The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet (16 page)

“You would?”

“Yeah.” She smiled wide, admitting her deepest secret to me. “He’s so . . . he just fits. Does that make sense?”

I nodded, since I was pretty much unable to speak.

“So, if it did happen, it would be scary and change
everything
, but it would also be okay, because it would be the two of us going through it together.” She sniffled a
little, her eyes going watery again. “I didn’t realize it could happen so fast. This . . . feeling. And that scared me a little.”

Wow. Jane’s in love. All the looks, all the speculation I’d gleefully been engaging in, were nothing compared to this confession. She’s in love with Bing. Not even forty-eight
hours of worry could temper that. In fact, it made it grow.

I had no response (which is highly weird for me), so I simply leaned forward and hugged my sister.

“I hope this isn’t a pity hug,” she said into my shoulder.

“No, this is a happy hug,” I replied. “I’m happy about your feelings for Bing, and really happy your forty-eight hours of worry are over.”

She chuckled. “Me, too.”

We stayed like that for a while, finally breaking apart when her phone buzzed.

“It’s Bing,” she said, glancing at her phone. “He probably just wants to say good night.”

I didn’t ask her again if she was going to tell him. Jane had already made up her mind about that.

“I’ll leave you alone, then,” I said, standing up from the bed. “Good night.”

“Good night, Lizzie.” She smiled. “But, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” I replied, my hand on the doorknob.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell anyone about this,” she said, the phone still buzzing in her hand.

“Of course not!” I replied. If I told Mom, she would freak out and start planning the wedding. Lydia would tell everyone under the sun. I’m not sure I could even trust
Charlotte with this one, and I trust her with everything.

And forget about mentioning it in my videos. The world doesn’t get to have every piece of the Bennet sisters. Some things are too personal, too important, for mass consumption.

“Just . . . pretend it never happened,” she said. “Because, as it turns out, it didn’t.”

I nodded. As I closed the door behind me, I could hear Jane’s voice soften with love as she answered her phone. “Hi, Bing . . . I miss you, too . . .”

Home for a few days now, and we have settled back into some kind of normalcy. Charlotte and I have spent all weekend together—I’d never really thought about it
before, but our friendship is really reliant upon the fact that we live down the street from each other and can hang out at odd hours because of it. No more speed coffee dates. No more catching up
on webcam. We just pop over to each other’s houses, second children in each of our families.

I can’t imagine what would happen if either of us ever moved away from each other. Which is all the scarier because it could happen relatively soon. We are setting our schedules for our
last year of grad school—course registration is next week. One more year, and then . . . the real world.

But right now, I’m just glad to be back in
my
real world.

Lydia, of course, is still Lydia—bubbling over from her adventures with Mary and prodding Jane for details of the month with Bing. Jane is handling it well, the forty-eight hours of worry
quickly fading away while the previous twenty-eight days of wonderful remain strong in her mind. For me, however, the glowy feeling of missing my little sister and appreciating her energy wore off
after the first couple of days, and now I’m back to being more or less perplexed by Lydia and shaking my head ruefully at her antics.

Mom is back to her normal self—humming, cooking, asking passive-aggressive questions about her daughters’ love lives. Which can only mean one thing: that she is currently thinking up
her next Convoluted Plan. And I’m pretty sure it involves me.

And Ricky Collins.

Yes, my second-grade betrothed and recent annoying run-in at VidCon turned up on our doorstep on Saturday. He’s in town to help pack up his mother’s house—she’s decided
she likes Florida and it’s the perfect place to retire. Since she left my parents with the keys to her house, to help keep an eye on the place, it makes logical sense that he would stop by
first thing.

It makes less logical sense that my mother would pull him to her bosom and invite him to dinner. But when presented with a young man of marriageable age—fiancée or not—she is
not about to let him out of her sight.

And of course, she seated him right next to me.

“Well, the two of you have sooooo much in common,” Mom said as she served up her famous shepherd’s pie. “You’re studying communications . . . something, and
Ricky—oh, I’m so sorry,
Mr.
Collins has a company that does communications . . .” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Surely the two of you will find just
oodles
to talk about.”

