Chapter Nine #3
“I feel… everything about it. Desperate, sometimes hopeful, and then desperate again. Pathetic. Terrified. To me, love is... everything. Not in a disillusioned way or whatever. Just, I don’t think life makes much sense without it.
It’s the driving force of what makes us human.
Your family, your friends. Your lover. I’ve never experienced it but it’s like my body craves it anyway, you know?
Like my instinct screams for it, and I’ve no idea what I’m doing so wrong that I can’t get my hands on it. ”
It’s overwhelming, seeing yourself reflected so clearly in someone else. Quietly, all Aubrey finds to say in return is, “Yeah.”
Florence takes another sip and turns to smile at the others for a moment. Then she returns her gaze, but she keeps quiet still.
Aubrey adds, “That’s exactly how I feel, yeah.”
They share a smile that must look exactly the same. Florence folds one leg under herself on the booth to angle herself toward Aubrey. “Can I tell you something else?”
“Absolutely, yeah.”
“I’ve never been with anyone, like, at all. Physically, too.” She lets a second pass. Her brows draw in a frown. “Should I say it in other words?”
Aubrey rushes to say, “No, no, it’s fine,” with a quick nod. “I get it.” She watches her new friend for a second. It’s hard to gauge what she’s expected to say. She confesses, “I have.”
Florence seems disappointed, but not too much. “Good, yeah. Do you mind if I ask how it went? Not in a weird way. Just… you know.”
It would be an odd question coming from anyone else.
It would be an odd question for any ten-minute conversation.
But it doesn’t feel odd. Florence is actually listening, itching for an answer.
So Aubrey says, honestly, “Disappointing. Every time it’s happened, really.
Not that—you know, it’s only been a few times.
Maybe I don’t learn my lessons very fast. But it hasn’t been what I expected it to be.
It’s not terrible. I’m sure it would be great with the right person. ”
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better.”
Aubrey laughs, not because it’s funny but because she can’t guess what Florence might possibly want to hear. She honestly doesn’t know what to say other than the truth. “I swear.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Arthur reappear, so she scoots over to give him space in the booth.
He sets her drink down without a word and immediately joins in on the conversation happening across the table.
They share only a smile. Aubrey takes a long sip from her drink.
Condensation already forms on the glass.
“If I’m honest,” she says to Florence, quieter now so Arthur doesn’t hear, “I think you’re better off waiting. I don’t see how the experience wouldn’t get better the longer you wait for the right moment. I don’t know anyone who’s had the best sex of their life as a teenager.”
“It’s just that I change my mind about it every other week, it feels like.
These days I’m good on waiting, I don’t mind.
I mean, I can take care of myself. But then sometimes I feel like I should get it over with the next guy I meet.
And other times I get this overwhelming feeling it’ll never happen at all, this certainty that it couldn’t possibly ever happen now. ”
“You know what I think sucks about this?”
Florence rests her head against the back of the booth. In her fingers, she twirls the end of her braid. “Tell me.”
“I don’t think advice sticks when we want it to.
I want to say, think about it less. And that’s impossible.
I want to say that the right guy won’t mind, but I don’t really know, do I?
And I want to say that you’ll be fine, and that it’s worth the wait and that it’ll happen.
But I know it’s all just guesswork. And I know you already do the guessing. ”
“Yeah.” Florence is smiling now. She doesn’t seem too worried by what Aubrey is saying.
“I think you’re right, but I also don’t think I agree with all of it.
Because I do like to hear you say this, even if we both know it might not be true.
I like that you get it. Maybe advice doesn’t stick, but understanding does.
Sometimes being told you’re not alone is plenty. ”
“Mm. Maybe I just feel like if I could help you, then I could help myself. Like if I manage to find the right words for you, I could hear them as well.”
The bar is busy around them and music booms from the speakers overhead. The walls are dark green and there’s wood everywhere, an almost overwhelming amount. People are playing darts across the room, and once in a while there’s a hoot and a cheer. The decor has heavy marine influences.
