Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

“Start small!” Leslie called after me. “Try sleeping naked tonight! I think it’s a safe assumption that that would be new and different.” The last part was muttered, but I could hear it ringing through the night air, just like I could feel the grudge starting to build in my chest. Little by little, I was moving away from the color and light, navigating the pavers into darkness.

Confidence bolstered, I called back, “You know ... Elizabeth Bennet was content simply to be witty and charming. Meeting Mr. Darcy was just a sexy coincidence.”

“Oh that we all could have such ‘sexy coincidences,’ ” Leslie drawled, a regular Southern belle. “But you gotta play to win, sweetie. And a couple little changes could make all the difference.”

“You are pulling out every cliché in the book,” came Laura’s murmured reply, but it barely registered.

Mental snapshots of my journal suddenly flashed in my mind like before and after photos, triggered by the echoing finale of Leslie’s rousing little pep talk. Heedless of the perils of lumpy lawns and nighttime critters, I ran the rest of the way home, in a sudden manic dread over the possibility of “a couple of little changes” and who or what might have made them. Leslie would assume I was spooked by the very idea of sleeping naked. And with that funky little journal in the house, who could blame me?

The quiet at home was a little creepy, and the fact that my ears were tingling with cold and Leslie’s parting words didn’t help engender the feeling of normalcy I was really kind of desperate for. Plunking the platter down on the counter, I ignored the blinking message light on my answering machine and squinted toward the bookcase. If I was willing to ride out the metaphor to the point of ridiculousness, imagining that the journal was Mr. Darcy, then was this whole thing somehow my very own sexy coincidence? The possibility was a little bit terrifying, a good clue that maybe I needed to dial back on the Pride and Prejudice complex.

It occurred to me that maybe I should come up with some sort of game plan before I braved another look at the journal. Like what to do if nothing had changed versus what to do if everything had. But with my mouth drying up and my stomach roiling with nerves and the liquor from the cranberry lemonade, I couldn’t think. Strategy eluded me, right along with common sense. I wanted to look ... but I didn’t. I wanted everything to be normal, and yet, perversely, a little mystery held a certain appeal.

Squaring my shoulders, I stepped out of the light in the kitchen and moved into the dimness of the living room. It felt like high noon in an old-time TV Western, except that I was facing down a wordslinger closer to midnight. My fingers curled in and out of fists, and I gulped big breaths of air, as if I could somehow load up on normal before stepping into a bizarro world of unexplained and unsolicited matchmaking.

I cautiously reached between the preselected cookbooks and snagged the leather-bound volume with my index finger and thumb. Hotfooting it back to the kitchen, I dropped my catch on the table and sat down to face the situation head-on—whatever that might entail. With a burst of courage, I flipped back the cover. The journal’s little doorknob thwacked loudly against the table, unleashing a new wave of nerves. So much for all my carefully built-up calm ... there was no going back now.

Seeing the first page still intact, complete with rewritten journal entry and underlined words, gave me a fleeting moment of confidence—just enough to catch my breath. These words, at least, hadn’t disappeared.

Spurred on by my thunderous heartbeat, I cautiously turned the page—and saw only white. Until the few remaining words came clearly into focus. At which point the curse words were falling off my tongue like an avalanche as I started to panic.

I really hadn’t expected a second message. One could have been written off as a fluke or ... something. But two was a definite situation. Particularly with Leslie off the hook with her airtight alibi.

Willing myself to pull it together, I read the remaining words.

cleavage

is

as cleavage

does

Every bit of tension suddenly came crashing down in the face of sheer ridiculousness. Oh, I was still panicked all right, but at that moment I was simply bowled over by the unpredictability of the situation. There I was, dealing with someone who had the mind-boggling ability to send private messages by erasing selected words in a seemingly unremarkable journal, and he / she chose to use this power to spout off on cleavage and issue a call to romance? It was like I was dealing with a teenage techie with a crush. Although I had to admit, the element of ridiculousness made things feel a little less threatening and more just odd. Number one, I had no cleavage worth discussing, and number two, I’d learned long ago that it was impossible to strong-arm a romance because romance was like dandelion fluff, floating out there, everywhere. And while we all chased it, grabbed hold of it, and hated to let it go, it was fickle and flighty—and impervious to even the most careful planning.

