Chapter Seven #3
“Let me ask you something. Let’s say you meet a twenty-eight-year-old woman, and she’s never been in a relationship, but she’s had sex.
Only once, when she was twenty-one and she couldn’t bear that feeling of lagging behind anymore, and she couldn’t stand listening to her friends talk about their boyfriends, and their lavish sex lives, and she got told she should just get it over with, that it’s not that fun or special anyway, the first time.
And so she does it. It’s awful and awkward, but it’s done.
She’s not a virgin anymore. And that’s it.
You view her entirely differently because she doesn’t wear this tag now, right?
But what is so different than if that same woman decides, in the moment, that she doesn’t actually want to go through with it?
That she’s uncomfortable, and it doesn’t feel right, and she ends it and walks away?
And then it’s years later, and she’s yet to find someone she feels comfortable enough with.
That she desires enough. What differentiates these two women other than the title we give them, and the weight we attribute to that title? ”
If they were at a bar, Aubrey could order another drink and wash down the lump in her throat with some beer.
But they’re not. They sit on this grass watching a small fishing town in the distance, and she finds nothing to give her courage.
Instead, she wonders where this could go now, how this could possibly end well.
But when she looks over at Raphael, she finds that his expression hasn’t changed, that even now he wears a soft, amused smirk.
He sinks back into his shoulders and watches the little waves crashing at his feet.
“It’s a good question,” he says. “I think you know there’s really no way for me to answer it other than to agree that there’s not much difference. I don’t think it’s fully true, but it’s what I should say in this situation, and you’re aware of that.”
“Right.”
“But the title exists. And the timeline exists. The expectations and all, they exist. I mean, obviously I could do better, yeah? But it’s hard to do better until you’re face to face with it. It’s just not something I’ve ever really had to think about.”
“No, I get that. I’m just saying, it’s an odd question to ask, in the end. When you really think about it.”
“It is. I almost wanted to ask which of the two women you are.”
“Ah.”
“It’s a very specific story.”
“Right. Well, you’re not the first guy to ask odd questions, you know. A girl’s got to come up with a good answer.”
“Thanks for talking it through. You could’ve just told me to fuck off. I might’ve deserved it.”
“Maybe. But this is more fun.”
“I really didn’t mean anything by it,” Raphael says again, his tone just a hint more insistent. His brows are drawn in concern and he waits, patiently, for Aubrey to say something. She shrugs.
“Like I said, not my first time. No pun intended.”
He says nothing in return, and Aubrey suddenly feels very conscious of her weight in the grass, of her hair, of how little time she’s known Raphael. She says, “Sorry if this was intense.”
“What do you mean?”
“This speech. I wasn’t trying to make you feel any sort of way. I’ve just had a lot of time to think about those things.”
“It’s okay,” he shrugs, but he’s not looking at her. “The unintended pun made up for it.”
Aubrey laughs. Raphael adds, “Don’t apologize for speaking your mind and such. I think you owe it to yourself to do it.”
“Right. Thank you. Sometimes I think I owe it to myself to shut up.”
“Why do you say that?”
Aubrey tugs her sweater tighter around her torso, maybe to shield herself from the breeze, maybe because it makes breathing a little easier.
She squints in the wind. The evening smells bright and her mind feels crisp.
Tentatively, she says out loud a thought she often keeps to herself.
“It’s just, sometimes I think I wouldn’t be where I am today if I just kept it to myself.
Maybe I wouldn’t skew things in the same direction over and over and over. ”
“Is it so bad, where you are today?”
She looks at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. But it’s fine that you bring it up. It’s part of who you are.”
“Seems a lot of guys think it’s a red flag.”
“Then they’re not the guys for you.” Raphael says this very casually, as if it’s a no-brainer.
Aubrey sinks into his words as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard them.
She’s told them to herself before, but it never quite echoes the same as when someone else tells you the things you won’t allow yourself to believe.
“I guess not,” is all she can think to respond.
