Chapter Three #3
They take a seat in the sunroom. It’s filled with binders, an array of mismatched upholstered armchairs, and cardboard boxes overflowing with too many books.
It’s evening now and the sun is low, filtering through the windows at an angle that highlights every speck of dust in the air.
A window is open and birds are chirping outside.
“Alright,” Louise says as she drags a binder over and clicks her pen.
Aubrey watches her in silence. “Few things to start with. I’ve mapped most of the tasks you’ll be taking on, so all you’ll have to do is check them off as you go.
There’s the trash collection schedule, here, and on Monday mornings Arthur comes for weekly produce deliveries, like I said.
Easier than going to the market, trust me. Ten mouths to feed is a lot.”
“Arthur,” Aubrey repeats in an accent even she can’t identify, a sort of joke to herself she wouldn’t be able to explain, because what sort of name is Arthur?
But Louise looks up with an air Aubrey can’t pinpoint, and she says, “Well, Artie, I guess. Some people call him Murphy. Family name.” Then she returns her attention to the binder and adds, “You’ll like him, I think.
He’s your age, very sweet guy. Pretty cute, heart in the right place. ”
The laugh Aubrey tries to suppress morphs into a snort. “Oh, good,” she jokes.
Louise is quick to irritation. “I do mean it.”
“No, no, I know. It’s just, it’s funny when people say that. That I’ll like someone. It sets a weird sort of expectation, doesn’t it? Like, now when I meet him for the first time, I’m just thinking how I should definitely like him.”
“Well, I like him. And I just mean, he’s not awful or anything.”
“I generally assume people aren’t, unless informed otherwise.”
“I know, yeah. Arthur’s just a really nice young man. And I think it’d be nice if you liked him. You should talk to him.”
“Young man—Louise, Jesus! Showing your age like this.”
“Oh, piss off. I’ve not been trying to hide anything, I’ll have you know.”
“You never speak like this!”
“I do now, I guess!”
With a bewildered smile, Aubrey teases, “Are you trying to set me up?”
She hopes for a no but also maybe a yes, maybe, which is weird.
She hates being set up, the expectations and constraint that comes with it and the mess of disappointing yet more people, how someone will show you a picture of a stranger and say, “Well? Should I tell him you’re interested?
” and you want to say no but you can’t really explain why, it’s just something you know, and when you try to explain it their face falls because, oh no, they’ve actually already told the other person you’d be down to go out with them.
But Aubrey also knows. She knows she’s in no position to turn down a “maybe this’ll be it.” She knows she should be saying yes, staying open, and smiling along at anyone willing to introduce her to the other lonely people in their lives.
Still, this time, she mostly hopes for a no. She just got here. She can’t navigate murky waters yet, this foreign path that someone, well intended as they might be, thinks she should head on. Not so soon.
And so when Louise finally says no, Aubrey allows herself a sigh of relief.
Most of the problem doesn’t lie in being set up, per se.
Meeting someone on some arranged dinner date isn’t inherently bad or impossible.
Aubrey could see herself heading on a somewhat blind date and being pleasantly surprised.
It’d be kind of romantic, a good story to tell her future kids.
She didn’t always think like this, but things change. Desperate times. Distant memories.
The problem here lies with Louise. Safe, understanding Louise, who knows how Aubrey thinks and feels. Louise, who’s read Aubrey’s musings since she was nineteen. Who should know better. Who’s meant to be the one person who gets it.
So it catches Aubrey off-guard when Louise won’t meet her eye and asks quietly, “But would that be so bad?”
“I don’t like being set up,” Aubrey replies plainly. She fails to conceal her hurt. “Especially by you.”
“Right. I know that.” Louise waves a dismissive hand. “With Oliver, and everything.”
Hearing that name yanks her out of the sunroom for a second. Aubrey’s gaze drifts to the beaten-up hardwood floor. She hums in response, which seems to satisfy Louise, who’s grown quiet.
There’s a twinge of embarrassment in Aubrey’s chest, heat spreading across her cheeks and the tips of her ears as she tastes on her tongue a name she hasn’t heard in a really long time.
It’s not hard to churn up old memories—her rotation is limited to just a few stories, and her family knows of even fewer.
But Oliver, they remember. Oliver, they bring up from time to time, with little sighs, sad smiles, and longing looks.
Louise flips to the next page of her binder and says, “Right, so here’s what I’ve got set up in terms of bookings. Actually, maybe we should start by coming up with a name.” But Aubrey isn’t listening anymore.