First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 39.1

George Wickham, when he could afford to be, was a creature of habit. He liked his days to be laid out before him like a bag of tumbling dice—while the details may vary, the contents more or less the same.

So, when Lydia tried to push him out of bed before his preferred rising time, it was only natural that he push back. How was he to know that she would overreact and, in the slightly narrower-than-typical bed, fall to the floor? "Hey!" she barked, startled by the thump.

Wickham grumbled a response that even he couldn't fully make out and rolled over, flipping the thin pillow to bury his face into the slightly-less-warm underside. "Shut up," he said, his voice bland and entirely free from spite. "I'm still sleeping."

"U-gh," she groaned in double syllables. "This is stupid. I'm going downstairs."

"Have fun," he mumbled, his mouth still pressed into the pillow. He heard her thumping loudly around the room before closing the door with a slam. He had no idea what time it was and he didn't particularly care. When it was important to know the time, he would figure it out. That was one of his particular talents; always seeming to land on his feet. His past record of long successes was reassuring as a warm blanket.

~~~~

The ocean glittered in the distance, catching the warm sunshine and turning it into white light. He sipped his beer slowly, savoring the sharp aftertaste of lime and freedom. He had been watching the calendar tick down the days; he should have been on base the day before. This was not his first absence from training, but he had a feeling this one might be a more permanent one. The money was decent, but it wasn't worth the time commitment or the company.

There was little love lost between himself and his fellow National Guard reservists. The only one he would really miss would be Denny. But he also owed him at least $400, so maybe he wouldn't miss him that much. There was little he would regret leaving behind.

Wickham liked the ocean; the cool, cleansing of it, the gentle abrasion of the salt... The anonymity of it. When you were out in the water, you could close your eyes and imagine the world spread out around him in rocky anonymity... Equally thrilling and terrifying. The aloneness part, not the anonymity.

More than once, he had toyed with the idea of complete reinvention. It was an entirely appealing concept, to just leave, take a car and drive until he could no longer follow the road, and become other. The problem with that was the roads often ended in little nothing towns with fifty inhabitants and an utter lack of interest or diversion. He often found that conflict within himself—part of him wished to be no one, a non-entity, who could step wherever he chose and become whomever he wanted to be. The other wished to see his name in lights.

It truly was a conundrum.

Perhaps he could slip away, further south, and become a telenovela star. He laughed at his own thoughts and drank more beer. He was lounging on the tiled patio on the side of the restaurant on the ground floor of his hotel, slouched in a slim metal chair with his arms on the armrests, one leg crossed over the other.

The feeling of calm lessened greatly when Lydia marched up. Her braided honey-colored hair jutted from under her wide-brimmed hat and bounced over her shoulder. The front of her pale floral dress dipped down in a low V, where he could see the soft swell of her breasts just above the buttons. Her face was normally pretty, with a small nose, large brown eyes, and high cheekbones; the expression it wore was not.

He had spent many hours perfecting his persona. Or personas. He had seen the way people responded to the different sides of him, his confidence and his diffidence, his somber moods and joyful ones. Some of the personas were more difficult to pull off and he saved them for special occasions or for great rewards.

Though he knew the upcoming reward would be a large one, it would not require the work that some other people might. He thought he could probably manage a more genteel persona for a few more hours. He was beginning to realize that Lydia Bennet (Or should he call her Lydia Wickham now? The hasty marriage had involved no discussion of a name change, but she had joked—or hinted—more than once about her intention upon what she believed would be their triumphant return to the States.) had put more stakes in the ceremony than he had expected. And certainly more than he had.

"Morning, darlin'," he offered as his opener. His voice was smooth and warm as the sun.

She looked at his hand, curiosity and disapproval vying for space across her features. She settled, in a tone more questioning than judging, for, "Isn't it a little early to be drinking?"

He responded with a broad smile. "Aren't we on our honeymoon? Who's going to tell us no?" He offered her the bottle and, with a little huff, she parked herself in the opposite chair. She took it and swallowed one deep drink, then a second. He did not allow himself to frown when she handed back the bottle, now almost half empty.

"What are we going to do today?"

He shrugged. He stretched. "I don't know."

"Ugh." The pronouncement was a single, but still annoyed, syllable this time. "That's what you said yesterday and then we didn't do anything."

"Mmm."

"Oh my God, I can't even deal with you right now. You said we'd have a good time, but now we're just sitting around and I'm bored out of my mind!" He half expected her outburst to be accompanied by the stamping of a foot. Instead, she set her gaze moodily on his face, her well-defined eyebrows drawn into a thick line of disapprobation. "I literally have no idea what anyone did before cellphones. Where'd you put mine, anyway?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"It's safe. It's in the hotel room." He sipped his beer again. "Babe, no one's stopping you from going anywhere by yourself."

"George, I don't know any Spanish." Her whine was, if anything, more pronounced.

Wickham clucked his tongue and leaned his elbow on the back of his chair. "Damn. Should've thought of that before coming with me to Mexico, I guess."

"How was I supposed to know we'd be in, like, the middle of nowhere? I thought we'd go somewhere fun with lots of people who speak English!"

"Who wants to go to a city? I'd take the beach any day."

"Okay, fine—if we went to the beach. You just spend all your time waiting around. I don't even know what you're waiting to happen! It's not like we're going to stay here forever."

He had to work harder to keep his expression from dipping into animosity. Charming indifference was one thing, but he was afraid he would be with her for a while and he could not afford to anger her yet. "I'll go to the beach with you." A few hours away would likely not harm him.

He was not, in fact, waiting for a what but a who.

Everything from the "surprise" elopement in Vegas to the flight out of the country had been carefully planned. He had been to the town before; it was his third favorite place in Mexico, right on the beach with views of the bay and few enough tourists to make his life easy. Far enough from the edge of California to be safe, close enough to take advantage if he had to. If he could, anymore... Yes, some of those past-due bills might prove to be a significant problem. Well, some way to deal with it would present itself eventually.

It always did.

And frequently it came in the appearance of a tall, sullen, fun-spoiling Darcy.