Then he stands and holds his hand out to help her up, and just like that, they make their way back.
As they walk, they talk more about life, how dizzying it is that they got to today so fast, how odd is it to realize your parents are people, too, that everyone’s just experiencing life for the first time, and the challenge of not stewing in the shame of messing up your first steps into adulthood.
Raphael speaks of breaking his first serious girlfriend’s heart, how differently he should’ve acted.
Aubrey confesses she’s still not quite confident in knowing who she is, that she’s yet to find a way not to bend the edges of herself when she wants other people to like her.
It’s easy to talk to him, maybe because they walk in the dark and their voices mix in with the steady roll of the water, and it feels like nothing is permanent, like their words are fleeting and temporary.
Aubrey tries very hard not to think about it, or overthink about it, and she listens to his voice and nods along and she wonders, once again, if this is how it’s meant to feel.
In the curve of his smile and the tone of his voice, she tries to find the familiarity of a spark. All she knows is she feels good, walking around quaint Lunenburg like this, and she doesn’t mind doing it by Raphael’s side. Maybe she’d be inclined to do it again.
He offers to walk her home, and when she insists it’s not necessary, he laughs and points out that he already knows the place anyway, and it’s on his way back. Aubrey scrunches her nose and lets him walk her to Louise’s.
On the curb, they stand in front of each other with their arms crossed, maybe because it’s cold, maybe because this is never the smoothest part.
“This was nice,” Aubrey says.
Raphael nods in agreement and replies, “Really nice, yeah.”
She inhales deeply and the fresh air is her favourite thing, at this very moment. She hears herself say, “We should do it again soon.”
“Mhm, yeah. Lunenburg’s not done growing on you.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I’d like to think there’s a lot more to it.”
“Well, great, yeah. I’ll hold you to that.”
It feels weird to meet his eye, so Aubrey drops her gaze to the ground instead, but she knows she’s smiling much too wide. He laughs again and says, “We’ll plan something, then.”
“Sounds good.”
When she looks back up, he’s walking away with his hand raised in a wave. She watches him for a second, his back highlighted by overhead streetlights, crisp shadows, and orange glow. Then she turns and heads up to the door.
A day goes by, then another. Aubrey changes her mind about writing to him first at least twenty times.
She types messages and erases them, convincing herself he’s busy, and why wouldn’t he reach out, after he said he’d want to see her again, and why would it be a big deal if he waited three days?
She distracts herself with folding linens and making up rooms for new guests, but much too often she checks her phone and finds it blank.
She’s off her game when Arthur comes with a delivery, her head half in a haze of worry, and she points at the pantry when he picks up a bag of frozen peas from the boxes.
“Big weekend?” Arthur teases on his way past her.
She hums in response. He tells her about something that happened to him the day before, an amusing bit about a vengeful seagull.
She forgets to listen. She also forgets to answer when he insists to know if she’s alright.
Later, Louise tells Aubrey that Arthur’s told her he was concerned for her.
This time she laughs and says only, “Come on.” Louise drops it.
On day three, Aubrey decides she’s a woman of her time and writes to Raphael first, asking how he’s been and when he’d be free to hang out again.
She feels like a teenager. She erases five drafts of her three-line message before she convinces herself to press send.
Then she hides her phone under a cushion in the living room and tells herself she won’t check again until she’s done vacuuming.
He still hasn’t replied by evening, and then the next day. She lasts almost half a day before she decides maybe she’ll send him another message just to make sure all is well. Just to wipe away the unsettling feeling in her chest and her compulsive need to check for new notifications.
After that, when she wants to text him, she sits and writes a long, excruciating email to Louise instead.
She feels good knowing she won’t send it—lamentations about another failure, thoughts of hiding her secret like a shameful, ugly thing, desperate pleas for Louise to tell her what she’s doing wrong in life.
The words pour out of her in dizzying waves.
The draft joins the other in its folder.
On day nine, she deletes Raphael’s number off her phone. And she wonders how come she hasn’t learned yet.