I certainly don’t wish her ill, but I can’t begin to express how relieved I was knowing I wouldn’t have to see her this weekend. I don’t know if that makes me a coward or an ass, but at that moment, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I felt as if the tides were turning in my favor. Then a giant wave came out of nowhere, picked me up and threw me against the rocks.
After frittering away my day of freedom, I impulsively decided to take my parents up on the dinner invitation they’d extended earlier in the week. I shaved, got dressed for dinner and made my way over to their place. When I arrived, my dad greeted me at the door, surprised to see me, but happy I was joining them because they had a guest joining the family—someone he’s wanted me to meet for a while.
Well, of course, because my life consists of one insanely fucked up nightmare after another, the dinner guest happened to be none other than Aubrey Price. Let me see if I can remember how my dad described her: bright, attractive, a lovely girl I’d have a lot in common with…
In a nutshell, my dad was standing there, telling me he wanted to set me up with the very girl I’ve been tripping over myself to avoid thinking inappropriately about for the past few weeks. What in the ever living fuck? I mean, seriously?
I was forced to explain to my dad that I couldn’t stay for dinner, and I CERTAINLY couldn’t buddy up with his dinner guest because Aubrey is in Martin’s class—in my class—and his plan to throw us together was completely out of the question! He lost it (understandably, I guess). My immediate reaction was to get the hell out of there, but it was too late. Mom intercepted us, dragged us into the front room, and then in walked Aubrey. She’d been in the powder room and had heard my entire exchange with my dad.
This is where the camera cuts to me, wishing the earth would swallow me whole. I sensed the most uncomfortable and embarrassing scene was about to unfold. After everything that happened last year, if my mother had known she was in the process of abetting my father as he tried to forge a match between me and one of Martin’s students, she would have had a frigging nervous breakdown. But just as I was about to fall off the curb into the path of a speeding bus, Aubrey grabbed my arm and pulled me back to safety. While my father, either genuinely dumbstruck, or simply playing dumb, failed to reveal what he now knew, I feigned ignorance as well, pretending to be meeting Aubrey for the first time, and God bless her, she went right along with the charade, sparing us all an ugly scene.
Sure, it was only a matter of time before my mother would have to be told, but thank Christ, it didn’t happen right there with the whole family in attendance. Mom and Dad sent us all off downstairs to enjoy ourselves before dinner, and I did what any hysterical man would do when, by awkward happenstance, he finds himself in the company of the beautiful young woman he wants most in the world but can’t have. I started drinking myself into oblivion.
As one does.
It was the worst thing I could have done, but it felt like the only way to cope. I mean, there was Aubrey Price, perching her perfect ass on a bar stool in our basement where I’ve sat a million times, and she was just hanging out, drinking a beer, chatting with Penny and my brothers, laughing at their antics…it was one of those clichéd “pinch me” moments.
Things got progressively stranger as the evening wore on. One minute Penny was telling me she’s met Aubrey before, on Valentine’s Day in the washroom of Canoe of all places, because Aubrey was there the same night we were there, with Matt as her date (cue my absolute shock and jealous rage which I proceeded to wash down with a half pint of Guinness). Then Aubrey was profusely denying ANY romantic attachment between she and Matt, which seemed to give Penny the green light to play matchmaker for Aubrey and me, using healthy doses of her trademark innuendo and irreverent humor (zoom in to an extreme close-up of my red-faced quasi-adolescent fumbling discomfort chased down with the other half pint of Guinness).
As for dinner, it was a farce. Terror stricken, I was incapable of chewing my food. I don’t think I ate a bite. Watching Aubrey field my mother’s questions without batting an eyelash, all under the watchful eye of my dad, was truly amazing, though. The girl’s unflappable. So while she was blithely navigating a Grant family dinner, I was drinking my face off. By the time we returned downstairs after dessert, I was feeling no pain whatsoever. That’s when things got a little blurry.
