The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) (3 page)

Holy shit, what a week! I’ve been going non-stop. I guess pre-Reading Week panic set in because I found myself meeting with students in every spare minute, with conferences not just filling my office hours, but going well beyond my required time. Some of these students need a hell of a lot of guidance. It feels good to know I can genuinely help. Having the opportunity to meet with Aubrey and spend some one-on-one time with her would have been the icing on the cake, but I sense she’s not remotely in need of my assistance. Case in point, today’s tutorial…

I asked everyone to find their favorite quotation from
Macbeth
and then justify their choice. Everyone opened their books to find a good line—everyone except Aubrey, that is. She simply picked up her pen and wrote down a quotation without even cracking the play open. For an undergrad, she’s got a memory like a steel trap.

Amazing choice, too. She selected Duncan’s “There’s no art to find the mind’s construction in the face.” After my epic misinterpretation of her behavior on Monday, it’s hard not to suspect that she was sending me a message about how
I’d
jumped to conclusions. The way she justified her choice of that line and the expression on her face as she spoke certainly added fuel to that speculation.

Part of me wishes I could take back the way I behaved toward her in my dad’s office, but then again, something about that meeting seems to have changed the dynamic between us. I feel more relaxed when I see her in class and I definitely wasn’t as wound up during today’s tutorial as I was during the first few sessions.

I’m almost afraid to hope for it, but I think Aubrey and I are on the way to becoming “friends,” which, despite my desire for more, is certainly a welcome and appropriate compromise. I won’t deny that I’m still pained at the thought of her going home to Matt, but I suppose I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that she’s off limits.

That didn’t stop me from wanting to grin at her stupidly throughout the entire tutorial, nor did it keep me from praising her performance after class and asking about her plans for Reading Week. Just making conversation, right? Of course, what she doesn’t know is that I was virtually taking notes as we talked. (She’ll be staying in residence all week; she’s not going away because she’s saving for a summer trip to Europe; she looks ridiculously hot in the tight black sweater she wore today…)

I made small talk in return. What I didn’t tell her, as much as I wanted to, was that with one word from her, I would cancel my plans to go to Ottawa in a heartbeat. In fact, I was sincerely tempted to invite her out for coffee during the week, under the guise of chatting about her independent study or something equally absurd. As much as I was aching to—I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than sit down with her in a quiet café and talk for hours—I can’t risk something like that. I doubt I’d make it through the encounter without becoming a rambling fool.

When we finally went our separate ways, I wished her a good week off, but what I really wanted to say was, “You have no idea how much I’ll miss you…”

(I did just claim I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that she’s off limits, right? I’m hilarious.)

Between hanging out with Penny and Jeremy, taking my parents to the airport on Saturday and picking them up today, and visiting Patty this afternoon, I’ve been fairly busy over the last few days. Busy is good. It keeps my brain occupied. But tonight, I can’t sleep. My thoughts are racing and I need to clear my mind.

I’ve quite capably avoided thinking about my weekend in Ottawa, but now that the trip is three days away, it’s become impossible to evade my own thoughts. When I picked my parents up from the airport this morning, they invited me over for a family dinner on Saturday. I declined, and told them I was going to Ottawa to visit Sabrina, but made it clear that friendship is ALL there is between us. In the process of saying those words, I convinced myself once and for all that I truly have no desire to rekindle anything with her.

I feel like a heel for opening this can of worms and possibly misrepresenting my intentions to Sabrina. My behavior is selfish and unfair. While trying to distract myself from my inappropriate thoughts about Aubrey, I’m hurting someone who’s always been a good friend.

I was driving down Front Street after dropping off my parents, and all of this shit was swirling through my brain, when I
swear
I saw Aubrey crossing the road and going into the St. Lawrence market. Perhaps my mind was playing tricks because I was thinking about her, but I don’t think so. I’d go as far as to say I’d know those amazing legs anywhere. I actually pulled over and contemplated running into the market to pick up something—anything—simply to have a chance of “bumping into her.” In the end, I thought better of it. Wisely so, I’m sure. I can just see myself trying to make small talk with her while holding a coil of kielbasa sausage and a wedge of Emmentaler cheese. It’s a scenario from a bad sitcom.

