Chapter Twenty-One #3
“Oh, well.” Aubrey laughs, mostly out of disbelief that this moment is real, that she’s here, now.
Arthur is standing there, looking at her, and nothing about it is out of place.
Nothing rings like an anecdote, like a moment waiting to falter into an ending.
Aubrey says, “That’s good to hear.” And what a relief it is to confess. How earnestly she means it.
“I guess I’m just so aware of all the things you don’t know about me yet. And I didn’t want to let myself hope—”
“Arthur. Jesus. I’ve said I like you. I know enough. Would you be talking differently if I’d been in two, three relationships before? I can pretend I have, if it’s any easier. Let’s say the first guy was named, uh, Bob. The other was Bill.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
She hits him in the chest, though weakly.
“I’m just saying,” she insists. “Let me decide if I’m willing to get hurt.
I’ve had a lot of time to think. Too much of it, probably.
So let me be sure about this.” As if she has any say in how she feels.
As if any of this is in her control. The way she looks at him, thinks of him, dreams of him.
The way her cheeks burn and her mind reels.
“You’ve never even seen my place,” he argues, but he’s smiling, though he seems to be fighting against it. “And you don’t know the shows I watch, or what a sore loser I am.”
“Fine.” She’s so nervous she can feel it in her throat, her ears, her fingers, but she’s also never felt so certain, so safe. “Let me decide if I’d like to go on a single date with you, then.”
He cracks in a grin. “That sounds reasonable,” he says, like he’s gone a bit shy.
“Just know I’ll be wondering the whole time when we’ll have our first kiss. Even though I’ve never seen your place, and I don’t know what shows you watch.”
“Ah. I’ll keep that in mind.” He turns to fish his phone out of his pocket and taps through a couple of tabs.
Soft piano fills the room, in terrible quality.
It’s a holiday melody. Arthur sets his phone down and takes Aubrey’s hand in his.
His other palm comes to rest on her hip.
“I think you were right,” he says, quietly.
They stand so close. Aubrey thinks for a second this must look like something out of a movie, except it doesn’t feel like it—in the movies the emotion is ironed to perfection, letting you sit and simmer in the narrative without much room for the exertion of thinking.
Now, here, all she does is think, and feel, and it’s messy and tugging at her in all directions.
“About which part?”
“When you said it was stupid of us not to talk about it. I knew you were right. I just think most of us are stupid.”
“It’s okay.” They dance slowly across the kitchen tile. It’s clumsy and off-beat. But Aubrey’s heart is big, nearly too big for her chest. “I’m glad I got to do the big declaration, actually. Very modern of us.”
“I know you don’t want me to see you any differently because of—well, you know.”
“Right.”
“But I do. I do see you differently. I think you’re fascinating, in your patience and your resilience, and—and so smart, in so many ways. And I think you deserve to be cared for, the proper way.”
Aubrey feels so bare now, under his eye. “All I want is a chance,” she whispers. Through the window the day stirs lazily. “It’s okay if this doesn’t work out. I just want to get my turn.”
“I know.” He draws her in against him. How perfectly they fit together. “It’d be an honour to give you your turn. I’ll try to make it a fun ride.”
“The bar is very low, you know. It’s all firsts from here on out. I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day. Never met parents, or—or shared a bed with anyone, now I think about it. God.” She drops her forehead to his chest as they spin around the little table. “I’ve really not done anything.”
When he laughs, the sound vibrates through Aubrey’s mind. It’s scary, how normal it feels to stand like this.
Arthur leans in so his chin rests against her temple. “Even better,” he says, quietly. They move in slow motion through the kitchen, not quite dancing, more swaying along to the tingle of their fingertips and the jitter of their hearts. “We can do it all and more.”
It’s the first time Aubrey’s heard this—even better—like she’s not lagging behind, not missing any core pieces, not damaged or impossible to love.
Somehow she’s even better. It doesn’t really matter at this moment what comes next.
She doesn’t care about telling people even if there’s a chance it won’t last. She doesn’t care about losing anything special, a piece of herself she’s been so desperate to hold onto, even though she might not have known it.
She doesn’t care about perceptions, getting it wrong, folding to expectations, any of it.
She cares about this, now. She’s tired of expecting the worst. There are so many things she’s yet to figure out that she can’t afford to lose what she’s sure of.
She’s been terrified of this moment, in the depths of herself, for fear it would mark the end of the story, but really it doesn’t feel like that at all.
If anything, it feels like the beginning of something equal to every other possibility, complementary and right on time.
Not better than its alternatives. Just right.
When they tilt their heads back, their eyes meet. Arthur’s mouth hovers close to Aubrey’s. He asks in barely more than a whisper, “Are you sure?”
To think about it would be a lie, a pretence to appear like she’s not entirely fallen for him already.
To protect herself in ways she doesn’t really want to.
Maybe later she would look back on this and laugh and say, what was I thinking?
Maybe it would seem ridiculous and naive, but she can’t even pretend to care now.
The best things in life can be ripped away with no warning, but indulging in them entirely and without restraint is human. And she’s tired of waiting to catch up.
“I’m sure,” she says.
And she cranes her neck until their lips touch, and she never wants to stop kissing him.