Chapter Five #2
She’s hardly ever made friends with men, which is partly her fault.
She’s grown too entangled with “the pressure” to see them as anything other than potential partners anymore.
She knows it’s a problem, but befriending men has also never felt quite as natural as she hoped.
They usually don’t have much in common with her, or don’t seem too interested in what she has to say, and she’s come to find that the feeling is mutual.
The ones she tries to get to know often don’t listen to the music she enjoys, languid women singing about heartbreak, or don’t care about the movies she rewatches over and over in a comforting loop.
On the rare occasions she’s grown fond of a man, through the platonic lens of a naive young woman looking to stumble through adulthood with likeminded people, it has failed to last, nearly always splintered by a boozy “Can I tell you something?” on nights out with friends, gazes that made Aubrey’s heart twinge and her smile falter.
As if her friendship was ever only a stepping stone to a quick make out or a feel of her ass.
Now, things are different. People in their late twenties are seldom inclined to settle into new friendships.
They’re more direct in their approach, with much less time to waste stumbling their way through the same mistakes they’d made when they were younger.
On dates they ask about kids, and marriage, and wanting to live in the country.
It’s good, it’s great, except Aubrey hasn’t made their mistakes or taken many big risks herself yet.
She sits there and guesses at how many children she’d like to have, but really all she knows is exactly how many kisses she’s had in her lifetime, and how many dates she’s been on, and she’s all too aware that she’s never lived with a man, never looked into a man’s eyes and thought she might want to start a family with him.
Never even said “I love you” to someone who might return the sentiment.
“We all good?” Arthur asks then. The trolley is empty. From outside, looking down into the basement, Aubrey can see the boxes sitting in scattered piles.
“Oh,” she says, and she feels bad for a second for tuning out. “Yes.”
All this to say, she thinks now, looking at Arthur, that at their age good conversation and witty comments don’t tend to bear only the expectation of friendship. Unless maybe he’s taken, or otherwise uninterested—in her or women as a whole.
Arthur holds out a folded piece of paper and says, “You can give this to Louise. She’s already good for it.”
“Okay.” Then Aubrey asks, while intently staring at the paper, “Did you want to come in for a bite? Take a look at the place and all?”
She’s not sure why she asked. She falls so easily into overthinking, and trying to decide why she does things, and what things mean.
When she makes eye contact with someone, or when she smiles, she wonders how they interpret it, and she thinks about what their smile might mean in return.
Sometimes she fears that the missed milestones have led to this, constantly trying to untangle the mess of being a person and assuming that everything must hold meaning.
Sometimes she thinks that years of hearing “Don’t you think he’s cute?
” and “He smiled at you, you should say hi,” and “He’s nice, wouldn’t you go out with him?
” has made her hyper-aware of every little detail of her interactions with other people.
Arthur, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to think much of it. “Sure,” he says, already on his way inside. “I won’t say no to that.”
Aubrey follows along, toying with the front of her dress.
In a matter of seconds, Arthur says hi to half the crowd and vanishes in its midst, grinning from ear to ear and going, “Oh, hey!” to people who slap him gently across the shoulder.
Aubrey nudges him out of her mind and focuses instead on tidying up the kitchen, tossing away discarded drinking cups and loading up another tray with canapés.
Then she takes a turn through the house, the living room, and the sitting room, then back again, and returns empty-handed to the kitchen.
Next, she loops around the second floor to check in on the bedrooms. She smiles at small groups of people chatting among themselves, fluffs up some pillows, and responds, “Oh, thank you!” to the compliments on her aunt’s decor.
She’s just back downstairs when Louise emerges from the crowd along with a now-familiar face. “The girl of the hour,” Louise says, just a smidge too loud. Arthur is quiet but seemingly enjoying himself.
Aubrey stares. “Sorry?”
“I mean you. Everyone’s been coming up to tell me how much of a stunner my niece is.”
Louise must be joking, but Aubrey finds it more embarrassing than anything. She says, to be polite, “I very much doubt that.”
“So, you’ve met Arthur, then?” Louise pats his arm gently, as if she’s afraid to break him. “Not too shabby, is he?”
Aubrey counters, “You know he can hear you, yes?”
“Oh, he knows what he’s got going for him.”
Arthur cuts in. “We’ve met.” His smile is soft, barely there.