The Record of My Heart (Words #3.5) Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Record of My Heart

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  Georgina Guthrie

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  Omnific Publishing

  Los Angeles

  Copyright Information

  The Record of My Heart, Copyright © 2015 by Georgina Guthrie

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Omnific Publishing

  1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor

  Los Angeles, California 90067

  www.omnificpublishing.com

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  First Omnific eBook edition, March 2015

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, March 2015

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

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  Guthrie, Georgina.

  The Record of My Heart / Georgina Guthrie – 1st ed

  ISBN: 978-1-623422-19-6

  1. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. University—Fiction. 3. Shakespeare—Fiction. 4. Love Letters—Fiction. I. Title

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  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  Dedication

  To those who still believe in romance.

  Michelle I. Tompkins

  Inspired by Words, 2010, mixed media collage

  Private collection

  …thus begins the record of our hearts…

  (Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener)

  Preface

  My beautiful Aubrey,

  You are, no doubt, wondering what this book I’ve thrust into your hands is all about. Let me explain, sweetheart. Do you remember the documents I saved onto your Kindle…the ones you read on the plane to England? When I gave you those files, sharing only a couple of weeks of my private reflections from the beginning of the semester, I may have misled you into believing that I ceased journaling once we had declared our intentions to pursue a relationship. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

  My dispassionate descriptions of our initial encounters swiftly progressed beyond banal documentation, eventually becoming the secret musings of a man tumbling headfirst in love with you. In short, Aubrey, you are holding a book of love, what the Bard might call “a volume of enticing lines,” which traces the stirrings of my heart in the first weeks and months of our relationship with nothing glossed over. I had the pages professionally bound, thinking this might be a nice keepsake for us to look back on in the years to come.

  The fact that you are reading the preface to this book means that the evening we’ve just spent out together has gone favorably for me, and you are now my fiancée. And so, tonight, on the first evening of our engagement, do you dare look more deeply into the heart of the man who wants to spend his life making you the happiest woman in the world? If so, then please read on.

  On second thought, come to bed with me, poppet. There will be plenty of time for reading in the morning…

  Forever yours,

  Daniel

  xoxoxo…

  Part One

  The Joys of Trying to Cover Your Ass

  When You’re Falling in Love with a Student

  and Don’t Know It

  Student: Aubrey Price

  First day of semester: Monday, February 2

  (Here I remind you to brace yourself, poppet. I considered omitting this set of entries, but that would be cowardly…it’s probably just as cowardly to editorialize all of the asinine comments I made early in the semester, but I simply can’t let them stand without some sort of explanation. Forgive me.)

  If my experiences last year taught me nothing else, they certainly underscored the importance of carefully documenting my exchanges with female students, especially those exchanges that make me feel uneasy. I’m remembering a piece of advice my grandfather used to share: If something unsettles you, there’s probably good cause. Those hairs were put on the back of your neck for a reason.

  So here I sit, on the first day of the semester, already feeling unsettled. I met Martin’s class today. Aside from arriving late for the lecture (thanks to another argument with my father), the class was fairly unremarkable—just your average fourth-year Shakespeare course. Having said that, there is a student in the class with whom I feel strangely compelled to proceed with caution.

  Her name is Aubrey Price, and when she looked at me at the end of the lecture, those telltale hairs on my neck sent me a strong message—something along the lines of “clear and present danger.” I had glanced her way briefly, wanting to acknowledge her class participation, but there was a strange glint in her eye as she looked back at me—challenging me? Appraising me? It was a wholly unnerving feeling.

  I reviewed the student files Martin gave me. Miss Price has an impressive GPA; in class she appeared bright and outspoken. There’s evidence of a history with Martin. I’ll have to ask him more about her. I can’t put my finger on the reason why, but I feel as if I’ll need to keep my wits about me with this one.

  (Notice here, sweetheart, how I’ve completely omitted any mention of how beautiful I thought your eyes were when you gazed across the room at me, your lovely graceful neck and luminous skin so striking, setting you apart from your peers. Of course, there’s also the fact that I had to wipe the drool from my mouth when you stood up and I caught a glimpse of your fantastic ass and long legs in those insanely tight jeans. You saw me shuffling those papers around at the front of the room. The hairs at the back of my neck weren’t the only things standing at attention. Believe me, if I could’ve left right away without making a spectacle of myself, I would have.)

  Tuesday, February 3

  Crossed paths with the Price girl this morning outside the tutorial room. Turns out she works for my father at Victoria! I must be careful to avoid using this common relationship as a breeding ground for “friendship.” Our exchange left me feeling ill at ease, yet again. She was blushing and awkward—tongue-tied, even. Either she’s a social misfit (which seems unlikely), or she felt uncomfortable talking to me for some reason. I’m trying not to jump to conclusions. I made a speedy exit so I wouldn’t get drawn into a more personal conversation.

