Page 76 of Later Bloom

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.”