Jeremy was in his own world, Penny and Brad were pawing each other like horny teenagers, and in the midst of this, I was tossing back countless beers and getting more and more uninhibited with every passing minute. I don’t mean to use drinking as an excuse—there’s no excuse for my behavior—but as much as I tried to keep my wits about me, I had the hardest time keeping my eyes off Aubrey, entranced by her every move. Each time she lifted her beer bottle to her mouth and wrapped her lips around the rim, I was possessed with an unrelenting need to touch her. It was pure agony. So I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I offered to teach her to play snooker.
Obviously.
(This is the part of the evening where I decimated the “line” I was referring to earlier…)
The snooker “lesson” quickly went downhill. Inhibitions long abandoned and good judgment apparently out the window, I proceeded to launch into one thinly veiled innuendo after another. Then I touched her—slid my fingers along her arm, wrapped my hand around hers, disguising my movements as an attempt to teach her how to hold the cue. I was lost. The next thing I knew, I had Aubrey bent over the table and was leaning over her back, pressing against her, all under the auspices of instructing her how to properly line up a shot.
I can’t recall what I said or what she said in that moment (although I do know it was all quite sexually charged). I do remember Aubrey looking up at me over her shoulder—her eyes—God what she does to me with those eyes! How I refrained from throwing the pool cue across the room so I could do a variety of very dirty and wholly inappropriate things to her is beyond me.
Regardless, by that point, “the line” had been crossed irrevocably. I mean I was literally mashing my hard-on against her ass. Despite being overcome with lust, I was suddenly gripped by horror, as I realized (with a little help from Brad) that I was doing the very thing Nicola had accused me of. I was sexually harassing a student! I turned away as I quickly as I could and escaped upstairs. My mother and father quickly saw that I was borderline wasted and sprang into action, my dad resolving to take me home immediately.
Aubrey and I shared that ride home, but we didn’t share any further words or glances. In fact, I have little to no recollection of the trip. I think I passed out within seconds of leaving my parents’ driveway.
And now I sit here, utterly ashamed and not sure what to do next. Not that I haven’t heard plenty of advice and suggestions. I’ve been on the phone on and off all day. Mom’s appalled at the idea that she was “tricked” by Aubrey, someone she thought was quite lovely and who “seemed” so genuine and intelligent. I begged her not to blame Aubrey, trying to point out how trapped the poor girl was. Then I got an earful from my father—the usual. All completely predictable.
I spoke to Jeremy and Brad too, filling them in on all the behind the scenes shit. Though I didn’t speak directly to Penny, I gather she’s completely mortified at the thought that she was being so flippant about Aubrey all night, pushing us together, all the while ignorant of the fact that this was the girl I’ve been telling her about for three weeks. What a mess. They must all be shaking their heads in disbelief.
But I can’t worry about my family right now. I’m more concerned about Aubrey. What must she think of me? In my booze induced haze, I suppose I was quite happy to assume she was being warm and flirtatious in response to my advances, but what if she felt as if she had to behave that way because of my relative authority? God, I can’t face her in that classroom. I can’t just waltz in and look at her as if nothing untoward happened. No, before even attempting to sit across from her in the lecture hall, I’ll have to speak to her. Apologize somehow, for beha
ving so poorly…
On the other hand, Aubrey’s no fool. From day one she hasn’t shied away from disagreeing with me and standing up for herself. If she’d felt I was out of line, she would have made her disdain clear. Wouldn’t she? Brad did tell me he thought she seemed perfectly at ease and quite happy to go along with what I was doing. Jeremy confirmed as much, saying he never would have guessed she was uncomfortable. Why shouldn’t I lean toward their interpretation instead of assuming I’m doomed? Why am I so quick to assume the worst?
Because, as Shakespeare’s Antony said, “All strange and terrible events are welcome, But comforts we despise,” that’s why.
My piss poor luck is never-ending.
And my penchant for hyperbole is verging on absurd.
