What-ev-er.
In light of that “whatever,” I didn’t call Aubrey today. At first, I couldn’t bring myself to phone her because I was angry, but the more I think about the situation, the more I realize I’m partly to blame for what happened. All week, I’ve sent her mixed messages. I can’t expect to go from being suggestive and playful, verging on seducing her and then suddenly pull back, do a complete 180, and claim surprise at her reaction.
Now I’m avoiding calling because I’m actually afraid of what she might say. What if she’s decided this whole mess is too much aggravation? What if I’m the only one who’s an emotional train wreck right now? And that’s not as inconceivable as it might seem. I called Penny to tell her what had happened and discovered that she’d called Aubrey to chat and that Aubrey sounded fine.
Fine?
She sounded fine. What the fuck?
So here I am analyzing every detail of our argument and trying to figure out what to do next, and Aubrey’s fine? Am I over reacting? Did I imagine her hostility? I don’t think I did. Perhaps she was putting on a brave face for Penny, knowing Penny would talk to me. I can imagine Aubrey doing that. Not that I blame her—I see myself doing exactly the same thing. Excessive pride is something else we have in common and it’s not hard to hide your feelings over the phone.
But what if pride has nothing to do with it at all? What if she is perfectly fine? Fuck, this is painful. How did my grandfather do it? Over seven months he waited, hoping against hope that Patty would still be available to him at the end of the school year. The man must have had nerves of steel. I’m not sure I have it in me. To be honest, I find myself re-evaluating my priorities. I wonder how hard it would be to get a transfer to another course section. As much as I’m enjoying Martin’s class, as well as the course content and the students I’m working with, perhaps it would be a good idea to explore my options. Hell, maybe I’m not ready to be a TA at all!
Between now and tomorrow, I have to do a great deal of thinking. And since I’m so completely ignorant of Aubrey’s state of mind, I’ll have to proceed cautiously (especially if I hope to preserve my own damn pride).
It seems to me that regardless of what I decide to do, there will be an inherent sacrifice.
Sacrifice. Not a fun word. Almost as unpleasant as whatever.
Monday, March 9
It’s seven a.m. and I’m about to head off to U of T. I’m grabbing coffee with my dad at eight, but I’m going to go to the interoffice mail depot first, to drop off a parcel for Aubrey. Yes, I’m making the first move. Perhaps I’ve read too many stories in which the main character is destroyed by his own hubris. Having said that, I’m also wary of allowing myself to show weakness. I don’t know how much my heart can take.
I bought Aubrey new gloves yesterday afternoon—a goodwill gesture, restitution of a sort for losing her gloves on Saturday. I’m also enclosing my black T-shirt in the parcel. Aubrey said that if she couldn’t have me in bed with her, she would at least like some item of my clothing to sleep in. If she reads between the lines, she’ll understand the significance of me giving her the shirt.
I’ve been sitting at my desk for an hour now, carefully composing a note to enclose in the package. I think I’ve finally found the right balance of disappointment, contrition and regret tempered by a small dose of cautious hopefulness. I’ve written, deleted and rewritten, agonizing over every fucking word. At this point, I have to trust that the important words will speak for themselves—
We need to talk. I was careless. I’m sorry. Your choice.
All that’s left now is to deliver the parcel and see what comes of it. Once it’s in her hands, there’ll be no going back.
Thursday, March 12
In the space of three days, everything has changed. I won’t pretend to understand Aubrey and her motivations. I can only imagine she found our relationship too restrictive. Like she said on Saturday, she doesn’t have a lot of patience. The waiting was obviously too unappealing.
When I saw her on Monday, I truly thought there was a chance for us to patch things up. She was cool toward me at first, but then she acknowledged my gifts, and seemed to soften. We managed to have a civil conversation. I suggested we get together to hash everything out in person and she agreed. We had a bit of trouble finding a time that would work for us both, but we finally settled on Tuesday night. She was to have dinner with Julie at the Madison House, and I would pick her up at 8:30 so that we could go somewhere and talk.
