Chapter Seventeen
She’s not really sure why. Maybe because last week she’d thought about Simon for the first time in a long while, and it made her feel weird.
Like she still can’t make sense of the thoughts in her head, can’t make a real mature adult out of herself or handle situations she should’ve figured out by now.
Maybe it’s because she fears suddenly that she won’t have anything to say to him, which is ridiculous. They’ve never run out of things to talk about.
They’d kept each other updated on their respective weeks through quick but regular messages over the last few days. She always had something to say, and he actually knows how to hold a conversation.
Aubrey had told Maggie about the holiday celebration, but only in so many words, with a picture of her outfit to get enthusiastic approval and maybe not invite any further questions.
This is pretty much how things are right now between them.
They talk less often and less deeply, about things that don’t matter that much, which is why they feel nice.
It scares Aubrey to feel so distant from the anchor Maggie’s been for her.
They’ve gone through these phases in the past and always returned to each other, but sometimes the present is too strikingly new to mold itself into familiar patterns.
They haven’t talked on the phone in a while.
For once, Aubrey misses hearing about Maggie’s dating life.
She itches to feel a rush of envy, a pang of jealousy.
When she knocks on Florence’s door at half-past six, on the top floor of an old brick building that had looked surreal from the street as she’d walked up, her shoulders are covered in snow and her fingers have grown numb.
She breathes in deeply. Laughter and conversation echo from inside, heels on the floor and festive music.
The door opens to reveal a beaming Florence, with bright red cheeks and a shiny tiara on her head.
“Oh, hell yes,” she says, dragging Aubrey inside.
They hug clumsily in the entryway, chins on each other’s shoulders.
“How’ve you been?” Aubrey asks. A few people are already here, waving to her from across the room.
She recognizes them from late autumn outings at the pub and the waterfront.
The apartment is one big open area, with a long sofa and a few chairs set in a wide circle.
Florence flashes a tired but content smile when she pulls away. “Exhausted from the second I woke up.” She seems a little distant, but only in the way hosts do, like she’s got so many things to think about it’s hard to make space for more. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she sighs.
“I brought this.” Aubrey hands over a small gift bag covered in a reindeer pattern and some fake snow. “It’s nothing, really, just spices for the kitchen.”
“Oh, wow.” Florence’s face splits into a grin. “So you’re a gift spoiler, then?”
“Ah, sorry! I didn’t think.” Aubrey laughs it off weakly. Her cheeks are growing hot. “I just thought it’s such an adult thing to give. I’ve never bought spices for anyone before. I thought surely I should mention it right away. In case you got your hopes up.”
Florence grows yet more amused. “You’re giving away too much information on my amazing spices!”
“It was Arthur’s idea.”
“Aubrey! Stop. Just, thank you.” Florence’s gaze searches her face now, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Are you tipsy?”
“What? Obviously not.”
“Are you sure?”
Aubrey slips off her coat, suddenly very aware of her every movement, and whether they would appear normal. “I’ve hardly had a glass of wine. I’m not tipsy.” She winces. Incriminating words.
“A glass of wine? Naughty.” Florence grabs the coat, and the bag, and suddenly Aubrey is empty-handed except for the other small present she still carries in her right hand. “Why didn’t you come here to drink instead?”
“Just for nerves. Louise said I looked tense.” She says it without thinking, her attention already wandering off.
“Tense?” They head to the kitchen on the left, a small, cluttered space that feels very lived-in. Too many mugs sit on the counter and a candle burns next to the sink. The narrow island is covered in finger foods and the stovetop vanishes under pans of cookies. “What’s fraying your nerves?”
Aubrey smiles at the people that meet her eye and tries very subtly to study the room, who’s there yet and who isn’t. She doesn’t remember now what time Arthur had said he’d get here. When she turns to her friend again, Florence says smugly, “Oh, alright.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Can I get you something to drink, then, or are you good for now?” Florence motions at a crowd of champagne flutes sitting on one corner of the island. Then she leans in to add, “Go for it. I’ve got all the liquid courage you need.”
“I’m a bit lost now,” Aubrey admits pitifully.
“Mm. Well there’s no being nervous at my party. This is a fun time, yeah? Holiday cheers and all that.”