  Unfortunately, I bumped into her at the coffee shop in Hart House no more than half an hour later and had another exchange with her. While I tried not to push the envelope with familiarity, I’m not sure how successful I was. (Note: room was full of patrons.) Again, she successfully identified a passage—“For some must watch while some must sleep; thus runs the world away” which isn’t exactly a quotation that lives on in infamy. (She’s no academic slouch, that’s for sure. Or she simply has a bizarre photographic memory where Hamlet is concerned.)

  Then, I saw her again this afternoon at Vic. I was returning from a late lunch with my father, both of us annoyed after yet another argument. The sight of Miss Price approaching from the Lower House residences made me feel even more agitated.

  (Agitated? That’s one way of putting it. How else could I put into words the overwhelming desire to pull you into my arms and kiss you on the second day of our acquaintance? And damn you for blushing so beautifully over your coffee cup, identifying that Hamlet quotation so easily and biting your lip while doing it! Let’s not even get into the fact that you were wearing your black yoga pan
ts that day. Were you trying to kill me?)

  I continue to have this vague, unsettled feeling. Why do I keep running into her? It’s as if she’s spying on me…like she’s been assigned to watch me, maybe even to “test” me. Even as I write this, I realize the complete absurdity of the notion, but who knows the lengths a university administration would pursue in order to verify the reputation of a TA with a checkered past?

  (I read this now, and I want to die of mortification. How could I have even speculated that you were some sort of a spy? What a knob.)

  Wednesday, February 4

  Another awkward encounter with Miss Price. I kept her after Martin’s lecture to request that she not mention our in-class relationship to my father. I don’t want to get pulled into some strange three-way entanglement. That’s what I told her, anyway. She seemed aggravated—maybe even angry—but I couldn’t bring myself to feel remorseful. Her annoyance is a good thing. I was too familiar yesterday, so it didn’t hurt to rein things in a bit. Worth noting: the door was wide open.

  (You know what was motivating me on this day was the fear that my father would discover I knew you from Martin’s class—right on the heels of him suggesting I meet the intelligent, attractive girl who worked in his office. I’m sorry I was nasty to you. Pushing you away that day seemed preferable to giving my father an acute angina attack.)

  Friday, February 6

  During today’s lecture, I found myself again thinking about Miss Price and the fact that she’s not just a student in the class, but also my father’s employee. Reflecting on what I told her yesterday about my father, I began to wonder—what if he somehow roped her into taking the course to watch me? Or, I thought, perhaps he surveyed the class enrollment in September and found a student in need of employment and hired her so he could have someone to report back to him once second semester rolled around?

  After the tutorial, though, I felt confident concluding that Miss Price is a serious scholar. Her observations and inquiry questions were astute, and revealed an interest in the topic beyond that of the casual student of Shakespeare. I feel idiotic (and somewhat egocentric, for that matter) for imagining that someone would take a fourth-year Shakespearean course simply to spy on the class TA.

  There was a panicky moment at the end of the seminar as Cara Switzer requested to speak to me alone. Now there’s a student I don’t want to find myself alone with. I asked Miss Price to remain behind, simply as a buffer. I could have asked anyone, but her name came to my lips first. Of course, when I had to explain why I’d asked her to stay behind, I couldn’t think of a valid reason and cobbled together some harebrained excuse about lending her books. I was decidedly curt with her. I’d go as far as to say I was rude.

  I felt so rattled after the tutorial session that I went straight to Martin’s office to chat about a few of the students in the class, bringing Miss Price’s name up, among several others. According to Martin, she’s been working for my father since September. Martin even wrote her a glowing letter of recommendation when she applied for the job, based on the rapport they developed in prior course studies. He spoke very highly of her, claiming she’s “one of those students who walks through your door only a few times in a career,” and that I should count myself lucky to be able to work with her.

  I’m not feeling very lucky at the moment. I’m feeling remarkably uncomfortable. Not sure what it is about this girl that has me so addled.

  (Not sure? Ha! Could it be that I was a mess because your strength and outspokenness in that first tutorial intrigued the hell out of me, but I was forced to distance myself from you? Aubrey, I wanted nothing more than to ask you to stay after Cara had left so that I could close the door, take your hand and say, “Tell me all about yourself—spare no details.” Of course, I couldn’t do that, which enraged me. So instead, I was rude and obnoxious. I hated myself for the way I treated you that day. Self-preservation, plain and simple. I used you to protect myself from Cara, but you didn’t know that at the time. You looked so hurt and I felt like a frigging heel. How I wish I could go back and smack some sense into myself…)

  Wednesday, February 11

  An uneventful week thus far. No further encounters with Miss Price. She seems intent on ignoring me now. There is a sort of weary defiance in her eyes that doesn’t sit quite right, but my coolness seems to have curtailed any excessive familiarity that might have had the potential of developing. My father would be proud.