My first mistake was arriving early. My second mistake was going inside the Maddy to collect her. Julie wasn’t there at all. Instead, I found Aubrey locked in an intimate embrace with Matt Miller. I did the only thing I felt I could do in that moment: I turned tail and ran. The rest is sordid, pathetic, post break-up history. I came home, almost had another panic attack, got drunk, woke up on Wednesday and puked my guts out, and then I went to class. Aubrey was absent. Thank Christ.
Looking back over the week, I know I haven’t handled things well. I’ve received a few random texts from Aubrey, wanting to “explain.” I’m not ready to hear her excuses, not quite prepared to have my nose rubbed in my inadequacy. No doubt she thinks I should have stayed at the Madison on Tuesday and taken my defeat as a man. Well, there’s no way that was happening. If I’d stayed, an ugly scene would have ensued. I imagine it would have looked something like this:
Me: Well, Aubrey, now I understand what you meant the other night. Thanks for clearing up my confusion.
Aubrey: What do you mean?
Me: When you said “whatever”? Obviously you meant, “sure you can call, but I might be going at it with my so-called roommate.”
Matt Miller: Dude, why don’t you fuck off? You can see the lady’s not interested.
(This is the part where my fist makes contact with his face.)
Random bar patrons: Aubrey, why is your TA beating the shit out of your roommate-slash-boyfriend?
Aubrey: Oh, you know, he’s a bit of a head case. Definitely a loose cannon.
My dad: I told you something like this would happen, Daniel, but you didn’t listen…
My father was not at the Madison. I have no idea how he made his way into this imaginary tableau. I guess he must be talking to me from his perch on my left shoulder. Fuck, I need a drink. Yeah, I know drinking won’t help.
Whatever.
Friday, March 13
What makes a kiss so incredible? What exactly is it about the pressing together of lips and the warm mingling of tongues that drives me so wild? I’ve always been a sucker for a woman who knows how to kiss, but when it’s Aubrey’s lips and tongue in question, how the FUCK am I supposed to restrain myself?
Yes, my whole world has been flipped on its ass. Yesterday was a life-changing day for me, and I’m not saying that to be dramatic (for once). I think the actions I took yesterday quite literally altered my fate, and Aubrey’s too, because if I hadn’t done what I did, she might be well on her way to dating someone else right now, and I’m hazarding a guess that someone else is Shawn Ward. (Although I can’t be sure, I’ve seen the way he’s been looking at her lately and I don’t like it…)
I’d like to claim responsibility for the wisdom of my actions this evening—would love to give myself a congratulatory pat on the back for swallowing my pride and finally comprehending the consequences of my cowardice, but I can’t. I owe my reconciliation with Aubrey almost entirely to Matt Miller. Yes, I’m talking about the person I could have cheerfully strangled several times over the last few weeks. Now I’m considering sending the guy a fucking fruit basket.
He made a special trip to confront me earlier today after a tutorial that may well have been one of the most mind bogglingly frustrating hours of my life. Aubrey was an absolute firecracker, and while I wanted to shake some sense into her during the tutorial, I can see in retrospect that I’m the one who needed a good tooth-rattling shake. At the time, oblivious to the truth, I thought she was being irrationally supercilious, bu
t now I realize her contempt was well-founded.
Matt, obviously aware that Aubrey and I have feelings for one another, trekked across campus to put me straight, informing me of my misplaced anger and wildly inappropriate accusations. What I saw on Tuesday night was not a lovers’ embrace after all, but Aubrey physically propping up a drunk and despondent Matt for fear that he might fall flat on his face.
In short, I jumped to conclusions and refused to contemplate that there might be an explanation for what I saw, other than infidelity. The question that reared its ugly head, of course, was “why?” Why was it so easy for me to assume Aubrey was being deceitful? The only answer I could conceive of is that it was convenient. No man relishes betrayal, and I’m certainly no exception. However, for me, inherent in this supposed betrayal was an escape clause—an opportunity to weasel my way out of a relationship which was forcing me to behave unscrupulously and making me consider a course of action I hatched last Sunday, but clearly didn’t want to pursue: the voluntary switching of courses, or the complete abandonment of my Teaching Assistant position for the semester.
