Page 77 of Later Bloom

“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.

It’s just past 6:00 when she crosses the yard over to the inn wearing nothing but boots and a scarf. The sun won’t be up for a bit still. It doesn’t really feel like a new year yet.

She’s just unlocked the door and stepped inside when her phone buzzes to announce a new message from Arthur.

It’s a very polite message, informing her he’ll be there in about fifteen, coming in through the back. And then dots pop up. He’s typing again. A second message appears.

It’ll be good to see you. Been gone too long.

Aubrey sets her phone down on the little kitchen table and turns on the light. Then she takes off her scarf, buries her face in her hands, and lets out a long, quiet groan against her palms. She looks at the phone again, then at her reflection in the little mirror hanging on the wall. Then her phone, then the back door, and she realizes she knows nothing. About herself, about Arthur, about this.

She’s been itching to get to the conclusion of this drawn-out cliffhanger, but even as she steps closer and closer, she can’t figure out what the ending is. Maybe she needs more time. The stories move fast, but she’s terrified to rush. To get it wrong. She keeps thinking about him heading over, and how he’s so clueless about how she’s feeling. Maybe it should stay this way. Then they would talk as usual and things would stay like this. It’s been hard standing still, but leaping forward feels even harder. Maybe she was a hypocrite when she confronted him about his feelings. She can’t be a hypocrite.

She takes a seat and stares at the time on the oven. After this is done, no matter what happens, she’ll write an email to Louise. Then maybe she’ll hit send on all of them. From last summer until now, so someone else can tell her she’s made the right moves, felt the right things.

The engine cut off outside and a door slam shut. Still, Aubrey jumps when a knock echoes through the kitchen.

She holds her breath, twists the frigid door handle, and exclaims, “Oh, hi!”

Outside, the sky is lightening in shades of pink and orange. The snow is fresh. Arthur is bundled up in thick layers, gloves, and a red hat. He’s holding a box, and he says, “Funny seeing you here.” He looks the same but not at all. His eyes are soft and his smile comfortable. Nothing about him is foreign.

Aubrey steps aside to let him in. She wants to talk about things that don’t matter, like how early it is, and he must be exhausted, and were there many people on the streets on his way here? Instead, she stands there as he sets his box down. When he turns back to her, he says, “I’ve only got two more of those. Louise said you didn’t need a huge amount of stuff.”

“Yes, right. Thank you for this, by the way. I told her I could go grocery shopping.”

“Didn’t want to see me much, then?” He’s smiling but he seems serious.

Aubrey clears her throat. It’s surprising how hard it is to hold his eye. “No, no, of course not. It’s just so early, and for only a few boxes. And it’s New Year’s Day.”

“Mm.” He steps over to the door again. Aubrey knows she’s watching him too closely. He says, “Give me a second then, this won’t take long.”

Before he’s out again, she asks, “Will you have time to stay for a bit, after? To talk?”

His mouth twitches in a smile. He drops his head in a nod. “Obviously.”

He brings in two more boxes and stacks them next to the pantry door. It’s like no time has passed at all, except there are little differences here and there—in the way he stands with his body turned a little further out, how he looks over to the side a lot, the hum in his voice before he speaks.

She offers him tea as he takes a seat at the table. The domestic routine they’ve established brings a knot to Aubrey’s throat. That, and what she can’t bring herself to say aloud.