Curtis Sittenfeld - Eligible

There was nothing to do but change clothes and go for another run. Although thirty-two ounces of pureed raspberry and mango were sloshing in her stomach, she couldn’t just sit inside the Tudor, knowing that Darcy and Caroline were together. (How could they be together? Was it possible that Liz had imagined all the fraught energy between herself and Darcy in Atherton, his solicitousness, that moment when they’d almost kissed? Had he invited her to breakfast to tell her that he and Caroline were a couple? To officially retract his affection and establish a more friendly and informal mode, should he and Liz encounter each other in the future?)

Her hands shook as she tied her sneakers. In the second-floor hall, she called, “Mom, I’m going for a run” and left without either waiting for a response or taking a key. Once outside again, she didn’t bother stretching in the driveway but simply sprinted off.

For half a mile, adrenaline and bewilderment spurred her on, and her pace was far faster than usual. But sorrow and smoothie gas soon triumphed; she decreased her speed, and tears welled in her eyes. She had been prepared to admit her mistakes to Darcy, to make amends and humble herself. Now Caroline had robbed her of the opportunity, and even worse, Darcy had let Caroline do so.

As Liz reached Madison Road, tears fell down her cheeks, and an undeniable cramp took hold on the right side of her abdomen. And then she was sobbing, she was full-on heaving, in the middle of the day, on a busy street, and instead of making a right, she crossed Torrence Parkway, took a seat on a public bench, and gave in to a combination of regret and sadness that caused her to gasp and shake. She hunched over, her elbows pressed against her thighs, her hands covering her face, and tears and mucus cascaded down as she wept and wept and wept. After an indeterminate amount of time, a tentative voice said, “Honey?” Liz looked up.

It was a slim, middle-aged black woman who also appeared to be exercising; she wore sturdy white walking shoes, shorts, and a T-shirt featuring the University of Cincinnati Bearcat. “Are you okay, honey?”

Liz ran her palm upward over her nostrils. “I’m heartbroken,” she said, because it seemed the most succinct way of conveying the facts.

“Oh, honey.” The woman shook her head. “Aren’t we all?”

I KNOW U have your phone, Liz typed in a text to Lydia. I’m not telling u not to marry ham but why don’t u reach out to m & d and tell them you’re fine?

No reply was immediately forthcoming. Although she suspected it would achieve little, Liz also looked up the number for Ham’s gym and left a message.

She was lying in bed in the dark when, she was almost certain, Darcy’s plane took off from San Francisco; there was only one direct red-eye from SFO to Cincinnati. She no longer was waiting to hear from him, but the desolation inflicted by Georgie’s text had scarcely decreased. This new development had to be more than just a few stolen, wine-facilitated kisses between Darcy and Caroline, didn’t it? Or else Georgie wouldn’t have referred to them in such an official way. They, too, wouldn’t have eloped, would they? The thought was truly sickening.

During the many years of romantic torment meted out by Jasper Wick, Liz had routinely cried herself to sleep. But that had been a while ago, and the nocturnal weeping Liz was gripped by in her childhood bed in the Tudor didn’t have a recent precedent; it was almost — almost — unfamiliar.

SEVENTY-TWO HOURS PASSED before Liz received acknowledgment of the text she’d sent Lydia, and when it came, Lydia’s response contained no words. It was a photo of herself and Ham standing in front of a white wall, a round blue Cook County seal partially visible behind them. Ham was dapper in a button-down shirt and sport coat, a red rose on his lapel, and Lydia was unforgivably young and stunning in a sleeveless white dress; behind her right ear was tucked a red rose that matched Ham’s. Together, the two held out a light blue piece of paper covered with writing too small for Liz to decipher, except that at the top, in capital letters, it said CERTIFICATION OF MARRIAGE. They both were beaming.

Congratulations! Liz texted back. U guys look great! And then: When u coming home???

Again, there was no answer.

MR. BENNET AND Kitty returned to Cincinnati on Thursday evening, four days after they’d departed and just a few hours after Liz had received the photograph from Lydia; her father and sister had never encountered the newlyweds.

Mrs. Bennet was, as usual, in her bed — the demands of the Women’s League luncheon, pressing as they were, had been set aside all week in order for her to devote herself full-time to her shame and distress — and Mr. Bennet and Kitty entered the room to deliver a report devoid of news to her, Liz, and Mary.

“Did you really find out nothing in all that time?” Mrs. Bennet asked her husband.

“I learned that it costs forty-seven dollars a day to park a car at the Hilton.” Mr. Bennet seemed extremely weary. “Anything else, Kitty?”

“The Bean is cool.”

“I always knew there was something off about Ham,” Mrs. Bennet said. “He had a funny look in his eyes, and I didn’t trust him.”

“They’re probably on their honeymoon by now,” Mary said with malicious delight.

“Kitty, what do you think?” Liz said. Surely, if Liz had been in touch with Lydia, Kitty had, too. But Kitty merely shrugged.

“We should hire a detective,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fred, remember when the Hoessles were getting divorced and Marilyn hired someone to follow Buddy?”

“Actually,” Liz said, “I’ve heard from Lydia.”

“You didn’t think to tell us?” Mr. Bennet said.

“It wasn’t very long ago, and she didn’t say anything. It’s a picture.” Liz tapped on the message icon on her phone’s screen, then on the photo itself: Ham and Lydia in their dressy clothes, holding their marriage certificate, looking jubilant. She showed it to her father first, and his expression seemed to be one of muted amusement.

Kitty said, “Wow, she looks fierce,” and Mary said, “Then I guess it’s a done deal.”

When finally Liz brought the phone to her mother, Mrs. Bennet peered at it with pursed lips and burst once more into tears. “If that’s how Lydia wants it, then fine,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Fine. But I’ll have nothing more to do with either of them.”

LIZ FOUND HER father in his study. She said, “You know when we were talking about if Mary’s gay and you said people can do what they want as long as they don’t practice it in the street and frighten the horses?”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “It appears your youngest sister is doing everything in her power to call my bluff.”

“I realize that being transgender seems weird to you,” Liz said. “But the world has changed a lot.”

“Indeed.”

“I don’t want us to be one of those families that has a huge rift and doesn’t speak to each other. Do you?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Help Mom get past this. When Lydia and Ham are back in Cincinnati, invite them over for dinner like normal. Or, I don’t know, give them a waffle iron. They didn’t get married to spite you guys. They’re in love.”

Mr. Bennet smiled wryly. “I suppose they are,” he said. “But that’s a condition that’s acute, not chronic.”

“WHEN DID YOU know?” Liz asked Kitty. They were in Kitty’s car on their way to pick up dinner from Bangkok Bistro. “Did you know as soon as you guys started doing CrossFit?”