Page 39 of Later Bloom

“A few of those couples lasted a while, you know. Probably because they involved people other than Theo.”

“You liked him,” Aubrey teases.

“Let’s not fault me for the mistakes of the past.”

“Nathan and Cassie were still together last I heard, right?”

They were the only couple who’d known each other outside of camp. They’d been dating for six months already before summer began, and from what Aubrey knew, they’d stayed together through college and moved in together after graduation.

“Oh, no,” Maggie says, “They broke up—I think maybe a year ago?”

“What?” The water sloshes about when Aubrey sits up in the tub. “You’re kidding.”

“No, yeah, it was awful. But Cassie’s doing well, I think. Her stories have been crazy these days.”

“They’d been together forever.”

“I know.”

“Fuck.” Aubrey fails to picture these two people she’s only ever known together as separate entities. It feels as impossible as the thought of herself with anyone else. How effortless it is to assume things will last forever and forget the possibility of the “good stories” faltering. To presume the best and ignore the complexities of a connection only two people could ever truly grasp. “I could’ve sworn—”

“I know! I bumped into Nathan last year in a café and he was talking ring shopping, I swear. You just never know.”

“I can’t even imagine. Investing so much time into something and thinking for sure you got it right. And then having to start over again with a stranger and talk about your siblings and your favourite TV shows and what they do for work.”

In the background, Aubrey can hear pots and utensils clanging. She asks incredulously, “Are you cooking?”

“I’m craving some eggs.”

“Who craves eggs?”

Maggie’s voice grows more distant, and then closer again as she moves around. She doesn’t answer the question. “Anyway, it’s crushing, yeah. And these longer relationships feel so impossible to leave. Like abandoning a home you spent years building piece by piece. You know you should leave, but part of yourself thinks you could stay, too, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It might be easier, even.” In her voice floats a memory of Vincent, the only man Maggie ever lived with, in the haze of her early twenties. Through graduation, first steps into adulthood. They split shortly after Maggie turned twenty-five, when they’d grown too far apart to pretend they still knew each other, and she hasn’t committed to anything longer than a few weeks since.

“I just can’t believe it, really,” Aubrey says to the ceiling. The water’s grown a little tepid. On the edge of the tub, her phone buzzes, and she spots a message popup from Arthur. It’s a somewhat normal occurrence now, them texting.

Maggie says, “It’s really nothing but a gamble, dating someone for so long when you’re younger. It’s like, I’ve hardly got anything in common with my nineteen-year-old self anymore. If I were still dating Theo, what would be the odds of us still being the same people now, after nine years? Or the odds of us growing and changing in the same direction, and still being a fit for each other? I don’t know. Staying together through your twenties seems like winning the lottery, honestly. Sheer luck and a lot of trying. It certainly felt like that with Vincent.”

Aubrey says, “Right, yes,” though her attention is stolen for a second by Arthur asking how she’s spending her evening, if she’d like to join him and a couple others for a late-night movie. She’s gone out with him and his friends a few times recently, in an effort to actually grow familiar with this place and its people. She drinks local beer that tastes like all other beer and speaks with practically no one except for Florence, and Arthur. They always find something to chat about—a new show the other has to watch, whether going to university is still worth anything, how often Arthur’s thought of moving away only to decide to stay put.

For a second, Aubrey considers responding with a picture of her feet poking out from the bubbles. She decides against it, as it’d be much too strange.

“I don’t think you realize how good you have it, dating now that you’re a fully formed person, with a developed brain and an actual sense of identity,” Maggie continues.

“Okay, well, you’re pushing it a little, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.” Aubrey messages Arthur an excuse about staying in for some self-care, and he sends back a joke about letting others care for her, too. She likes that he’s texting her, that he thought to ask her to join. She tells him to enjoy the snow for her.

“I’m just saying,” Maggie says. “I think you might’ve had it figured out all along.”

“Some people who met as teenagers do stay together their whole lives, and are very happy.” Aubrey’s not sure why she’s arguing for people she’s got nothing in common with. Maybe it’s because of how envious she’s always been of the idea of celebrating a ten-year anniversary in her twenties, or how scared she’s been of watching milestones pass by while others collect them by the handful. It’s been so often drilled into her brain that life is short that she finds it hard not to feel wrong for taking her time.

But she smiles at her screen when Arthur returns a picture of a lonesome streetlight blurred by flurries. Silhouettes stand in the background. Aubrey teases his creativity, but the picture really is very pretty. She stares at it for a moment.

“There’s always a success story to cling onto,” Maggie is saying. “It’s dangerous because it’s how you talk yourself into bad places. I mean, of course someone’s met the love of their life at thirteen. Of course someone’s gotten back with their ex and found true and complete happiness. Of course it’s worked out for someone. So then why not me? That’s how it gets you.” She’s speaking with her mouth full now. Aubrey laughs.

Another message pops up on her phone, this time from Florence. It’s a photo of Arthur taking that picture. She begs Aubrey to join. Aubrey knows she’s grinning at her phone like an idiot. She feels like she’s sixteen with a curfew and her friends are begging her to sneak out, except she’s imposed this on herself.

“You’re so right,” she says to Maggie.

“What are you doing over there? You keep taking really long pauses.”