Alex’s face hardened. “ ‘And this is your opinion of me. This is the estimation in which you hold me. I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps’ ”—he stepped toward me—“ ‘these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles.’” He watched me absorb every word, every nuance. Then he walked away.
As I replay the evening in my head, I don’t think he meant to sound like Mr. Darcy—until the end. I think he was scared. But why? I’m not the one who ran. He had nothing to fear from me. I never asked anything of him. I may have hoped for more, but I didn’t expect it.
But he wasn’t scared at the end. He was angry—as angry as I’d ever seen him. No paraphrasing for Alex. He always did play the game better.
He called the Muirs on Christmas morning and said he had to fly back to New York immediately. They were disappointed, but didn’t question me. I caught a cold that day and have been sick ever since.
Mrs. Muir says I’m working too hard and not eating well. She’s right. I love that she cares, but right now I want to stay in my quiet apartment, shut the whole world out, and fade away.
Graduation is tomorrow. Everyone is partying, then leaving. And I’m actually missed. I did it. I made friends who care, who want my company and who like me. Debbie made me soup; Ashley keeps delivering gossip magazines and chocolate; and lots of folks call, invite me to parties, and wish me well. It feels good to be included, but I’m still missing out. I’m stuck at home, feverish, green, and stuffy. And I ache so badly, Mr. Knightley. I hurt all over. I think I’ll cry.
Your pathetic reporter,
Sam
JANUARY 15
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I need you—one last time . . .
Graduation was last week. I couldn’t go, as my fever still hovered around 103. Debbie delivered my diploma afterward, so I have proof—and a job. I can start at theEvanston Reviewnext month, or I can take the one-month trial Susan Ellis offered me yesterday. I have three days to decide: a steady but low-paying job or working for free for a month in hopes of an offer at theTribune. I make it sound grim, but it isn’t. TheTribjob is good and I’m considering it, but by personality, I’m risk-averse. A one-month “trial” might end me. That said, when my rental agreement here is over at the end of the month, I’m moving in with the Muirs until I get on my feet. So I could take a month “trial” with no pay. I’ll let you know. But none of that matters. I’m filling space to avoid the real issue . . .
The Muirs called this morning. Alex had called them moments earlier to tell them he’d been hit by a cab a few days ago. He’s actually still in the hospital, Mr. Knightley. Of course, the Muirs hopped on the first flight they could get to New York. I gather Alex’s parents aren’t going out, and the professor believes he shouldn’t be alone right now.
Mrs. Muir called again from the airport. My reaction when she’d first called had unnerved her. “Are you better, dear?”
I wasn’t.
“Sam? He’s going to be fine . . . Sam, are you there? . . . Sam, speak to me.”
“He can’t be hurt, Mom. He can’t . . . ,” I mumbled. Tears got my phone all wet again. I felt wrecked and still very much alone.
“He’s going to be fine. Will you?”
“He’s hurt. I hurt him.” I started to hyperventilate.
“Sam, I told you, a car hit him and he’s been sick. You had nothing to do with this.” An announcer cut across her voice. “We need to board the plane. I’ll text you when we land.” She didn’t hang up. “Sam?”
“I’m here.”
“You need to pray. Whether you believe or not, I want you to pray. Pray for Alex, and pray for yourself, dear.”
“Why?” I was too numb to think.
“Sometimes the action begets belief, and you need that now. In the end, it’s all that matters. Alex has it and he’ll be fine.”
“But—”
“No buts, darling. God is in this. I’m not diminishing Alex’s injuries, but I am asking you to trust that God is in this and that he’s got you too, Sam.” She let the words sink into me. “I need to go, darling.” She hung up.
I know she’s right. God is with Alex. I know he’s with the Muirs. I believe that. I even believe, through the mist in my brain, that he’s with me. But I also know I’ve lied. That’s what I couldn’t tell her during either conversation this morning. I lied to myself and to Alex—so many times—and I layered those lies with vicious, hurtful words. I don’t want Alex out of my life—he’s already smack in the center. He’s mine and, despite the mess I’ve created, I’m his. Now I sound like Emma. Maybe that’s my first clue this is all wrong . . .
But I love Alex completely—the broken, the quirky, the strong, and the serious sides of him. It’s a powerful emotion—one that electrifies and terrifies me—and it’s the most real thing I’ve felt in a long time. I called Ashley, who came over immediately.
“Lizzy Bennet? You actually used her words to refuse him?” She couldn’t laugh. It sounded as horrid as it felt.
“Yes. I’m so ashamed,” I sobbed. “And now he’s hurt . . .”