The champagne—or the sparkling wine, Aubrey doesn’t care much to figure out the difference—fizzes on her tongue and tickles her throat. She breathes in deep, then out. She wants to ask if Arthur’s there yet. She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Thanks for having us over.”
“Well, someone has to. Come and talk with everybody.”
There’s a girl there that Aubrey doesn’t recognize, younger than the rest of the group. Aubrey goes to ask Florence who she is, but then two things happen at once—the door opens to reveal a head of blonde hair, and Florence vanishes from Aubrey’s side to join a different conversation.
This leaves Aubrey standing there staring at Arthur, who’s knocking snow from his boots and shaking off a long, brown coat. He’s yet to look up and see her. She drinks more champagne, breathes once again, and weaves her way over to him.
“I blew it with the spices,” she says very quietly.
He’s smiling when he looks up. “What happened?”
“It’s not a very good story.” She shifts from one foot to the other. Her cheeks have yet to cool. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Sure, okay.” He hands over a bottle of red wine. He’s tall and imposing against the door, and when he hangs his coat on the hanger, Aubrey says, “Jesus.”
He looks back with concern. “What’s that?”
“You’re dressed in a shirt.”
“Of course I am.”
“I’ve never seen you in one of those.”
He looks over at her, very quickly. “Well, I’ve seen you in dresses. It doesn’t make this any less special.”
“Oh.” Aubrey looks down at the dark green velvet of her dress. She’s wearing black stockings and black shoes, and her jewellery is gold and cheap, meant to be looked at from afar. “Thank you?”
“I’m saying you look good.”
“Well, so do you.”
He nods politely. He seems serious, formal. “Thank you.”
Aubrey points out, without thinking, “You didn’t bring anyone tonight.” She’s not sure why she pointed it out. It felt she had to say it out loud.
Arthur seems surprised. “I tried to bring you.”
The air feels more tense suddenly. Aubrey offers, “I got you something, anyway.” She smiles.
Her hair is very hot at the nape of her neck, and she feels very relieved now that Arthur is here.
At least she’s got someone to talk to, someone to share this night with.
It feels silly not having accepted the ride he’d offered her now.
She can’t tell him that, obviously. But there’s a lot she’d like to tell him, about how happy she is to see him, how glad she was that he invited her. But things are so strange and hazy.
She holds her minuscule bag out to him. His hands are still full, but he pauses and makes space to grab it anyway, with a small smile and a grunt.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Of course I’m not going to tell you.”
“Maybe you would’ve,” he smiles to himself. “Sometimes I just blurt it out without thinking.” He pulls out the dark green silk paper, and then an intricate geometric block of wood, with sharp angles and lines running through it.
“It’s a puzzle,” Aubrey explains quickly. “For when you get bored on deliveries and such.”
Arthur studies the small puzzle very closely, with a looming, distant kind of smile.
Aubrey adds, “You said you liked puzzles.”
Almost to himself, he nods. “I did say that, yeah.”
“There’s something else.”
He digs to find a smaller mesh bag, filled with chocolate sweets that are a little hard to distinguish from one another. “I baked,” Aubrey explains.
“Really?”
She nods, and he teases, “With the stuff I bring you, huh?”
This makes Aubrey laugh, a welcome relief. It’s been a few weeks since he’s made a delivery. She assumes that most of his customers have slowed down on their orders this time of year. She’s been exploring the local grocery store instead now. It’s bright and loud. She doesn’t like it very much.
Arthur asks, “How’s it been with Louise?”
He always checks in. He knows it’s been a challenge—Louise is busy and distant, and already, it seems, less interested in the inn.
Aubrey is scared to bring it up, but sometimes she tries to suggest plans for next summer, to gauge what the next year might hold, Louise’s ambition to keep the momentum going.
Already, Louise’s mind is wandering to the next thing, Aubrey can tell.
The problem is, Aubrey’s not ready to think about the next thing, not yet.
In a few months she’s meant to head home, and it terrifies her.
She misses Maggie every day, but she doesn’t miss her apartment, or feeling lost and watching the days go by, terrified that she’s not seizing them as she should.
Here the days go by, too, but it’s what they ought to do.
It’s nice to sit and watch, and it doesn’t feel scary—it only feels beautiful.
But Louise said a year, and of course Aubrey ought to return to real life.
Figure out a real plan and kick her life into gear again and stop wasting time here, watching seasons pass by and thinking how pretty they are.