“I think all we can do is keep talking,” Florence says. “And maybe at some point we’ll listen to ourselves.”
Aubrey takes another swig and she finds the idea comforting and amusing. She nods along and says, “Well, shit. This is all very wise.”
“Wise is a good word. I usually go for ’heavy’.”
“We never really take advice as it comes, that’s the thing.
Sometimes we do, but most of the time we don’t really want to hear it.
We’ve got such strong ideas and convictions, and so often we just want to see those reflected back by someone else more than anything else.
We just want to hear, oh, yes, you’re right.
Or, don’t worry, it’ll probably be the best-case scenario in the end.
He’s just busy, he’ll text back soon. Relationships are meant to suck a little, you’re right, fighting all the time is healthy.
So when we get advice that contradicts us, it’s so hard to take it and say, oh, I agree, I’ve changed my mind.
It doesn’t happen right away. It’s slow, and then one day you wake up and realize that you think that way now.
You’ve internalized it, and you look back and wonder how you were so silly to think otherwise.
I think it’s inevitable. That’s what makes me feel better about this whole thing, usually.
I think one day I’ll wake up, and there’ll be someone by my side and I’ll think, how silly I was to worry so much.
And time will have passed, and I’ll think, oh, I shouldn’t have spent all this time so concerned about the future, because now it’s gone, and I’m here. ”
“And do you really believe that, at the very core of things?” Florence asks.
Aubrey snorts into her drink. “God, no.” Both of them laugh. “But I say it to myself, so that’s got to count for something. And then one day I’ll wake up and I’ll believe it.”
Florence leans over Aubrey’s shoulder. “Have you been listening in?” she asks, and Aubrey twists in her seat to find Arthur surprised to get called out.
“Will you believe me if I say no?” he winces, but he doesn’t seem very sorry.
“It’s very personal stuff we were discussing.”
Arthur is looking away to escape Florence’s eye. He scratches at the hint of stubble on his jaw and offers pitifully, “I know, yeah. It was brilliant though. I did try not to listen in.”
“Did you really?”
“Yes, but not very hard.” He turns to Aubrey and offers, “Sorry for the invasion of privacy.”
She’s surprised by the apology, by the thought that this would even be a problem at all. She’s so used to discussing these things with anybody, really. And Arthur isn’t even anybody.
“We’re at a bar,” she says, as if to excuse him.
“I liked what you were saying.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.”
Then it gets quiet, and Aubrey isn’t really sure what to say.
Arthur’s smile says a lot without saying anything at all, and then he turns to chat with his friends sitting across the table.
Aubrey lingers for just a moment, like she might want to keep talking to him and she’d have more to say, always, but she can’t decide what she’d start with or even how she’d form a coherent thought.
So she turns back to Florence, who waits eagerly to resume the conversation.
They talk of their pets, and high school, and knowing themselves inside and out from being on their own for so long, and how hard it will be to make space for someone else in their routine.
They agree it’s so hard watching friends weave in and out of relationships, and getting older in a world oversaturated with opinions, information, advice.
Arthur acts as a sort of volunteer facilitator between the two of them, inserting himself sporadically into the conversation to say things like, “Did you know Flo’s dog is named Rémi?
” and “Aubrey’s got to be the hardest working person I know, I swear, she’s basically managing this entire inn on her own. ”
When they look over at him, he retracts and waves a hand as if to say, forget I’m here. Then he returns to some other chat, and the two girls share a knowing look and pretend nothing’s happened.
It’s a couple hours later when the group starts to split up, bidding each other goodbye as the empty glasses pile up in the middle of the table. Arthur turns to Aubrey and asks, quietly and only to her, “You heading home? I can walk you there.”
It’s sweet and casual, like she could say no if she wanted to and he’d simply shrug and say, okay, no worries.
Arthur always sounds like this, like he couldn’t possibly have any agenda, is just a genuinely sweet guy.
He’s an odd kind of mirror for Aubrey, reflecting back the assumptions she wasn’t aware she had of people, of men.
Just because it’s dark, and just because she feels like it, she says, “Yeah, sure.”