Monday, March 2
If I could speak to my grandfather right now, eke out a kernel of advice about how to deal with the predicament I find myself in with Aubrey Price, he’d probably sigh deeply, pat my knee and comfort me with one of his favorite historical aphorisms. Perhaps he’d haul out, “Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.” This is wishful thinking. I can’t imagine my grandfather encouraging me to buck the system where my most recent moral transgression is concerned.
I met with Aubrey today. I called Martin and told him I was ill and wouldn’t be able to attend his lecture or conduct my tutorial. I waited for Aubrey after class and followed her to the Gardiner Museum where I caught up with her as she was browsing through the second floor ceramic displays. I interrupted her solitude after watching her for a few moments, and she turned, looking at me with those eyes—eyes that registered surprise, perhaps even shock. But then her expression softened, and I read relief in her gentle blink and hesitant downward glance, followed by encouragement in her sweet, warm smile.
If I’d thought I was merely going to apologize—tell her I was sorry, wash my hands of my antics on Saturday and then move on—my resolve disappeared instantly, my determination to do the right thing evaporating as I looked into her beautiful green eyes. Before I knew it, I was inviting her downstairs for a cup of coffee. She didn’t give me a chance to regret the invitation, replying almost immediately with three wonderful words: “That sounds perfect.”
At our table in the restaurant, I tried to stay on course. I apologized for my inappropriate behavior, for the way I’d talked to her and touched her on Saturday, but she seemed intent on treating the incident as a joke, saying she’d enjoyed our pool table encounter. I thought perhaps she was trying to spare my discomfort by letting me down easily. But when I pointed out that I was serious, she simply looked me dead in the eye and said, “So am I.”
Done for.
Completely and utterly screwed.
What was I to do? She’d enjoyed my overtures. She hadn’t been humoring me on Saturday, out of some fear of the power dynamic. She had welcomed my advances! The attraction I thought I’d imagined was real—as real for her as it is for me. What she’d claimed on Saturday is true, after all: Matt is nothing more than a roommate. Aubrey is at liberty to attach her affections to whomever she wishes. What she seemed to overlook this afternoon, and what I damn near forgot myself, were the epic ramifications of Aubrey attaching her affections to me.
I was at a crossroads. I could have told her I stood by my apology and that I regretted putting her in an uncomfortable position and that it wouldn’t happen again, or…
(And this is where Gramps would frown from under his shaggy brows and shake his head.)
I didn’t follow my grandfather’s example. Instead, I took a huge leap of faith and told Aubrey exactly how I feel about her, and somehow, over the course of the next ten minutes, we went from being Daniel Grant, TA, and Aubrey Price, fourth-year student, to two people who obviously want to spend time together, to get to know one another, to be together…
I’m making it sound as if I don’t understand how this new dynamic between us came about. But I do understand. There was a moment, so precise, so specific that I could distill it onto the head of a pin. You see, after I’d shared my feelings with Aubrey, I found myself apologizing—backpedaling, I suppose—telling her that I was aware of the inappropriateness of my overtures. She looked me straight in the eye and asked me if I’d think she was a horrible person for not caring if my feelings for her were wrong.
How did I refrain from knocking the table over, eliminating the stupid wooden impediment between us so I could pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless? Somehow, God knows how, I controlled this impulse, and this is where I take the moral high ground. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her how I feel. I shouldn’t have intimated that I wanted to pursue a relationship with her one day, when the time is right. But at least I restrained myself physically. Frankly, I amaze myself.
Our fingertips met in the middle of the table. It was the briefest moment of connection, but at the same time, the most intimate of touches. A bond seemed to form between us in that instant. I almost heard something snap into place. It was as if I’d been trapped in a vault for a year and Aubrey had her ear pressed against the unlocking mechanism. Somehow only she could spin the lock and find that magical series of numbers which would allow the tumbler to click.
It clicked. I stepped out. And then I didn’t know what to do with myself. What else was there to do but walk her home?