It is at times like this that I appreciate my father. Because my father has tact, and the discretion to know when to use it.

And when not to.

“So, I understand we are to congratulate you on your recent engagement, Mr.—er, Ricky,” Dad said, earning a look from my mother, and a noticeably small portion of
shepherd’s pie.

“Oh, yes! Thank you, Mr. Bennet! I am supremely gratified that my darling fiancée has agreed to become my permanent life partner,” Ricky said so gleefully that little flecks
of mashed potato ended up in his George Lucas beard. (The definition of a George Lucas beard being a beard grown to indicate a maturity that one’s boyish features or a naïve aspect might
otherwise belie. See also: lack of chin.)

“That’s so sweet.” Jane smiled. “How did you meet?”

“We met among the electrical synapses of the World Wide Web! It was an incredibly exciting and educational experience for me, and I like to think for us both. It allowed us the leisure of
getting to know one another on an intimate level without the societal pressures of personal interactivity.”

So, he met his fiancée online. Not too weird in this day and age, and given that Ricky Collins can be a lot to take in person, it actually made a lot of sense. Until . . .

“I like to think that upon the august occasion when we finally stand before each other, we will have made such strides in our personal connection that there is little we need say to each
other.”

“Wait . . .” Lydia piped up. “You mean, you haven’t, like,
met
each other yet? For real?”

Ricky bristled. “I like to think that the meeting of our harmonious minds via the Internet is, as you say, ‘for real,’ but if you are asking if we have met in person, the
answer is no.”

“OMG,” Lydia giggled under her breath, reaching for her phone. “I have to tell everyone I know.”

I swatted her hand away and forced her to calm down. “I’m sure there is a perfectly logical reason for . . . not having met.” Although I couldn’t think of one at the
moment. Seriously, how can you know if you want to spend the rest of your life with someone if you haven’t even been in the same room together?

But Ricky brightened, and turned his cheerful smile on me. “Indeed there is, Miss Bennet! My betrothed and I unfortunately live some distance apart—I wading into the waters of the
Silicon Valley–adjacent suburbs, and my fiancée in the wild and wooly northern plains of Winnipeg, Manitoba! Add to that the hard work and dedication I have been required to outlay in
the growing of my titular company, Collins & Collins, and finding the time to travel to each other has been more of a challenge than previously expected.”

See what I mean about him being a little overwhelming in person?

“There, Lydia,” I said, trying to be kind. “Perfectly—”

“And as my primary investor, the estimable Catherine De Bourgh, has always said, ‘the work must come first!’—especially as I am spending her money to do it.”

“Catherine De Bourgh!” my mother exclaimed, passing. “Just her name makes her sound like someone important . . . How lucky for you she took an interest in your
company.”

“Lucky, indeed!” Ricky replied. “She is the most helpful of all venture capitalists! She has advised me invaluably on all aspects of my business—who to hire, what to
produce, where to lease office space. I find her to be the most glorious of mentors.”

“Er, yes,” my father said, clearing his throat. “And what is it that your company does? Collins & Collins, was it?”

“Yes, the small stipend bequeathed to me by my father upon my matriculation is what I used to initially fund the company, thus I thought it a fitting tribute to name the venture after
him.”

“But what does it
do
?”

“Oh! We make audiovisual content meant to be primarily consumed via streaming methods. Or at least, we will.”

“Will?” I asked. “You haven’t begun yet?”

“Sadly, I have not the staff nor infrastructure in place, but I hope to soon. We will begin by producing instructional videos of basic yet perplexing household tasks for corporate partners
producing said household goods. Then, with time, we will venture into the lucrative world of reality television! While it may be lowbrow, as Catherine De Bourgh says, ‘catering to the lowest
common denominator is an essential part of any money-making venture’!”

So. He makes—or will make—lame corporate “how-to” videos with aspirations for reality TV. One can only assume, given his venture capitalist’s apparent love of the
lowest common denominator, that their titles will be akin to
Fat People on Skinny Island
or
Extreme Hoarding Bridezillas
. But far from being put off by these revelations, my
mother just leaned in and put her hand over Ricky’s, a consummate gesture of affection (or, a gesture of “I’m not letting you go”).

