Read Online Jane and Austen by Stephanie Fowers - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Fowers
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in the middle of a dance or while playing soccer. It usually lasted only for a moment, thus the term.
Afterwards, the memory of that moment had to be carried around in my mind as evidence that romance truly did exist and that someday a guy that I loved would look at me like that every time he saw me. It would never dim. It would flavor his laughter and his heartache and his joy. His every emotion would belong to me, and mine would belong to him.
Maybe that made me weird.
Now I wanted to listen to Dancey’s songs—they were just as sappy as I was. My London-Or-Bust, old-school suitcase that I used as my knickknack drawer was within grabbing distance, and I leaned forward on my beanbag to get to my iPod from in there so that I could download Dancey’s latest album. Most of the songs involved love gone wrong, but the most popular one was heart wrenching. The girl that had inspired that one had left poor Dancey’s heart a bloody pulp—likely she had stomped on it.
The song was called “Poppies.” The melody drifted through my ears like a haunted memory from the past:
Don’t go.
Dancing through London in a field of poppies.
Red like the color of your lips.
You’re all I see.
Don’t go.
I rested my head against the back of my beanbag, letting the music flow through me. Dancey felt what he sang. That’s what I liked best about his music—everything he said came from the heart:
I smell the flowers in the mist of your hair.
Red like blood in a broken heart.
Kiss me again.
Don’t go.
As I listened to the words flow into the chorus, I decided that the girl who had inspired this song had set Dancey’s soul on fire, or he’d never care this much about her. It reminded me of what Austen had done to me. As soon as I came to that thought, I turned off the song.
It took the spider to force my legs into action. The insect poked a big, furry head from behind my shag rug, and I shot to my feet, scurrying backwards. The spider did the same thing on the hardwood floor, but went the opposite way until it disappeared behind my flat screen TV.
My hands were shaky, but since I was up, I headed for my vanity. It was a cute little setup with a mirror and a porcelain bowl sink. I took a flat iron to the auburn curls in my hair and dabbed some lotion onto my face. Austen would kick himself when he saw me. I’d look so good he’d wish every moment back with me to make me fall in love with him. Just as I was applying the mascara, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the screen and saw it was a text from Taylor.
COME DOWN TO THE ALLENHAM LOUNGE. REDD IS HERE.
Every romantic idea in my head fled at the name. Oh no. Oh no! Not Redd. While I had been falling all over Austen last summer, Redd had done his best to distract me. And no matter how much I tried to cushion my rejection, I had crushed him. My guilt consumed me.
Redd wasn’t supposed to come to Taylor’s wedding. We hadn’t reserved a room for him, and Taylor hadn’t said anything about her bestie crashing the festivities at the last second. I had pried very, very carefully to get that out of her. I had asked if anyone from the military was attending and she just looked at me blankly.
That was supposed to mean that Redd was not coming!
We hadn’t even dated. Of course, it all depended on who told the story, but I never counted the evenings we had spent together as actual dates. I thought that we were hanging out. Taylor had been there, too, and I hadn’t suspected that Redd would make a move, until he tried to kiss me. Redd had left last summer a very disappointed and embittered man.
My phone buzzed with another text from Taylor: HURRY. HE’S ASKING FOR YOU.
Chapter 5
“A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not.”
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
Instead of going to the Allenham Lounge , I ran for the lobby, only thinking of Austen. Sure, he hated me now, but he’d have
Afterwards, the memory of that moment had to be carried around in my mind as evidence that romance truly did exist and that someday a guy that I loved would look at me like that every time he saw me. It would never dim. It would flavor his laughter and his heartache and his joy. His every emotion would belong to me, and mine would belong to him.
Maybe that made me weird.
Now I wanted to listen to Dancey’s songs—they were just as sappy as I was. My London-Or-Bust, old-school suitcase that I used as my knickknack drawer was within grabbing distance, and I leaned forward on my beanbag to get to my iPod from in there so that I could download Dancey’s latest album. Most of the songs involved love gone wrong, but the most popular one was heart wrenching. The girl that had inspired that one had left poor Dancey’s heart a bloody pulp—likely she had stomped on it.
The song was called “Poppies.” The melody drifted through my ears like a haunted memory from the past:
Don’t go.
Dancing through London in a field of poppies.
Red like the color of your lips.
You’re all I see.
Don’t go.
I rested my head against the back of my beanbag, letting the music flow through me. Dancey felt what he sang. That’s what I liked best about his music—everything he said came from the heart:
I smell the flowers in the mist of your hair.
Red like blood in a broken heart.
Kiss me again.
Don’t go.
As I listened to the words flow into the chorus, I decided that the girl who had inspired this song had set Dancey’s soul on fire, or he’d never care this much about her. It reminded me of what Austen had done to me. As soon as I came to that thought, I turned off the song.
It took the spider to force my legs into action. The insect poked a big, furry head from behind my shag rug, and I shot to my feet, scurrying backwards. The spider did the same thing on the hardwood floor, but went the opposite way until it disappeared behind my flat screen TV.
My hands were shaky, but since I was up, I headed for my vanity. It was a cute little setup with a mirror and a porcelain bowl sink. I took a flat iron to the auburn curls in my hair and dabbed some lotion onto my face. Austen would kick himself when he saw me. I’d look so good he’d wish every moment back with me to make me fall in love with him. Just as I was applying the mascara, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the screen and saw it was a text from Taylor.
COME DOWN TO THE ALLENHAM LOUNGE. REDD IS HERE.
Every romantic idea in my head fled at the name. Oh no. Oh no! Not Redd. While I had been falling all over Austen last summer, Redd had done his best to distract me. And no matter how much I tried to cushion my rejection, I had crushed him. My guilt consumed me.
Redd wasn’t supposed to come to Taylor’s wedding. We hadn’t reserved a room for him, and Taylor hadn’t said anything about her bestie crashing the festivities at the last second. I had pried very, very carefully to get that out of her. I had asked if anyone from the military was attending and she just looked at me blankly.
That was supposed to mean that Redd was not coming!
We hadn’t even dated. Of course, it all depended on who told the story, but I never counted the evenings we had spent together as actual dates. I thought that we were hanging out. Taylor had been there, too, and I hadn’t suspected that Redd would make a move, until he tried to kiss me. Redd had left last summer a very disappointed and embittered man.
My phone buzzed with another text from Taylor: HURRY. HE’S ASKING FOR YOU.
Chapter 5
“A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not.”
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
Instead of going to the Allenham Lounge , I ran for the lobby, only thinking of Austen. Sure, he hated me now, but he’d have
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