because the flight is long, especially with the layover in Atlanta. I will have to endure, though, because I am neither a magician nor a wizard—which really sucks for many reasons.

You are strong. You are brave. You can do hard things. Probably.

I know I’ve been pretty set that I’d be fine doing this by myself, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m feeling a little more anxious about the whole thing. I mean, what if I really do get kidnapped? I’ve never been kidnapped before, but it doesn’t sound fun.

Freaking Derek. I can’t believe he ditched me.

“You okay?” Amelia asks for what could possibly be the thousandth time. Honestly, each time she asks, I wonder if I truly am okay.Like, each time she questions me, I also question it. The fact that my hands are shaky isn’t helping either.

“Yes,” I tell her. It’s been my standard answer.

“You’re so quiet,” she says, concern in her tone.

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