First Impressions: A Modern Pride and Prejudice Adaptation

Chapter 45.1

The truth is like a stray cat. It can be sweet and kind, an escaped animal desperate for food and affection. It can be ferocious and feral, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation. A person's reactions to the second kind of truth can be difficult to predict; even the most loving of souls are afraid to be scratched.

And even the gentlest can lash out.

It was going to be very bad, he decided, as he watched his hand shaking with near-absolute detachment. He did not think dissociating would help him in his quest to be entirely truthful, but he attempted to be optimistic.

He watched his feet move across the carpet as if they belonged to another man. The knock on the door echoed in his ears, loud and hollow. If he allowed himself to be morose, he would have said it sounded like a tomb.

He did not allow himself that luxury.

Everything that happened, he would leave firmly to reality. There would be no lies, no fantasy, and no escape from his actions. Every word would be factual. Honest. He would bare his actions entirely. All he could do was hope his remorse was convincing and his sincere apologies were accepted.

If Bingley had been in a jovial mood when he answered the door, any joy was wiped entirely from his being by a single look at Darcy's face. He could not help himself; he asked, "Who died?"

"May I come in?"

"That bad, huh?" Bingley stepped aside to let Darcy into the hotel room.

Darcy said nothing. His mouth was so dry it was painful. He could feel the individual teeth as they crowded around his tongue, his mouth too crowded for words. Fear buzzed down his spine like an electric shock.

Hands sitting uselessly at his sides, he stopped in the middle of the room. Bingley shut the door behind him and walked around to stand in front of Darcy. "Why don't you sit down?" he offered.

The hotel room was a mirror of his own; a bathroom on the left of the door, the bed against the right wall. Two small armchairs and an ottoman on the floor between them. Mechanically, Darcy took the chair closest to him. He sat against the back first, but the feeling of something solid against his shoulders sent a jitter down his leg. He pulled away, perching on the edge of the seat and trying very hard to keep his hands flat in his lap, even as his fingers shook. He made a quick fist, but when he released it, the hand was still shaking.

Bingley eased himself onto the corner of his unmade bed. "Fitz? You're scaring me."

Darcy let out a mirthless laugh, a broken sound. He stared at his hands as he fought for the courage to speak. The longer he waited, the more it became about him and he knew it was cruel to seek comfort before shattering Bingley's entire perception of him, perhaps for forever.

He cleared his throat. It was always so much easier on paper... "Chip, I am so sorry. I owe you an apology. The deepest, sincerest possible. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it. But you deserve the truth—the full truth."

Bingley stared blankly.

"Last summer, Caroline and I... I lied to you."

"Caroline—" Bingley inserted dumbly, unable to finish his thought.

Darcy jumped in swiftly. "No, no, Caroline—" he began, before paused. His heart was beating loud in his ears. If he was not careful, he might ruin the relationship between the siblings forever too and he did not wish to be responsible for that. "She, uh... That's for her to answer. I won't speak to her motives. I won't speak for anyone again, I can promise that.

"I thought it was a little lie, just a small one to help keep you safe. I know how much you hate how cynical I am, but you're far, far too willing to take people at their face! It all seemed so fast, so automatic, I could not believe it was real. I told you I'm not a reliable reader of people—because I watched her and I just couldn't see it. It didn't seem real."