“Such ambition! Starting your own company, making money . . . and making audiovisuals! Why, I cannot comprehend the creativity of young people these days. Can you, Lizzie?”

“Well, of course Miss Lizzie Bennet can,” Ricky replied before I could. “After all, she is well versed in the field of online video.”

“Is she?” my mom asked, visibly confused. I felt a tingle go up my spine. “Well, I know she’s getting her degree and all that . . .”

“Yes, of course her degree. But there is also the project she and Miss Lu are endeavoring to—”

“Ricky!” I exclaimed. “I mean, um, Mr. Collins. That’s, um . . . that’s boring. So, tell me—”

“I beg to disagree, Miss Bennet! Why, you are—”

“God, Ricky,” Lydia jumped in. “No one wants to hear about that
paper
Lizzie’s been writing all summer. Trust me, if Lizzie says it’s boring, it’s
WAY boring. But you know what’s
not
boring? Going to Carter’s! We haven’t been in ages!”

“Carter’s? If I recall correctly, isn’t that an establishment that serves alcoholic beverages?” Ricky looked aghast. “And are you not underage?”

“Oh, um, they don’t serve me,” Lydia said, with a sly look to our parents. “I just play the video games.”

“Still, as my VC Catherine De Bourgh says, ‘today’s youth must be vigilant if they are not to become brain-dead sucking upon the teat of every stimulant and pleasure they can
find.’ ”

As Ricky droned on, mostly about Catherine De Bourgh, a little about his fiancée, and thankfully never touching on my videos again, I shot a look to my mother. She looked as if she was
down, but not out of this particular fight.

However, I could only shake my head and sigh. Sorry, Mom. But Ricky is engaged, and even if he weren’t, he’s a bit too enraptured by his shady online video company and imperious
benefactor to take much notice of me.

Better luck next time.

Mom is not the type to give up that easily, it seems.

So what if Ricky’s engaged? So what if he’s a polysyllabic idiot? He’s here, he’s technically single, and she has the one thing he can’t say no to.

Food.

When in doubt, Mom breaks out the recipe box.

Thankfully, she’s skipped the salmon and lamb, sparing my father a finance-induced aneurysm. But she can do amazing things with plain old meat and potatoes. So far, we’ve had
shepherd’s pie, apple and cheddar meat pastries, spaghetti with homemade meatballs, and a more successful reprisal of the bananas flambé (Lydia told me she’d been practicing at
Aunt Martha’s). If Mom had any objection to having been limited to the cheaper end of the meal spectrum, she hasn’t said anything.

And Ricky, poor soul that he is, has joyfully taken the bait. He’s been our guest at dinner every night this week. Mom’s rationale is that he’s just down the street, and he
must be so tired after working on packing up his mother’s house all day that he requires sustenance. And that’s fine, and likely fair . . . if I had ever
seen
Ricky doing any
hard labor. Mostly, when I drive by his mom’s house on the way to the library, I have spied him sitting in a lounge chair outside, talking on his phone, while young men in logoed moving
company shirts and weight belts do all the heavy lifting. (Let’s be thankful Lydia hasn’t felt the need to wander down that way, else she’d disrupt their work entirely.) Forget
hard work; I’ve never even seen Ricky out of his ill-fitting suit.

And he’s always coming by the house, with the seeming specific intention of talking to me. Butting into my life—hell, barging into my bedroom! Which I do not get. Not the basic
manners thing, although I don’t get that, either, but his constant hovering. Charlotte says that we should be nicer, and maybe try to learn a little bit from him—of all the people we
met with at VidCon, Ricky is the only one who’s here. And I didn’t even contact him afterward, like I did everyone else I collected business cards from. He just . . . showed up.

However, I don’t know what it is I would learn from Ricky . . . After all, he’s never made a web video as far as I can tell. He decided on working in online content because he
considers the market largely untapped—not because he has any great love or understanding of it. Hence, his desire to create corporate videos and bad reality TV.