These options were both distasteful. The fact that I avoided bringing the subject up with Martin, even after I’d decided on the solution, proves that I didn’t want to broach the topic. Thinking Aubrey unfaithful was an easy out, making me, quite plainly, a coward. Of course, I didn’t connect the dots all week, not comprehending that I was the one pushing her away, and not the other way around. I did a stellar job of alienating her, but I didn’t understand how successful I was in my efforts until Matt explained that Aubrey was prepared to move on, and that someone seemed to be hovering in the wings waiting for her to be ready. The final nail in the coffin came when I looked in the bag Julie gave me after tutorial. When I found the gloves, T-shirt, and calendar I’d given Aubrey, I knew she meant business.
Somehow, seeing this ACTUAL evidence of her desire to wash her hands of me, brought me face to face with the truth: I couldn’t bear to lose her, and if she turned her back on me for good, I’d have no one but myself to blame for having destroyed the fragile connection we’d forged in the preceding weeks.
That’s why it seems impossible to me that no more than two hours ago, after talking at length, we managed to patch things up. Not only did I humble myself by taking full responsibility for our misunderstanding, I also shared with her the story of what happened at Oxford last year. Initially, my reason for telling her was to give her greater insight into my struggles with impropriety and to perhaps justify my wildly swinging moods. But also, what better way to prove to Aubrey that I know I was wrong to question her integrity this week than to entrust her with my deepest secret?
There was an instant during my confession when I thought she might be doubting my claim that I didn’t behave at all inappropriately with Nicola—after all, what was I to think when she said to me, “Did you molest that girl, Daniel?” But when I vociferously denied any wrongdoing, Aubrey looked at me with an expression of the deepest compassion and said, “I had to ask. I thought you might like to see what it feels like to be asked the question by someone who’d believe your answer unequivocally.” Is it any surprise then, that I’ve given myself over entirely to the stirrings of my heart?
Moments later, we found ourselves dancing together (at the Palais Royale, no less) and drinking champagne. And now I sit here remembering not just the feel of her body pressed against mine, but the taste of her lips, because yes, at last I took the plunge: I finally stole a kiss—though to say I stole this kiss would imply an unwillingness on Aubrey’s part, and in light of her passionate response to my advances, it’s fair to say she was an enthusiastic participant. Now our first kiss is branded on my tongue, and it’s truly sealed my fate. There’s no going back now.
That divine kiss paved the way for the most amazing good night embrace (which is probably best described as a make-out session), during which I ached to touch her and I couldn’t restrain myself. I caressed her leg, slipped my fingers under her dress and teased at the edge of her stockings, mere inches away from paradise. All this happened in the front seat of my car. We were like a couple of teenagers with no place to go, and I suppose, in truth, there is nowhere safe for us. On campus, we’re at the mercy of prying eyes; at my condo, I’d be a danger to both of us, incapable of controlling myself.
(Although how I wish I could put that claim to the test. The thought of spending the night with her in my arms is driving me wild.)
Her delicious lips and soft skin will be my ruination. She knows how desperately I want her. I couldn’t resist telling her at last, whispering my deepest desires, just as I’d wanted to do that night four weeks ago today, in the dark of the Hart House theater. I’m a throbbing mess just thinking about the way her warm thighs parted under my touch and the feel of her breathy sighs against my neck….
Fuck…I can’t torture myself like this anymore. The only safe place for me now is the shower…
Saturday, March 14
I’ve never considered myself a flake, prone to believing in lucky charms or talismans, spirits or sixth senses. This evening, I might be convinced to revise that world view. I would have been tempted to consider yesterday’s fortuitous turn of events a fluke if it weren’t for the fact that Matt Miller was so clearly the mastermind behind my reconciliation with Aubrey. But what happened to me this afternoon, I can’t dismiss as coincidence, especially when coupled with something Aubrey said last night.
