My phone lights up.
Mirabel:Your LAWYER tried to call me again. Now you both will be hearing from MINE, Elizabeth.
I see red.
“No! Despite what everyone tells you, there is no such thing as a happy ending. Ever, ever,EVER. Sure, Elizabeth Bennet’s happy now—she’s bagged Mr. Fucking Darcy. But it won’t last. There’s still that god-awfuldysfunctionalfamily. Lydia will always ask for money. Mrs. Bennet is always going to be a drama queen. And Lady Catherine de Bourgh isalwaysgoing to be the rotten bitch who sticks her nose in everyone else’s business.”
Everyone’s listening to me now. Even Brad.
“Andthen...one day, fifteen years from their wedding, Mr. Darcy, the perfect husband, father, and picture of health, dies in a stupid motherfucking carriage accident on the way home from Brighton. It’s a dumb accident. Just a little rain, and the carriage slips clean off the road, killing him instantly. Lizzy doesn’t know what to do except soldier on. But everyone hounds her: Her hot solicitor wants her to help settle estate questions instantly, likeright fucking now. Lady Catherine de Bourgh shows up on her porch every goddamn week to micromanage her life. She’s got this gaggle of silly scullery maids quibbling endlessly over the STUPIDEST things, and MEANWHILE Lizzie’s just trying to take care of her children and put herself back together after she’s been brokeninto a million GODDAMN pieces!”
I’m crying, sniffing, and shaking as one giant ball of rage and grief seizes up in my chest.
The tears won’t stop flowing and all my students stare at me.
Kayla kindly brings me a little box of Kleenex.
As I blow my nose, Brad speaks up. “Miss Wells, did you get my note about the extra credit?”
“Oh,Brad. Indeed, I do have a response for you,” I say icily.
The sucker stick stops mid-chew.
I pull out the envelope from my satchel, dramatically tear it open and read it loudly.
“Dear B—
In my fifteen years of teaching, you are the most entitled, sexist dodo to darken my classroom door. You smell like skunkweed, beer, and unwashed sheets. You strut about like you are God’s gift to women. You park your red BMW in reserved faculty spaces without consequence. You call Jane Austen a ‘chick,’ but you are the classic insufferable fool who shows up in her pages again and again and again—boastful, ridiculous, and, above all, STUPID. You are fodder for novels and will end up as comic relief in a good many women’s more relevant life stories.
I will never—in a MILLION years—give you extra credit.
If you want a good grade in my class, you put in the elbow grease and FUCKING EARN IT.
Sincerely,
DR. Wells”
“Whoa! Dr. Wells just roastedBrad!” Pauline yells from the back as all the women in the class cheer. Kayla high-fives Susanna next to her as Maddy yells, “Burn!”
Brad stands, red-faced, waves the middle finger at everyone, and storms out, classroom door slamming behind him.
“That was awesome, Dr. Wells,” Kayla says.
Everyone’s smiling, including Ryan.
I’m somewhat satisfied that I’ve finally given a voice to the universal female dislike for Brad McGregor. Although I’m still ahot mess, reading the letter was cathartic. Steam releasing from a screaming kettle. But obviously I can’t teach now, so I dismiss class and head to my office.
I’ve stopped trembling, but I’m drained and sad, unable to do anything, even the smallest task, like unbending a paper clip.
I pick up the five-by-seven-inch silver-framed photo from my wedding day with Philip.
I wore a simple sleeveless ivory wedding dress, my light brown hair twisted back in a French knot. In the photo, Philip and I are kissing in front of our wedding cake, our cheeks youthfully round and flushed with champagne and joy. Philip had wanted us to take professional dancing lessons together before the wedding, but I never scheduled them. Still, we’d swayed to our favorite Beatles song, “If I Fell.” Before dinner, painfully shy Dad broke out of his comfort zone to toast me with an eighth-century Japanese poem celebrating daughters. My unsentimental mom lifted her champagne flute to me, toasting to “the most beautiful daughter in the world, to the girl who has her grandma’s strength and heart.” I shed happy tears, and Philip squeezed my hand under the table.
Last summer, I’d remembered Mom’s wedding toast as she withered away from breast cancer. Philip had taken the best care of Heathcliff while I went on leave and stayed in Indiana, brushing Mom’s peppered hair as it fell out in clumps and feeding her broth. I loved Philip more than ever when he came to her funeral, stood beside me, and wept like she’d been his own mother.
Between losing Mom and then the film premiere, last year had been a lot. I’d felt devastated and thrilled and broken and grateful in so many short months. There hadn’t been time to process any of it. For Christmas, Philip had bought us dance lessons, a gentle reminder that life is short and precious, and we should cash in now on the experience because there would be no better time or guaranteed tomorrows. But I’d never actedon it, and the gift card lay untouched on my jewelry box. In spite of his nudging, I hadn’t really danced since high school show choir. Now he’s gone, and we’ll never take the lessons.
Someone knocks at my door. Quickly, I wipe a tear from my face and set the photo down as Patrick comes in.