We strolled side by side, not touching, but occasionally looking at each other, both of us smiling (she beautifully, me ridiculously, I’m sure). We talked logistics. Nine weeks until semester’s end. Nine weeks in which we’ll have to keep a low profile and bide our time. I have no doubt this will be the longest nine weeks of my life.
I left her there, in the lobby of Jackman Hall, ostensibly to pick up my car and carry on with my day, all the while thinking, CAR? DAY? WHO THE FUCK CARES? But then as I was walking away, I found a glove on the sidewalk—might it have been hers?—a perfect excuse to double back. I did just that and found her curled up on the floor crying. God help me, my Aubrey was crying, and I was supposed to leave? She claimed to be overwhelmed by the events of the preceding hour.
(I could have told her that made two of us.)
I comforted her as best I could without compromising myself—as always, imagining cameras tracking my every move. This is what Nicola’s false accusation and my paranoia have done to me. I suppose I fancy myself the star of a never-ending episode of Candid Camera, self-conscious in the extreme, aware of every public movement.
So yes, I walked away. I had to. It was the only way to save myself. If I’d stayed longer, I’m sure I would have pulled her into my arms and kissed her tears away. Then her tears would have stopped, and I would have kept kissing her because…because once I kiss her, I know that will become my sole purpose in life.
To kiss her as much and as often as possible.
Moments after leaving her in that vestibule, the predictable questions began to bubble in my brain. What had I done? What was I going to do now? The answer presented itself immediately. Have an anxiety attack, of course—not a full-blown attack, merely the early stages of one. This isn’t surprising. I was probably in shock, completely taken aback by what I’d just done, throwing myself into the line of fire like that, giving Aubrey plenty of rope to hang me with, if she chose to use it. Could I be more self-destructive? The more I thought, the more confused I felt. Chatting with Penny and Jeremy over coffee afterward, attempting to justify my foolhardy actions to them, merely heightened my distress.
Oddly enough, a phone message from Martin upon my return to the condo late this afternoon reminded me that my frustration over not being able to pursue Aubrey freely and with unrestrained passion is actually not the most earth-shattering crisis imaginable. The death of a student has put my ridiculous “problem” into perspective. Having no luck reaching Martin to clarify the nature of the fatal incident he’d briefly alluded to in his message, and not even clear about the identity of the victim, I foolishly rushed back to Jackman, without an ounce of forethought, to make sure Aubrey wa
s okay. Not knowing her apartment code, I had no way of gaining entry to the building, but I managed to sweet talk my way in with a couple of residents. After walking aimlessly up and down the second floor of Jackman, not entirely sure which apartment was Aubrey’s, I finally heard her voice through one of the doors. Thankful that she was okay, although mildly disgruntled to hear her laughing and having a grand old time with Matt (“sweet cheeks,” she calls him—I could cheerfully throttle him), I escaped from Jackman unseen and made my way home.
I eventually heard back from Martin, and sadly, Mary Langford is the student who died. She perished in a car accident last Wednesday.
It’s times like this that I struggle against cynicism. Life is so frigging fragile. And it’s in light of this complication that I wonder if maybe my grandfather would be easy on me—tell me to “live a little.” I’d express my desire to do just that, but also share my frustration at not knowing what lies ahead, telling him how much easier things would be if we could know the future implications of our actions in the here and now. Gramps would quote Churchill and warn me to be ruled not just by my heart, but by my head.
Good old Churchill. Why couldn’t he have been a flakey old romantic? How I wish he’d been famous for saying, “Run to her, boy. Grab her tight and never let her go.”
I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but tonight? Well, tonight I have to make a phone call. I must call Sabrina. I can’t prolong the inevitable with her. We have no romantic future. I won’t be looking to arrange an alternate weekend in Ottawa. This will not be a pleasant call. God willing, it will go smoothly.
(I’ve invoked God’s assistance so many times today, I fear I may owe Him my right arm, or potentially, my first born. My parents would not be impressed with this sort of irreverence. My mother would be quick to point out that God is not Rumpelstiltskin.)
The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) Page 3