Most Ardently

by Gabe Cole Novoa

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single boy in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a future wife—unless that boy was Oliver Bennet. Not that Oliver was in possession of a good fortune, mind you, but it seemed impossible to him that having such a fortune would so completely transform his disinterest in one day having a wife. Or, more importantly, being one.

It was a special thing, to have one’s reflection in harmony with who they were.

Being recognized for who he was brought him a euphoria like nothing else he had ever experienced. You see me, he thought, and it made him so happy he wanted to laugh out loud.

It was difficult enough forcing himself to respond to a name that didn’t remotely suit him, but there was something uniquely painful about forcing that name off his own tongue. About denying who he was out loud, in words. It was a self-betrayal that cut deep.

There was a time when being referred to as a girl or a woman felt off, like trying to force two ill-matched puzzle pieces together, damaging both in the process. But the discomfort that was once easily ignored became exponentially more painful once Oliver experienced the euphoria of being seen as himself, as a boy, for the first time. It seemed the longer he spent in the bliss of being the boy he was always meant to be, the more miserable he was forcing himself to play the part of the girl he never was.

“You should know my name is Oliver. And I’m … I’m your son.” Mr. Bennet’s smile grew into a full grin, spreading across his face like a plant turning its leaves to the sun. “You most certainly are,” he said, and then his arms were around Oliver.

“I think,” Oliver interrupted, “your insistence on repeating such toxic gossip knowing full well the harm it could do speaks more about your character than his.”

“I’m afraid an unfortunate ultimatum is before you,” Mr. Bennet declared. “Going forward, your relationship with one of your parents will never be the same. Your mother will never speak to you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never speak to you again if you do.”

“No one wants to deny themselves happiness, Oliver,” she said. “But many of us have to choose a middle ground if we hope to survive.”

I admire you, Oliver Bennet. Your spirit, your wit, your open honesty—I have thought of nothing else since we first met.” Tears blurred Oliver’s vision, spilling hot over his cheeks and cooling in the rain. “Darcy—” “I love you, Oliver,” Darcy said. “Most ardently.”