Chapter Six #3
“Mm.” This makes Aubrey smile. “Lovely, all these options for me.” In the chat with Raphael, she writes, Hey! Nice to see there’s finally a guy around here able to catch a fish, with a winky face. She doesn’t hit send. She chickens out and sends a simple Hi there instead.
She stares at her message, sitting lonely in a sea of white, waiting for a reply.
“I guess this guy doesn’t seem too bad,” she thinks aloud.
She doesn’t actually want to leave the house and meet up with this stranger.
It feels like an impossible effort to take on.
But then it always does, and she always backs out.
So if she’s going to actually try, this Raphael guy should be as good as any.
“You’re lucky,” Maggie says. Her face is lit only by the glow of her laptop.
She’s looking up and over the screen, somewhere away from Aubrey.
“I feel dumb for giving so many chances to men who didn’t deserve an ounce of it.
It’s—I guess it’s hard to explain, but it’s like this shame that lives in the pit of your stomach, and you just don’t understand how you could’ve been so blind, why you didn’t see it then.
But when you’re in the thick of it it’s like your instinct shuts off, and you’re left with nothing but this overwhelming urge for them to like you, to validate you.
So you endure so much, and then the second you get a hint of distance, everything is so clear. And you feel so dumb.”
Aubrey feels compelled to mention, “I’ve done dumb shit.”
“No, I know. I mean, everyone has, but it’s something different.
It’s like a gnawing in the back of your mind that comes with trying to figure out what love is all about, and realizing you completely, utterly failed.
Again, and again. I think you’re lucky you never fucked up.
You get to live in the peaceful knowledge you made the right decision, every time. I’m quite jealous of you, honestly.”
“Mags. I’m miserable anyway.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am, though. Not all the time, but sometimes. Often. Enough that I wonder what’s wrong with me.
Enough that I wish I’d gotten the opportunity to fuck up, because at least I wouldn’t get asked so often how come I’ve never found anyone, and I wouldn’t feel so behind, and I’d be able to share outlandish stories with you, and we could laugh at how blinded I was and how much better I can do.
I don’t even know how much better I could do. I haven’t done anything at all.”
Maggie hums pensively. She shifts in place and rests her cheek against her palm. “Fine. I get it. But I’m still a little envious.”
“That’s fine. I envy you.”
“Ridiculous, the both of us.”
A bubble pops up on Aubrey’s phone to indicate that Raphael is typing a response.
Maggie says, “I don’t think a hobby’s what you need, then.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I think you need to fuck up, and then come back and tell me all about it.”
“Oh, well, yes. How haven’t I thought of that before?” She stares at her phone as she speaks. The bubbles disappear and reappear.
Maggie tuts impatiently. “I’m making sense, yeah?”
“Sorry, this guy Raphael just replied. He says, ’What’s a girl like you doing in Lunenburg?’”
Maggie perks up and the sound of fabric rustling fills the speaker. “Oh, oh. Okay. You say, ’Looking for a guy like you.’”
“That’s a bit strong.”
“Yes, yes. Exactly.”
Aubrey chokes on her laughter. She’s not sure who she’s more impressed with—herself for staying friends with Maggie for so long as they move through the world so differently, or Maggie for never allowing herself to falter in her enthusiasm even when Aubrey offers nothing in return.
She doesn’t take Maggie’s suggestion. Instead, she writes back something nice and generic, asking about his job and how long he’s been in Lunenburg, and Maggie talks about this new TV show she started watching when she can’t sleep, which is often. Aubrey sets up a tentative date with Raphael.
When she texts strangers like this, Aubrey always frets over how unique and special and memorable the conversation should be.
She ponders frivolous expectations she knows are based on anything but reality, bits of dialogue from her favourite books and movies that she knows will never be reflected in the real world.
She used to put so much effort into crafting the perfect messages for these guys, funny puns and carefully orchestrated sentences that highlighted her in the best possible light and the most flattering of angles.
She’d learned early on that a lot of other people collected hundreds of matches while she struggled to rack up a dozen, so she was desperate to stand out, to be the One Special Conversation that would be worthy of a good story.
Now she doesn’t care so much. It’s a bittersweet kind of relief.
She tells herself that simplicity is just as romantic, really, that all that matters in the end is the connection between her and these guys.
That she doesn’t need flashy, quirky messages for any of it to mean something.
She’s fine with hi, how are you, what do you do for work, what are you looking for.
She’s learned over time that chatting with someone through a screen for days or weeks is no promise of a happily ever after.
It does make it tricky that the actual going out part feels like pulling teeth.
She pretends very hard she’s excited and hopeful when she agrees to meet Raphael the next day.