Page 60 of Later Bloom

Aubrey points out, without thinking, “You didn’t bring anyone tonight.” She’s not sure why she pointed it out. It felt she had to say it out loud.

Arthur seems surprised. “I tried to bring you.”

The air feels more tense suddenly. Aubrey offers, “I got you something, anyway.” She smiles. Her hair is very hot at the nape of her neck, and she feels very relieved now that Arthur is here. At least she’s got someone to talk to, someone to share this night with. It feels silly not having accepted the ride he’d offered her now. She can’t tell him that, obviously. But there’s a lot she’d like to tell him, about how happy she is to see him, how glad she was that he invited her. But things are so strange and hazy.

She holds her minuscule bag out to him. His hands are still full, but he pauses and makes space to grab it anyway, with a small smile and a grunt.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Of course I’m not going to tell you.”

“Maybe you would’ve,” he smiles to himself. “Sometimes I just blurt it out without thinking.” He pulls out the dark green silk paper, and then an intricate geometric block of wood, with sharp angles and lines running through it.

“It’s a puzzle,” Aubrey explains quickly. “For when you get bored on deliveries and such.”

Arthur studies the small puzzle very closely, with a looming, distant kind of smile.

Aubrey adds, “You said you liked puzzles.”

Almost to himself, he nods. “I did say that, yeah.”

“There’s something else.”

He digs to find a smaller mesh bag, filled with chocolate sweets that are a little hard to distinguish from one another. “I baked,” Aubrey explains.

“Really?”

She nods, and he teases, “With the stuff I bring you, huh?”

This makes Aubrey laugh, a welcome relief. It’s been a few weeks since he’s made a delivery. She assumes that most of his customers have slowed down on their orders this time of year. She’s been exploring the local grocery store instead now. It’s bright and loud. She doesn’t like it very much.

Arthur asks, “How’s it been with Louise?”

He always checks in. He knows it’s been a challenge—Louise is busy and distant, and already, it seems, less interested in the inn. Aubrey is scared to bring it up, but sometimes she tries to suggest plans for next summer, to gauge what the next year might hold, Louise’s ambition to keep the momentum going. Already, Louise’s mind is wandering to the next thing, Aubrey can tell. The problem is, Aubrey’s not ready to think about the next thing, not yet. In a few months she’s meant to head home, and it terrifies her. She misses Maggie every day, but she doesn’t miss her apartment, or feeling lost and watching the days go by, terrified that she’s not seizing them as she should.

Here the days go by, too, but it’s what they ought to do. It’s nice to sit and watch, and it doesn’t feel scary—it only feels beautiful. But Louise said a year, and of course Aubrey ought to return to real life. Figure out a real plan and kick her life into gear again and stop wasting time here, watching seasons pass by and thinking how pretty they are.

She doesn’t say this to Arthur, though she knows she could. He would listen and say something wise, tell her that she deserves to enjoy it and life isn’t meant to be a list of milestones. He would say that what she’s doing now is just as worthy of being enjoyed as finding another job, a better apartment, a boyfriend.

Aubrey looks at him again. “A bit weird,” she says finally. “But we’re heading home together, and then it’ll be like usual, ganging up on the rest of my family to get through the holidays.”

“You think it’ll be like that again this year?”

“Nothing’s changed.”

He shrugs very loosely, as if tired of the movement. “I don’t know, maybe they’ve changed.”

“I’d like to see that.”

Truth is, she wouldn’t mind so much if they haven’t changed. She’d prefer if she changed. Maybe if she finally found someone. Maybe if she cared less. It’s so blurry which to strive for, as if she keeps splintering further into uncertainty, no matter how decisive she tries to be. She hopes, in the confines of herself, that both can coexist.

Florence comes up to them then. She’s smiling wide and holding out a flute to Arthur. “God, you clean up nice! Happy holidays, blondie.”

They share a one-armed hug, through which Arthur replies, “Same to you, happy holidays. Nice evening you’ve put together.”

“You’re lying, you’ve been here three minutes.” Florence nudges his side, urging him forward. “Go, frolic!”

As Arthur greets everyone, Florence stands by Aubrey’s side. “He’s glad you’re here.”