Chapter Fourteen #3
This, Aubrey finds funny. “You should get that printed on something.”
“I might actually consider that.”
Aubrey lets her head roll back against the seat as they pull away from the curb. “Arthur doesn’t really like me that way. We’re barely friends.”
“Oh, yeah, I know you feel that way. It’s why I didn’t say anything. I don’t think it’s a big deal, really. Artie gets crushes by the handfuls.”
“Mm.” Aubrey rests her chin in the dip of her hand.
Through the window, the city flashes by and the road blurs in a mess of white, yellow, and red lights.
There’s a feeling in the pit of her stomach she can’t quite identify.
It feels like she might be sick, or maybe the air in the car is a bit weird.
“It’s pretty funny,” she says after a moment.
“Is it?”
The glass is cool where it touches Aubrey’s forehead. “Maybe I’ll talk to him about it.”
Florence clicks the radio on just loud enough to fill the background of their conversation. “Ah! You’re braver than I am.”
Aubrey snorts. “I don’t think I actually will. But I like to think I’d be this brave, nonchalant woman who doesn’t mind discussing unrequited feelings with her male friends.”
“So it is unrequited, then.”
There’s a moment of silence. Aubrey frowns at the window. Outside, the city grows more distant. “Is that even a question?” she asks.
“It’s fine if you like him,” Florence says. “He’s a great guy.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not trying to pry or convince you or anything. It’s not my place to weigh in.”
“Right. He is a great guy. I just don’t see him that way.”
“That’s fine, yeah. I figured as much.” When Aubrey looks over, she meets Florence’s eye and they share a smile. Florence adds, “Imagine how funny that would be, being single for so long only for it to end with Artie.”
Aubrey rolls her eyes at the soft grey ceiling of the car. “I think the humour’s lost on me here.”
“Mm.” Florence taps her index finger on the steering wheel. “It might just be that I’ve known him too long.”
“Maybe.”
They fall silent. Aubrey wants to pull out her phone and see if Arthur texted her, but it feels weird now, like she doesn’t know what to think, and she knows Florence will notice, and none of it feels natural from this moment on.
It’s what she hates about her relationship with romance—it colours everything in such a careful light, highlighting every little detail with a scrutiny she’s never been good at navigating.
How hyper-aware she is now of the words she chooses, of other people’s thoughts she’s so desperate to guess even though she can’t possibly get them right.
How she always says she won’t change who she is to appeal to anyone, but she inadvertently does it anyway, constantly, so often that she’s not sure most of the time who she really is in the end.
She’s only known about this for five minutes, and already she wonders how she should act around Arthur the next time they see each other, what she should say, what he might think.
Of course she’s wondered if she liked him, especially with Louise being Louise, saying the things she did.
It’s been almost an act of rebellion, maintaining a platonic eye.
Aubrey’s just always felt there wasn’t a spark there, at least not anything romantic.
Not for her. He’s sweet, but his presence is just this.
Sweet, and nice. Because of this she was careful not to imagine that Arthur would ever see her in a different light. Her head spins at the thought.
She’s always found it so unrealistic, this sort of thing in movies, where everyone seems aware of feelings that a character or two are oblivious to, and you sit there and think surely no one would ever be so blind. They’d have to have ignored the signs on purpose.
Maybe she did do it on purpose. Maybe it was obvious, maybe she didn’t want to see it, she’s not sure. Nothing feels clear now, and she sits there and can’t decide what to do next, or think, or feel.
“This is so weird,” she breaks the silence after a while. Her eyes sting. The movement of the car is lulling her to sleep.
“Do you think I shouldn’t have told you about it?”
“No, no, it’s fine. I think.”
When Aubrey looks over, she finds Florence’s lips taut and her eyebrows drawn. She’s watching the road intently. “I might be wrong, you know. Maybe I’m reading into it.”
“Okay.”
“Does that help?”
“A little.” It doesn’t. Not at all. Aubrey can’t ignore the drop in her stomach, the strange feeling in her gut she pretends very hard isn’t disappointment. She tells herself it’s because it’s nice to feel attractive, knowing that someone might want you.
“I’m just you’re right,” she says, and she knows she doesn’t like what she’s saying as the words leave her lips. “It’s probably nothing.”
She decides then she’s in one of those movies, where she doesn’t know what this means, and Arthur is just a friend, and she’s just his friend.
She doesn’t check her phone for a message from him when she gets home. She goes straight to bed instead.