Page 33 of Later Bloom

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.”

Arthur hugs Florence with one arm when they stand up from the booth, and the two of them talk of upcoming plans, reservations the following week, and the lift Arthur promised Florence to a house that weekend. “I can’t carry all the equipment uphill,” Florence explains to Aubrey. Florence juggles an impressive collection of gigs, night classes teaching English as a second language, plant sitting, dog walking, and on the weekends, she works as a real estate photographer. When she showed her phone to Aubrey and scrolled through an endless rainbow of colourful Victorian homes shot from all possible angles, Aubrey wondered why anyone would do anything other than real estate photography in this ridiculous little town.

Outside, they head in different directions. Arthur hangs by Aubrey’s side as they cross the street and wave the group goodbye. She feels a little nervous, she’s not sure why. The outside air is welcome in her lungs and nearly smells like fall. She should’ve brought a sweater. To Arthur, she says, “Thanks for the invite, tonight.”

“Oh, sure. I would’ve done it a while back but I didn’t want to frighten you or anything. Felt it might be a bit weird.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure now.”

“Florence is great,” Aubrey says. A peace offering. She watches Arthur’s smile grow in the dim light.

“She is, isn’t she? Thanks for talking to her.” They walk side by side. He has his hands in his pockets and he’s looking down at his feet, or at the houses around them. “I know it means a lot. She’s told me she gets lonely sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Again this urge to tell Arthur about things. “It’s been a while since I’ve really felt like myself around here, I think. But I had a great time tonight. Like I actually did something to get somewhere.”

“So I really should’ve invited you out sooner, then.” If Aubrey allowed herself, she’d shove him in the shoulder like a child. Instead she laughs softly.

“I’ve been having kind of a hard time since I got here, that’s all,” she confesses.

He doesn’t seem very shocked. “Okay. Tell me more about that, then.”

“Well, it scares me that there’s basically only two ways this year could end. Like I’m in this story, right, and either I end up exactly the same, or entirely different. And I’ve got all these things to figure out, like what I want to do, and where I’m heading, and what sort of life I want to lead, but none of this stuff feels as important as this one other thing. It’s all people seem to care about, my family, my friends at home, everyone I meet. They seem so concerned by the mere prospect I might not meet anyone this very second. Like it has anything to do with them, somehow. And no one’s asking how I’m doing with work, or everything else.”

Arthur makes a humming noise, but doesn’t say anything.

Aubrey continues, “So this year it feels like either I meet someone and join the rest of the love stories, and this is just a really long premise with this happy, predictable ending, and everyone wins, but it doesn’t feel like it’d be a win, for some reason. Like I’d just be following the path I ought to. Or I end up alone, and not much has changed, and the end comes when I head home and it’s just not been a very memorable story. It wouldn’t really be an inspiring lesson on independence, either, because it’s just life. And wouldn’t it also be so obvious of an ending, that I’d still be alone instead of following that arc we all expect? Perfectly ironic and just as expected? I don’t know. I just think this big move up here was meant to be special. A unique and memorable experience that would somehow alter the future of things forever. And then I got here and it’s not that, I don’t think. Sometimes it looks like a movie but it’s really still just life. And I can’t figure out what the story is for.”

“Mm.” For a short while neither of them says anything. The air is crisp and the silence is broken only by the sound of their footsteps. They make a left turn. In the windows around them, the lights are off. Arthur says, “I think maybe the thing is you’re not meant to set these deadlines on things. Maybe you’re just here, now. And that’s it.”

“Setting deadlines on things is all I do,” Aubrey argues. “And then the deadline passes, and I get disappointed, and I set another deadline.”

“That does sound fun.”

“I can’t help it.”

“No, I know. I think life is a lot of arbitrary deadlines, all the time. It’s hard not to think that way. But I don’t think it’s such a bad thing, that there might only be two ways this could go. Either you end up on your own at the end of this, or you don’t. There’ll be another year, anyway, so the end will only be for a second. And there’s nothing wrong with either outcome, is it?”

“Sure. But then it also feels like there’s something wrong with both outcomes.”

They walk slower than usual, but still Louise’s house grows close. The bedroom lights are still on, with Louise’s gauzy curtains drawn and windows open to let in the breeze. Aubrey hopes she won’t run into her aunt.

Arthur ventures, “It must get exhausting, all this thinking.”

His comment catches Aubrey off-guard. She guffaws, loud in the silent night. An answer all on its own. She adds, “I’m aware how this sounds. I don’t think I’m phrasing it the best I could.”