Chapter Twenty-One
“Jesus,” Louise groans. “The whole year’s gone already.”
In the passenger seat, Aubrey studies the faces of people roaming the sidewalks, searching for familiar features, someone she might recognize. “Afraid so,” she says. Her breath fogs up the window of Louise’s frigid car. “Have you made any plans to ring in the New Year, then?”
She flashes Aubrey a smile, and they share a look for a second, like they’re thinking the same.
But Aubrey herself doesn’t even know what she’s thinking.
As they pull into the driveway, she pulls out her phone to let Florence know she’s made it.
For a second, she considers writing to Arthur, but she feels weird reaching out to him now.
Like maybe he doesn’t want to speak to her anymore.
It feels good stepping in the house again, though it’s as biting as the winter air and as creaky and dingy as ever. Aubrey draws in a long inhale as Louise says, “Well, welcome home everyone.” She sounds tired.
They discuss the vague possibility of dinner and agree to figure it out later, which most likely means they’ll starve, to Aubrey’s understanding.
Up in her room, she sits on the perfectly made bed and looks around for a second, just in case.
Maybe there’d be a sign of Arthur’s passage somewhere, something just a little out of place, or accidentally left behind.
She unpacks her journal first and sets it on the bedside table. The rest can wait.
Florence writes back a string of exclamation points and celebratory profanities, and Aubrey asks about her plans for the evening.
Florence has to have something planned, with the others possibly, at the bar or at her place.
Aubrey changes into a different sweater as she waits.
She hopes for an excuse to head out and find a hint of what she had here before she left a few weeks earlier.
After a minute her phone buzzes. Florence’s voice rises from the speaker.
“Hi, sorry, I’m shooting a house right now, it’s a bit hard to text!
I’m really close to the inn, actually. Are you there now? ”
“Yes, we just got in.” Aubrey stares at the ceiling. Her phone sits next to her on the bed. “You’re working on New Year’s Eve?”
“What kind of world do you live in, where I can turn down paying work just because we’re about to symbolise another turn around the sun?”
“Very fair question. Probably a distant, distorted world, where I stay at my aunt’s place for free in exchange for cleaning up other people’s linens.”
“Mm. Yours sounds sort of awful, actually.”
Aubrey laughs. “It’s not that bad.” She smiles because it’s true—it’s not that bad, not ideal but not terrible, much like Florence’s gig, and Maggie’s, and most people she knows.
This is an amusing part of adulthood, where everyone compares their annoyance with the inherent flaws of life, and huffs and complains but ultimately insists that it’s not that bad, actually.
That it could be worse, and maybe they wouldn’t change it even if they could, because even when you turn over the better options, you notice the cracks and the hidden snags at their core, and nothing is really perfect unless you make it so.
She used to love the idea of selling candles until she threw up in the back store from a bad headache.
She used to envy Maggie’s position until she sat and watched her friend cry over an article that ultimately would hardly pay for her internet bill.
“Anyway,” Florence says, “I was just calling about tonight—would you believe I’m staying in?”
“I don’t think I would.” Aubrey’s disappointment is hard to conceal. “If it’s because you were busy grieving my absence, I’m back now.”
“Haha—listen, sorry, I’m actually running. I was just calling to say I’m staying home and all, and you should be proud because you’ve actually inspired me, you know. To be more of a hermit.”
“Ah. Flattering.”
“And I wanted to hear your voice and be the first to welcome you back! I also thought it’d take too long to type out a message, but now this is actually taking longer.”
“Should I just hang up? I’m very thrown off by you telling me I inspired you.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just multitasking.
” There’s an echo when Florence talks, and the sound of loud footsteps—the house she’s taking pictures of must be empty.
In the background there’s another voice, probably the realtor.
“I don’t know how to explain it. I just think I want to be a little more like you, I think.
Mindful of my time, protective of my peace, that kind of thing. ”
“Okay.” Aubrey isn’t sure how to word this. “Well, great. You do know I’m not actually good at doing those things, right? That in my head I’m just mostly lonely and unpopular most of the time?”
“Oh, that’s very nearly the same. But when we’re our age it’s not like that, no one is popular. We’re just more confident in ourselves, and we value our time.”
“Because we feel it’s running out, or what?”
