The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) (4 page)

If I could speak to my grandfather right now, eke out a kernel of advice about how to deal with the predicament I find myself in with Aubrey Price, he’d probably sigh deeply, pat my knee and comfort me with one of his favorite historical aphorisms. Perhaps he’d haul out,
“Kites rise highest against the wind, not with it.”
This is wishful thinking. I can’t imagine my grandfather encouraging me to buck the system where my most recent moral transgression is concerned.

I met with Aubrey today. I called Martin and told him I was ill and wouldn’t be able to attend his lecture or conduct my tutorial. I waited for Aubrey after class and followed her to the Gardiner Museum where I caught up with her as she was browsing through the second floor ceramic displays. I interrupted her solitude after watching her for a few moments, and she turned, looking at me with those eyes—eyes that registered surprise, perhaps even shock. But then her expression softened, and I read relief in her gentle blink and hesitant downward glance, followed by encouragement in her sweet, warm smile.

If I’d thought I was merely going to apologize—tell her I was sorry, wash my hands of my antics on Saturday and then move on—my resolve disappeared instantly, my determination to do the right thing evaporating as I looked into her beautiful green eyes. Before I knew it, I was inviting her downstairs for a cup of coffee. She didn’t give me a chance to regret the invitation, replying almost immediately with three wonderful words: “That sounds perfect.”

At our table in the restaurant, I tried to stay on course. I apologized for my inappropriate behavior, for the way I’d talked to her and touched her on Saturday, but she seemed intent on treating the incident as a joke, saying she’d enjoyed our pool table encounter. I thought perhaps she was trying to spare my discomfort by letting me down easily. But when I pointed out that I was serious, she simply looked me dead in the eye and said, “So am I.”

Done for.

Completely and utterly screwed.

What was I to do? She’d
enjoyed
my overtures. She hadn’t been humoring me on Saturday, out of some fear of the power dynamic. She had welcomed my advances! The attraction I thought I’d imagined was real—as real for her as it is for me. What she’d claimed on Saturday is true, after all: Matt is nothing more than a roommate. Aubrey is at liberty to attach her affections to whomever she wishes. What she seemed to overlook this afternoon, and what I damn near forgot myself, were the epic ramifications of Aubrey attaching her affections to me.

I was at a crossroads. I could have told her I stood by my apology and that I regretted putting her in an uncomfortable position and that it wouldn’t happen again, or…

(And this is where Gramps would frown from under his shaggy brows and shake his head.)

I didn’t follow my grandfather’s example. Instead, I took a huge leap of faith and told Aubrey exactly how I feel about her, and somehow, over the course of the next ten minutes, we went from being Daniel Grant, TA, and Aubrey Price, fourth-year student, to two people who obviously want to spend time together, to get to know one another, to be together…

I’m making it sound as if I don’t understand how this new dynamic between us came about. But I do understand. There was a moment, so precise, so specific that I could distill it onto the head of a pin. You see, after I’d shared my feelings with Aubrey, I found myself apologizing—backpedaling, I suppose—telling her that I was aware of the inappropriateness of my overtures. She looked me straight in the eye and asked me if I’d think she was a horrible person for not caring if my feelings for her were wrong.

How did I refrain from knocking the table over, eliminating the stupid wooden impediment between us so I could pull her into my arms and kiss her senseless? Somehow, God knows how, I controlled this impulse, and this is where I take the moral high ground. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her how I feel. I shouldn’t have intimated that I wanted to pursue a relationship with her one day, when the time is right.
But at least I restrained myself physically
. Frankly, I amaze myself.

Our fingertips met in the middle of the table. It was the briefest moment of connection, but at the same time, the most intimate of touches. A bond seemed to form between us in that instant. I almost heard something snap into place. It was as if I’d been trapped in a vault for a year and Aubrey had her ear pressed against the unlocking mechanism. Somehow only she could spin the lock and find that magical series of numbers which would allow the tumbler to click.

It clicked. I stepped out. And then I didn’t know what to do with myself. What else was there to do but walk her home?

We strolled side by side, not touching, but occasionally looking at each other, both of us smiling (she beautifully, me ridiculously, I’m sure). We talked logistics. Nine weeks until semester’s end. Nine weeks in which we’ll have to keep a low profile and bide our time. I have no doubt this will be the longest nine weeks of my life.

I left her there, in the lobby of Jackman Hall, ostensibly to pick up my car and carry on with my day, all the while thinking, CAR? DAY? WHO THE FUCK CARES? But then as I was walking away, I found a glove on the sidewalk—might it have been hers?—a perfect excuse to double back. I did just that and found her curled up on the floor crying. God help me, my Aubrey was crying, and I was supposed to leave? She claimed to be overwhelmed by the events of the preceding hour.