The morning passed ordinarily enough. I dropped by my parents’ place for breakfast and mom gave me some plants to drop off at Penny and Brad’s. I delivered the plants and helped Brad move some heavy pieces of furniture around. While I was there, I took a few moments to call Aubrey, so grateful for the return of the easy banter we’d been starting to enjoy before things fell apart last week. I confirmed our dinner plans at Patty’s for tomorrow, and we left things at that.
I felt good, relieved at the reconciliation and looking forward to taking her to Patty’s. I know my grandmother is going to like her, and it goes without saying that Aubrey will think Patty’s great. Even so, driving home from Penny and Brad’s and still thinking ahead to tomorrow evening’s dinner, an uneasiness began to brew in my mind. Perhaps thinking about Patty was stirring up thoughts of my grandfather, making me question what he would think now that I’ve truly crossed the line with Aubrey.
So I turned around, and instead of going home, I drove out to High Park to sit on my grandfather’s bench, something I haven’t done in quite a while. I don’t know if I thought going there would clear my head, or make me feel closer to him and therefore help me to get a handle on what he’d think. I honestly don’t remember because what ended up happening was so strange, it wiped out all recollection of rational motivations.
I sat there mumbling away to my grandfather as I’m so prone to doing when I sit on his bench. I told him about Aubrey, said I wished he could have met her and given me his blessing, and then I confessed that I worried he might be disappointed in me for behaving so unscrupulously. My rambling was interrupted by a woman who was walking her Black Lab—or more aptly, I was interrupted by the Lab dragging the woman toward the bench. The dog jumped around excitedly, sniffing at me and wagging its tail maniacally, all but grabbing my leg and humping me.
The woman was embarrassed and apologetic, explaining that she’s been walking Lucky in High Park for years, and when the dog was young, an elderly couple would often be sitting on the bench on Sundays, and the gentleman was always enthused to see the dog, petting him and fussing over him, eventually always seeming to have a treat at the ready for his arrival. So now, Lucky still looks for the couple whenever he and his owner pass the bench. Of course, I immediately assumed she was referring to my grandparents, and when I described them to her and explained that my grandfather passed away a few years ago, she confirmed that it did seem as if Lucky’s pal and Gramps are one and the same.
That alone was enough to make me feel closer to my grandfather, but then the woma
n sat beside me and told me she’d often stopped to chat with my grandparents and, thanks to their talks, she’s gone back to school and is finishing a History and Classics degree at York University after being out of school for fifteen years. Then she pulled a small, well-thumbed paperback from her coat pocket—the collected works of Petronius, one of her current readings.
Of course, I congratulated her on her new found commitment to learning and told her my grandfather would be proud. She smiled sadly and said she knew he would, confessing that she had a feeling he’d be quizzing her weekly about what she was studying and what she’d learned. At that moment, I didn’t just feel my grandfather’s presence, I felt the responsibility of his influence on this woman’s life, and inquired how her reading of Petronius was going. She laughed, as if she knew I was trying to fill in for him. She told me she’s halfway through Satyricon, but that it’s one of the poems from the second half of the book, one of only a few remaining poems attributed to Petronius, that she’s actually become attached to.
(This is where things get a little weird.)
She gave me the book and I read the poem, not once, but twice, unable to believe my eyes, truly believing that my grandfather was communicating with me through this woman, her dog, and this ratty paperback book. (I swear I’m stone-cold sober now, and was three hours ago when this incident occurred.)
The poem seemed to echo something Aubrey said last night, when she told me she wanted to start at the beginning and not at the end—that having a chaste courtship wasn’t such a bad idea after all because we’ll have time to get to know one another without the complications of sex. I agreed that this was a sound line of thinking. After all, it’s what I’ve been arguing all along. We renewed our pact to avoid physical overtures, knowing that even casual dating is still a trespass in the eyes of the university, regardless of how much we restrain our passion. Of course, no more than an hour later, things fell apart with the sharing of our first kiss and several very intimate touches. It’s this backward slide, initiated by me, that I’ve been berating myself for.
The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) Page 5