“Probably something like that. Listen, okay, now I’ve really gotta run. But I’ll call you tonight, if I’m not sleeping already—”
“Flo, for fuck’s sake.”
Florence interrupts herself with a laugh, then continues, “—but tomorrow we should grab coffee, yeah? I’ve got nothing planned.”
She sounds rushed, and Aubrey feels she’s got no time to think about it. “Sure, yes. We’re setting up the inn in the morning, and I think we’ve got a couple checking in, but I can make time for that, of course.”
“Good. Happy new year, by the way. I’ve got so much to tell you, oh, my god. Tomorrow, yeah?”
The line clicks before Aubrey can say another word. When silence returns, she hears Louise talking on the phone from the floor below. She’s asking about last-minute help, and how fast things can move, and her voice travels closer as her footsteps climb up the stairs.
“Let me just check something, hold on,” she’s saying when her face appears in Aubrey’s doorway. Louise nudges her chin at her and asks, “Can you sign for a delivery from Arthur early tomorrow morning?”
Though the question catches Aubrey off-guard, something stirs in her chest. “You’re making him come over on New Year’s Day?”
“We’ve got a couple checking in tomorrow, and then two more the day after. I’m guessing people want a quick weekend getaway before they start work again, I don’t know. And we’ll be doing a little soirée tomorrow night for a few people. We need food. Whole kitchen’s empty.”
“You don’t have to make Arthur come in for that. I can swing by the shop.”
“Shops are closed tomorrow, he’s the only one who can get us anything—can you do it or not?”
“Sure, okay. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Louise turns a little so she’s in profile and says on the phone, “Aubrey’ll be there. You’ll call her to let her know you’re coming in, yes?”
Aubrey unzips her bag and begins to unpack hastily packed clothes to pretend her attention is elsewhere, but really she’s listening very closely. Sound is coming from the phone, but no distinct words. Louise says, “Good, okay then. Happy new year, Artie.”
Before she can talk herself out of it, Aubrey says, “Tell him the same from me.”
Louise says, “Mm?” Then, “Aubrey says happy New Year as well, did you hear that? Okay. Yeah, bye.”
Aubrey waits. She’s standing at the foot of the bed now. Louise starts making her way back to the stairs, and on her way down she calls, “He says happy New Year to you, too.”
Aubrey doesn’t end up setting foot outside the house for the night.
Instead, she sits in the living room with Louise, and they go over the changes they need to make over the next few weeks—ideas for a Valentine’s Day event, what they can put together before the busy season picks up.
They don’t talk explicitly about Aubrey’s presence and the one-year mark, but in the way they speak, the future is far away and very blurry, and Aubrey likes it.
Things feel good with Louise. Her aunt is so different from the picture she’d carefully nursed of her over the past decade—much sharper, more foreign than the idealistic mirage Aubrey used to cling to.
Louise is more than a mysterious, wise woman still single in her fifties—she’s a high achiever who’s yet to learn to set reasonable boundaries, in her work and in her words and in her heart, too.
A woman who dreams wildly and gets distracted easily.
A woman who strives to maintain an image that frays at the seams but weathers the storms. Nursing a heartbreak of twenty years.
A tough, free-spirited, ambitious woman who wants to try everything, conquer everything, though she changes her mind with the seasons.
Who moved here two decades earlier and refuses to regret it.
At midnight, they get up from the couch and hug in the middle of the living room. On the TV, people are cheering. Louise says, “Happy new year, sweetheart. I wish you so much love this year.”
Aubrey feels her jaw tense up when she bites back her own heart. With a careful laugh, she responds, “You’re one to talk, huh.”
Then they pour themselves a glass of cider, clink flutes together in the kitchen, and head up to bed at a quarter past midnight. Aubrey doesn’t check her phone before she falls asleep. She tells herself it’s a new resolution. She’s scared she won’t see the name she hopes for on her screen.
When Louise leaves early the next morning, Aubrey lays very still in bed until she hears the front door close.
When she gets up she pretends not to overthink her outfit choice.
Her bed ends up a mess of discarded options she can’t be bothered to put away yet.
It’s still dark outside. The clock reads five-something.
At least she’s somewhat unpacked now. In the end she settles on the one sweater she always falls back on, the kind you know looks good no matter what, that you can’t regret wearing.
It’s soft and flattering in the small of her waist, a nice cream colour.