(I could have told her that made two of us.)

I comforted her as best I could without compromising myself—as always, imagining cameras tracking my every move. This is what Nicola’s false accusation and my paranoia have done to me. I suppose I fancy myself the star of a never-ending episode of Candid Camera, self-conscious in the extreme, aware of every public movement.

So yes, I walked away. I had to. It was the only way to save myself. If I’d stayed longer, I’m sure I would have pulled her into my arms and kissed her tears away. Then her tears would have stopped, and I would have kept kissing her because…because once I kiss her, I know that will become my sole purpose in life.

To kiss her as much and as often as possible.

Moments after leaving her in that vestibule, the predictable questions began to bubble in my brain. What had I done? What was I going to do now? The answer presented itself immediately. Have an anxiety attack, of course—not a full-blown attack, merely the early stages of one. This isn’t surprising. I was probably in shock, completely taken aback by what I’d just done, throwing myself into the line of fire like that, giving Aubrey plenty of rope to hang me with, if she chose to use it. Could I be more self-destructive? The more I thought, the more confused I felt. Chatting with Penny and Jeremy over coffee afterward, attempting to justify my foolhardy actions to them, merely heightened my distress.

Oddly enough, a phone message from Martin upon my return to the condo late this afternoon reminded me that my frustration over not being able to pursue Aubrey freely and with unrestrained passion is actually not the most earth-shattering crisis imaginable. The death of a student has put my ridiculous “problem” into perspective. Having no luck reaching Martin to clarify the nature of the fatal incident he’d briefly alluded to in his message, and not even clear about the identity of the victim, I foolishly rushed back to Jackman, without an ounce of forethought, to make sure Aubrey was okay. Not knowing her apartment code, I had no way of gaining entry to the building, but I managed to sweet talk my way in with a couple of residents. After walking aimlessly up and down the second floor of Jackman, not entirely sure which apartment was Aubrey’s, I finally heard her voice through one of the doors. Thankful that she was okay, although mildly disgruntled to hear her laughing and having a grand old time with Matt (“sweet cheeks,” she calls him—I could cheerfully throttle him), I escaped from Jackman unseen and made my way home.

I eventually heard back from Martin, and sadly, Mary Langford is the student who died. She perished in a car accident last Wednesday.

It’s times like this that I struggle against cynicism. Life is so frigging fragile. And it’s in light of this complication that I wonder if maybe my grandfather would be easy on me—tell me to “live a little.” I’d express my desire to do just that, but also share my frustration at not knowing what lies ahead, telling him how much easier things would be if we could know the future implications of our actions in the here and now. Gramps would quote Churchill and warn me to be ruled not just by my heart, but by my head.

Good old Churchill. Why couldn’t he have been a flakey old romantic? How I wish he’d been famous for saying,
“Run to her, boy. Grab her tight and never let her go.”

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but tonight? Well, tonight I have to make a phone call. I must call Sabrina. I can’t prolong the inevitable with her. We have no romantic future. I won’t be looking to arrange an alternate weekend in Ottawa. This will not be a pleasant call. God willing, it will go smoothly.

(I’ve invoked God’s assistance so many times today, I fear I may owe Him my right arm, or potentially, my first born. My parents would not be impressed with this sort of irreverence. My mother would be quick to point out that God is not Rumpelstiltskin.)

Time.

On the one hand, there’s far too much of it, at least in the context of waiting. Fifty-eight days? Fifty-nine? Maybe even sixty…That’s how long I have to wait until I can pursue a relationship with Aubrey. It seems an eternity. Already, I feel the measuring, the counting, the wishing away of hours and days will become an obsessive enterprise.

(How wonderful. I need some new obsessive tendencies.)

On the other hand, how can I be so self-absorbed? I’m blessed to have so much time lying before me, ready to unfold. Time is an unknown entity. How much time do I—or any of us, for that matter—have left? It’s a frightening reality, and one that’s so easily dismissed until something horrific like the passing of Mary Langford happens.

This is the essence of my dilemma. I’m torn between wanting to stroke the dates off a calendar with gusto, and knowing I need to savor every hour, appreciating the small gifts every new day affords. In light of this recent tragedy, I’m tempted to say, who has time to waste on dallying? If Aubrey and I want to be together, shouldn’t we simply seize the day? With some careful planning and discretion, no one would have to know…

But every time thoughts like this creep into my brain, I squash them. This philosophy is self-serving and has potentially dangerous long-term consequences. And I know myself too well. Even if we were to make it through the next two months unscathed, I’d know that I had compromised my position and I would wallow in guilt. The idea of tainting our developing relationship that way is not an appealing one. (That doesn’t mean I don’t think about her all day long, though, desperate to spend time with her.)

