Page 51 of Later Bloom

She stares at her tea, as if the little bag of mint leaves sinking to the bottom of the cup might share some miraculous wisdom, and says, “Well, let’s say, for example, that I do meet someone I enjoy spending time with, and I decide I’m into them, but then I only get one chance to make it work, right? But I have no idea what they’re thinking, or how to talk about it, and everyone else seems to have figured this out, so why not me? And what if I try to make a move on a man, but it’s true that I’m a walking red flag, and I say the wrong thing or feel the wrong way, or what if my feelings fade after all, and it turns out I got it wrong? Maybe it was just infatuation, or despair. Maybe no one wants to be with someone who’s a decade behind in working out how to love. How to be a partner. You know? So then it just seems so much easier to stay on my own. But let’s say I do stay on my own, forever.”

She pauses for effect. Arthur is looking at her like he’s waiting for more. When nothing comes, he asks, “Okay, what if?”

“That’s even scarier.”

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight to lean his elbow on the table. He’s watching her and it makes Aubrey conscious of her posture, her hair. She’s got tension in her face—does she always have tension in her face? “So—sorry,” Arthur huffs to himself, like he’s just noticed something. “You just said a lot of things, very fast—what’s that about a walking red flag?”

Aubrey looks elsewhere and hopes he takes it as a response.

Arthur looks up at the ceiling like the house might come for help. “Jesus. I hate these words we’ve come up with—red flags and green flags, like they’re not just synonyms for faults and strengths, and would you ever tell someone that being on their own is some sort of flaw? It’s just insane to me, the shit you’ve heard. I mean, we’re adults. Not tweens who’ve yet to figure out there’s more to life than being cool and popular. We’re meant to know better, accept each other as we are and whatever else. Right? You’re better than this, Aubrey.”

Aubrey is nearly as startled by the sound of her name as she is by the tone of his voice. He sits straight and looks at her too intently. “Right,” she says unconvincingly. She wants to let out a very long groan. Instead, she pleads, “It’s harder than it sounds. I know it. I just feel different. I’m not explaining it right, but I don’t know how else to say it. I get your point. I just don’t think you’ve been told recently, to your face, that you’re utterly undateable.”

“Maybe I have,” Arthur retorts immediately.

“You haven’t.”

“I haven’t, but I could’ve been.”

“Yes, but I actually have. I have lived it.” She squints at him. “You recognize we’ve had different experiences, yeah?”

“No one and everyone is undateable, by some standard or another.”

“Don’t get vague and philosophical on me.”

“Is it vague and philosophical, or just true?”

“Arthur.”

He pulls a face. “Sounds weird, when you call me that.”

“It’s your name. What else should I call you?”

“I don’t know. We rarely use each other’s names in conversation.”

“You just did a minute ago.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Of course I’ve shaped some part of my self-worth on what I’ve heard other people say to me. Are you saying you’re entirely confident in who you are without needing any sort of validation from the people around you?”

Arthur sucks air through his teeth. Reluctantly, he concedes, “Fine, yeah.”

“Positive self-talk has very disappointing limits. It’s hard sometimes to run on fumes alone.”

“But you give weight to the negative. You’ve got Maggie’s support, and m—Flo’s. They’re worth something.”

It’s funny hearing Arthur speak of Maggie. Aubrey’s only mentioned her to him a couple times, in passing when he asks if she misses home, or what’s new in the life she left behind. They exist in such different parts of her life.

“They are, sure.” Aubrey sinks back into her chair. It’s exhausting trying to explain the intricacies of her heart, her brain. She wishes so desperately he’d just get it. Maybe this is why people bottle things up. “I don’t know. I guess it’s just not the same as hearing it from—well, men.” She flinches. “I hate that I said that out loud.”

“Men’s opinions aren’t worth shit. If you want to hear from a man—fine. You’re not a red flag, or flawed, or undateable. You’re not unlovable and you’re not doomed to end alone.”

“Right, okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He doesn’t seem very amused. “You are hearing me, yeah?”

“Sure.”