Lost in La La Land(56)

“I can’t. He’s in love with you.”

“Not nearly as much as he’s in love with you.” I leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You deserve this love.” I embraced her and walked from the room, leaving the bags to be picked up for me.

At the bottom of the stairs, I glanced back at her. “I think you’re my favorite.”

She blushed. “Cousin?”

“Yes,” I lied. She had become my favorite Austen heroine. I understood her now. I understood the type of strength it took to keep your mouth shut when your heart demanded things it might not be entitled to. She wasn't a doormat, she was like Elinor Dashwood.

“Safe travels, Jane.”

I waved and walked to the study, leaving a letter to explain my absence. I left the letter on his desk.



Dearest Frederick,



As I am sure you know now, my mother has forbidden our marriage. I have left to deal with her and will miss your home and company. I hope you find all the happiness in the world. I suspect you know where to look for it first.

Your heart has always truly belonged to one woman, and she is here, with you now.

She is the one you love, always and forever.

I have seen that from the beginning, but I fooled myself, as did you, professing that you were over her. I know that you’re not and never truly will be.



Jane



After, I fled to the carriage, to ride in the miserable thing as I stared back at the house for as long as I could see it.

When Lana pulled me from the world, I realized it would be the last time I ever entered.

I was no longer fleeing anything.

I was no longer addicted to escape and imaginations.

I was over it.

It was a strange and freeing feeling leaving the world behind. Like I’d tucked them all into bed and left them there.

They were neatly settled. All wrongs righted and intended rights fixed.

I opened my eyes and sighed.

“How is Frederick?” Lana smiled.

“He’s with Anne.” I nodded. “As it should have been all along.”

Her gaze hardened. “Did you find Jonathan again?”

“No.” I smiled like I had a secret. “I didn't. I think I finally let Jonathan go.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She scoffed, leaving the room.

But it didn't feel ridiculous. It felt good to be back. Not back like Jonathan hadn’t ever died, or back like I was half living with my half heart. No, I felt back like I was new, different because of Jonathan and his effect on my life. I would never be Emma who hadn’t ever been destroyed and crushed and lost everything. I would always be that Emma.

But I was also Emma who had created something new from the ashes in which she found herself.

The renovation had started as a way to clean up in case my friends or family came looking for me. But it ended up renovating my life.





Chapter Twenty-Six


I stared at the pan, sizzling over the gas flame, and then back at the recipe. The picture on the screen didn't look like what was in my skillet, at all. The picture showed nice browned onions and garlic but mine weren’t nearly as dark. I glanced at the heat again, nervously before turning it up a fraction. It licked the bottom of the frying pan, making my hands sweat.

I could program myself with microscopic computers to become the greatest cook in the world, but I couldn’t make one lousy Italian dish on my own. Not over open flames. It was something I hadn’t realized triggered me until this moment.

“Come on, Emma. Buck up,” I whispered, stirring again and then checking the recipe as they cooked. I was doing everything right-ish, minus keeping the temperature hot which was screwing with the amount of time I needed to cook them before adding the wine.

I turned the heat up a little, and within a second, the onions and garlic went from barely cooking to burnt.

I winced and pulled the skillet off and turned off the burner. “Shit!”

“What are you doing?” Gilda asked, giving me the most confused stare.

“Trying to go on a date.” I sighed.

“With the fire department?”

“Actually, yes. I was sort of hoping any one of them would show up and take me out for dinner instead.”

“I thought all English women could cook.”

“They deep-fry, and I’m not English.” I grinned. “I’m from LA. We eat sushi and avoid gluten but don’t know why.”

“You sound as British as the queen, kid. I hate to break it to you, you’re English.”

“No,” I replied as the queen might and the focused on turning it off. “I am American. I’ve spent so much time in the machine, in an Austen novel, I got a bit lost.”

“Like Mrs. Delacroix?” she asked as she glanced at the baby monitor she used to keep track of Lana.

“Yeah, about that bad.”

“She’s got a problem.” Her eyes met mine like maybe she wanted to talk. “And I don't know how long I can keep on taking your money to watch her kill herself. She’s up to twelve hours now, wearing Depends undergarments in case she doesn’t hold it. I’m seventy and I don't wear them. Yet my husband on his deathbed didn’t wear them.”

“Twelve hours?” I felt sick hearing that. I hadn’t noticed her comings and goings. She wasn't speaking to me since I stopped going in the week before. And with Gilda here I didn't account for her whereabouts. Without the machine, we really didn't have anything in common. She was living in a pretend world filled with avoidances, and I was planting flowers and speaking with the zoning committee about this possibly becoming an inn and rearranging everything because, apparently, the bug was catching.