Yesterday, I sought the grace of God and the wisdom of my grandfather. Today, I feel as if I need the strength of Hercules to resist the overwhelming need to see Aubrey and then control the surge of physical desire that rocks me whenever I’m with her.

I had no logical cause to park myself outside Old Vic at one o’clock this afternoon. Yet where did I find myself at one o’clock this afternoon? Why, right outside Old Vic, of course, all in the hope of catching a quick glimpse of Aubrey. (Thank fuck I documented our early encounters. A quick read-through reminded me that we’d crossed paths in the quad on a Tuesday several weeks ago after I’d had a late lunch with my father. She’d dashed into Old Vic, most likely to attend a one o’clock lecture. There’s something to be said for the obsessive recording of minutia, after all.)

While I stood there, debating whether she’d show up, I also found myself wondering what she’d think if she did cross the quad and find me standing there. Would she be freaked out by the fact that, for the second time in as many days, I’d magically appeared before her out of thin air? And I can’t help but wonder, had she truly been prepared to wait until Wednesday’s class to see me? If so, how much more ridiculous would I feel, pining for a glimpse of her—anything to sustain me until our next scheduled in-class meeting?

My concerns were unfounded. For one thing, Aubrey
did
appear in the quad at the appropriate time, and she didn’t take issue with me knowing she would be there. Most importantly, she seemed just as happy to see me as I was to see her, leaping at my suggestion that we spend some time together after her French lecture, using a meeting about her independent study as a pretext. I was left whiling away two hours as she sat through her class.

I found myself at Chapters, suddenly inspired by a pile of calendars on the discount table. I had a recollection of myself as a boy, counting down the days to Christmas on the calendar in my room. One year in particular stands out in my mind. We were going to the cottage for Christmas, and Brad, J and I had requested a train set from Santa—one of those massive ones that takes over a whole room. By Hallowe’en, all three of us were counting the number of “sleeps” left until the big day. The excitement of that countdown was almost as delicious as the prospect of the gift.

Standing at that table in Chapters, staring at the calendars and thinking about Aubrey, I felt the same sense of expectation. I picked up two identical calendars with Shakespeare’s likeness on the front cover, one for each of us, thinking,
let the countdown begin
. It will be a painful wait, but somehow, I can’t help thinking that the anticipation will be worthwhile. In this age of instant gratification and entitlement, how often do we have to postpone the fulfillment of our wishes? I’m not saying this is going to be easy—not by any means. If Aubrey weren’t so beautiful and witty and warm and fun (and yes, sexy as hell…) perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult, but in the space of an hour today, she made me laugh more than I have in the last few months altogether, and aroused a rather painful physical reaction on more than one occasion.

After I’d told her about Mary—news which understandably upset her, and made me wish I could pull her into my arms and console her—we retreated to the E.J. Pratt library. We chatted, and giggled like a couple of fourteen-year-olds on a first date, disturbing many other library patrons in the process.

She called me “sailor.” Odd choice of nickname, but every time she said it, I felt this strange proprietary buzz.
This is my girlfriend,
I thought, fully aware of the puerile nature of the term, but reveling in it, regardless.
This my girlfriend’s affectionate nickname for me.
We rubbed knees, we shared silly anecdotes about the first time we saw each other. She told me she’d had a dream about me after the first day of class. I gather it was a rather steamy one. How bizarre it is to look back now and reevaluate our first meetings with this new understanding, knowing she was just as intrigued by me as I was by her.

The highlight of our rendezvous (and this is the epitome of absurdity, but must be taken in context) was hugging her under the Gatehouse archway. Ridiculous, no? I could tell myself it was just an innocent embrace, but it wasn’t. I clung to her, my heart pounding as I felt her hands slide around my neck and into my hair. I breathed in her essence, felt her lips against my neck. I wanted to cradle her head there and beg her to kiss me. It would have been so easy to push her into the dark corner…

I did not. I collected myself. I stepped away. We shared our frustration. (Oddly enough this shared frustration took the shape of a line or two from
The Winter’s Tale
…) But even after expressing my irritation with the situation we find ourselves in, I was still a bundle of contradictions, and felt incapable of clearly articulating my feelings to her, not even sure if I should try.

Now, it’s midnight, and my thoughts continue to whirl every which way. How will I ever sleep? I keep telling myself that sitting down and writing will help clarify my thoughts and calm my mind. It’s not working. When I try to distil my thoughts into cogent, straightforward prose, I see Aubrey in my mind’s eye, and everything seems to go slightly out of focus. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation. I would liken it to reaching for a pair of reading glasses and picking up a prism instead. You wouldn’t be able to read a newspaper through it, but you’d be treated to a beautiful array of light and color, all the same…