  (How it pained me to see the coldness in your eyes. I hated my father that week.)

  Friday, February 13

  What a strange afternoon. Miss Price looked terrible during class and barely spoke a word during today’s tutorial session. Disappointing. I was looking forward to her views on Petruchio’s attitudes and behavior. She actually seemed bored, doodling and sighing as if sitting in that room was some incredibly painful form of torture. What can I do? I can’t force her to participate and it’s ultimately her mark that will suffer. Will she be as surly and disinterested this evening, I wonder.

  (I couldn’t have cared less about your goddamn participation marks. I just wanted to hear you speak. But you looked so world-weary. Worst of all, I was afraid your behavior was my fault for treating you so poorly, but was equally terrified of allowing myself to believe that my actions and words could possibly have any bearing on your mood or attitude. The implications of acknowledging that scared the shit out of me—and made me feel like an egotistical prick…)

  Update: Friday, February 13, 10 p.m.

  I was forced to attend tonight’s performance of Hamlet alone with Miss Price because Miss Harper had taken ill. This was a circumstance beyond my control, but we were in public, after all, and the outing was related to curricular assessment. Unfortunately, she became quite sick during the performance, and I was forced to drive her home. I placed her safely in the care of a roommate, Matt. There was no need to enter her building. I wouldn’t have allowed her entry into my car were it not for the fact that she would quite clearly have had difficulty getting home without my assistance…

  Part Two

  Uncovering Your Ass

  and Learning to Enjoy It

  Update: Friday, February 13, 10:15 p.m.

  Oh, hell. What the fuck am I doing??? Denial. I’ve been in an absolute state of denial, completely and utterly disregarding my interest in Aubrey Price. So cool, so professional, so detached. Ha! How superior I’ve been, “fearing” she might be attracted to me, worried that she might be harboring some sort of crush on me—Daniel Grant—the handsome, young TA.

  I can’t deny the truth any longer. The only thing I’ve feared or worried about is that she might not give me more than a second glance, because I’ve given her several glances, and they’ve virtually ALL been inappropriate. For almost two weeks I’ve been congratulating myself for remaining distant and for keeping Aubrey at arm’s length, but let’s face it. I’m completely taken with her.

  She’s beautiful, but there’s so much more to her than that. She’s intelligent and funny—no, not simply funny—witty…clever. I gather from talking to Martin that she’s independent and self-sufficient, and watching her interact with her peers shows that she’s warm and well-liked. This combination of qualities goes well beyond my kryptonite…

  If I didn’t understand my feelings before, the truth hit me like a fucking freight train tonight. I almost jumped for joy when Aubrey told me that Julie Harper had taken ill and wouldn’t be joining us at the show. There we were, in that theater, watching a play for co-curricular credit, and I actually felt like we were on a date. What a moron I am.

  Every time she leaned over to tell me something, I felt her breath on my cheek and wanted to still her face with my hand and find her lips in the darkness. Aubrey has the most delicious looking rosebud lips. Oh yes. I’ve noticed. Have I ever. (Writing that—just Aubrey—all I can think about is how I’d love to brush my lips against her cheek and whisper her beautiful name in her ear…Jesus.)

  When she got si
ck, I was useless. I went into panic mode. What if someone had seen us walking together to my car? What if I’d gotten caught driving her home? On the one hand, I’m glad I had the wherewithal to feel alarmed by the implications of my behavior; on the other hand, I can’t believe I allowed Nicola’s accusations and my experiences at Oxford to dictate my actions so completely. I was a total boor. My reaction was a defensive mechanism, of course, but Aubrey must think I’m an asshole, and if she doesn’t, she’s a frigging saint.

  Actually, what am I thinking? She’s probably not giving me a second thought. This guy…this Matt…he was waiting for her when I dropped her off. He practically lifted her into his arms like some sort of fucking knight in shining armor. He’d literally run back to Jackman Hall from a party to be there for her when she got home. How can I compete with that? I can’t even talk to her alone in a room for fear of reprisals. Christ, I’m afraid to even refer to her by her first name!

  Acknowledging my frustration that he has what I can’t even get close to, makes it impossible for me to continue denying my feelings. So here I am, two weeks into the semester and already careening toward disaster, unable to share my predicament with anyone, my computer screen the only safe place to vent.

  As I sit here contemplating this mess I’ve gotten myself into, I can’t help thinking maybe I deserved what happened at Oxford. Perhaps I did give Nicola the wrong idea. What if her accusations were exacerbated by some sort of inappropriate behavior on my part?

  Bottom line: I am screwed and it’s my own damn fault. I’ve lost my moral compass, and when I close my eyes to try to center myself—as indeed I’m doing right this very minute—all I see are Aubrey’s sparkling green eyes looking back at me…