The little dandelion analogy had come to me during a particularly loopy marshmallow-crème-by-the-jar sugar high right after the demise of my only really serious relationship. I met Ethan my first year in the MBA program. Like me, he was an engineer with big dreams, but unlike me, he had no plans on how to reach them—zero. I suppose you could say the detailed nature of my Plan (and his inclusion in it) freaked him out a little. As did my “freakish obsession” with Jane Austen—his words. So he’d dumped me, and truly, I’d been a little relieved to be dumped—saved me the trouble of dumping him. I didn’t want a guy with no plans—I wanted a guy who had big dreams and the motivation to go after them. After that, romance had gotten postponed indefinitely. And Pushing Daisies had taught me that a to-do list wasn’t nearly enough. The man I wanted would come with the schematics and tools to hotwire a Norwegian RV. I’d been content to wait.

But clearly someone—or something—wasn’t. Someone besides Leslie.

I shivered, both from the chill in the air and the realization that, like it or not, I had a problem ... a Big Problem.

I stared into the darkness of the living room, my imagination casting me in the starring role of a B-movie thriller. Who knew what was lurking, waiting ... watching ... ready to comment.

I stood quickly, the backs of my knees pushing my chair back in a loud screech. I lunged toward the light switch, flipping on the overhead light before tussling with the lamp beside the sofa. Right now I needed lights on and voices of reason. I glanced over at the blinking light on my answering machine and decided to take a chance.

My heart beating wildly, I played the message.

“Hi, Nic, it’s Beck. I thought that since the pair of us is in a boyfriend slump—yours by choice, mine, not so much—maybe we could meet up for coffee or go troll for guys. They can all be for me. Call soon or I’ll be left to my own devices—not pretty, I warn you.”

I let my eyes shutter closed. Beck wasn’t exactly a voice of reason, but she was available, and I needed a little distance from the evening’s Snowball’s Chance in Hell. She answered on the third ring, and I determinedly stepped away from the knife drawer—I wasn’t that far gone yet.

“Beck? Hey, it’s Nic,” I said, plowing over the frog in my throat. “Still want to meet?”

“Definitely! How about Central Market? Good coffee and a full gamut of guys.”

“I’m sticking with tea tonight. Meet you in the café in fifteen?”

I didn’t respond to the muttered “party pooper” accusation.

Hanging up, I stared down at my generic jeans, nubby sweater, and ballet flats, getting a “parent or guardian” vibe. In the interest of avoiding further name-calling, I darted back to my room for a quick fix, flipping lights on as I went, hurriedly trading my brown sweater for a sleeker black one and my flats for heeled boots. A wave of the mascara wand and a slick of lip color, and I was hurrying out the door.

Then I remembered.

The journal was still splayed open on the table with all that cleavage wisdom gracing its pages. I couldn’t just leave it there. The little Pandora’s book definitely needed to be relocated, and later, we needed to have a few words. Or not. I suppose that was always an option. I slid it back onto the shelf between Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility, figuring that couldn’t be any worse than shelving it with the cookbooks.

My life had gone seriously wacko. The whole evening suddenly felt like a Vaseline-edged dream, and I desperately needed a squeegee.

I saw her as soon as I stepped into the café, her wild froth of hair bent over what was undoubtedly a decaf soy mocha something-or-other.

Beck was the intern assigned to me at work, and also, by way of some sweet-talking, my mentee through the University of Texas Women in Engineering Program. I’d signed up for the program last spring, viewing it as one of those great give-back opportunities that fit in nicely with a well-rounded life plan. Honestly, I’d envisioned myself as sort of a big sister, dispensing life advice along with gourmet cupcakes. Beck was content with just the cupcakes—cupcakes were the one thing we had in common, other than our chosen career path.

She had magenta highlights and a sparkly pink nose stud and a Weird shirt. Not to mention a healthy interest in all sorts of new-age stuff, a willingness to try anything once, and a never-say-die attitude. She was single-handedly turning the engineering stereotype on its head.