Needless to say, afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and was still distracted and scattered when I arrived at Patty’s for an afternoon visit. Patty was rather distracted herself. I found her in the dining room, listening to Frank Sinatra, with papers scattered everywhere. As it turns out, the papers were letters—love letters—all from Gramps. I assumed they were from their courtship, but Patty explained that he wrote them over the course of the year he was teaching her. He didn’t give them to her as he wrote them—he couldn’t. Instead, he parceled them together and gave them to her after she graduated. I knew Gramps was a charmer, but I never took him for such a romantic.

Patty gave me one of them to look at. I actually got a lump in my throat reading about his feelings for her and his hope that she would remain unattached until she graduated so he might have the opportunity to court her. He also spoke of the extra difficulty of breaking up with his fiancée, whom he said he knew wasn’t right for him once he’d met Patty—“my darling Henrietta,” as he called her.

In that letter, he quoted Browning’s “A Face.” I read the poem out loud to Patty and she chuckled (with a tear or two in her eye), and said, “Can you blame me for being completely smitten?” She told me their relationship may have been horribly complicated at first, but she wouldn’t have traded a single minute of those months of uncertainty or the first messy weeks of their courtship for anything in the world. Then she disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a book of love letters by some of history’s most renowned figures. Apparently, my grandfather was a notorious plagiarizer and even in his later years, he would write her letters and cheekily steal words from this book while trying to placate her after a transgression or argument.

She pressed the book into my hands, telling me she wanted me to have it, claiming that Gramps would have wanted his tradition continued. I told Patty I didn’t have anyone to write love letters to, but she looked at me in that way she has—like she knows far more about what’s going on in my heart than I do—and insisted I bring it home with me because you never know…

So here I sit, looking through the letters in this well-worn book that my grandfather leafed through and quoted from as he wooed my grandmother, apologized for a screw up, or tried to explain how much he missed her during a separation. I can’t help thinking of all the letters he wrote during the school year while he and my grandmother secretly yearned for each other, just as I’m (albeit unrequitedly) pining for Aubrey. Our situations are nothing alike, but I find myself wanting to be hopeful. As Patty said…you never know.

And what would I say to Aubrey now if I were free to speak my mind? If, like Gramps, I could steal someone else’s words and have them speak for me, what would I tell her? Well, I found a letter by Keats which is a little over the top…okay, it’s REALLY over the top, but it does capture some of my frustration at not being able to spend time with her and get to know her:

“My Dearest Girl,

I have been a walk this morning with a book in my hand, but as usual I have been occupied with nothing but you: I wish I could say in an agreeable manner. I am tormented day and night…’Tis certain I shall never recover if I am to be so long separate from you: yet with all this devotion to you I cannot persuade myself into any confidence of you…

You are to me an object intensely desirable—the air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy. I am not the same to you—no—you can wait—you have a thousand activities—you can be happy without me. Any party, anything to fill up the day has been enough.

How have you pass’d this month? Who have you smil’d with? All this may seem savage in me. You do not feel as I do—you do not know what it is to love—one day you may—your time is not come….

J. Keats”

I keep re-reading that last line.
“One day you may.”
There’s hope in those words. (I’m choosing not to think about the details of Keats’ ill-fated engagement to Fanny Brawne. I think I’ll stick with my grandparents as inspiration…)

There’s a line.

There is
always
a line.

I knew full-well where that line was and I crossed it. No, I didn’t simply cross it. I got inebriated, stomped all over it, and THEN I crossed it.

I’ve often thought Romeo a simpering drip, but the words “I am fortune’s fool” come to mind today. Ironic really, because I thought things were finally about to start going my way. Sabrina called early yesterday morning to tell me she had the flu and that she would have to cancel our weekend visit. She mentioned something about rescheduling when she felt better, but she didn’t say anything specific. She didn’t sound particularly coherent and I wasn’t about to try to force the issue to firm up alternate plans. I made all the obligatory expressions of sympathy, and then hung up, feeling like a prisoner who’s been granted a reprieve.

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 behaving 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.