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

  Saturday, February 14

  Sad sack that I am, I spent Valentine’s Day with Penny. Not that I don’t love the girl, but really, what a pathetic state of affairs. Things might have been worse, I guess. I could have gone out with Jeremy. I had myself convinced that I was doing Penn a favor by meeting her for dinner to keep her company while Brad’s out of town, but let’s face it—I was the one in need of distracting this evening.

  All I could think about was Aubrey, wondering if she was feeling all right after last night’s craziness, and obsessing about whether she might be out somewhere with her “roommate,” enjoying Valentine’s Day. I felt physically sick at the thought. Would Matt buy chocolates? Flowers? Maybe take her out for dinner and a movie? And then afterward…shit. The thoughts that flood my mind when I imagine them together—there’s not enough brain bleach in the world, I fucking kid you not.

  So, thank God for Penny. We met at Canoe, and she sat and listened as I shared my pathetic tale—carefully, mind you. I made no mention of Aubrey’s name and didn’t reveal that she works for my father, only the fact that she’s just a student. (Just a student! Ha! Listen to me! I’ve lost my fucking mind, I’m sure of it…)

  Penny promised to keep my secret, even from Brad. I don’t want to put him in an awkward situation. Of course, that doesn’t mean Penny isn’t in one hell of a position…

  You know, after everything she’s put up with over the last year and a half, I’m amazed Penny is still prepared to spend time with me. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve her friendship and loyalty, but maybe she figures there’s no point writing me off. Soon she’ll be my sister-in-law, and then there’s no escaping me.

  Penn’s advice was predictable. She told me I have to put thoughts of “this girl” out of my mind and remember she could ruin me if I allowed myself to cross a line. She reminded me that I’ve been given a second chance, and if I screw up, I’ll have no one but myself to blame. She also made me feel like a complete prat, pointing out that I’ve known the girl for all of two weeks and I’m pining for her like a pimply fourteen-year-old! She’s right. What the hell is my problem?

  I’m truly at a loss to understand what it is about Aubrey that affects me so profoundly. Maybe I’m just starved for female companionship. After being unattached, frozen emotionally for almost a year, perhaps I’m finally starting to thaw. Then in walks Aubrey, who is warm and intelligent, beautiful and sexy, and I’m blindsided.

  To top it all off, we do seem to have some sort of strange chemistry—something I haven’t felt in a long time. It can’t be possible that I was imagining the undercurrent between us last night. But perhaps I’m overreacting, since it’s been so long since I’ve felt connected to anyone. Given the fact that she clearly has a boyfriend, I must be reading into things. Simply put, where this perceived connection between us is concerned, I’m seeing what I want to see.

  Chemistry or not, Penny is right. I have to steer well clear of her. I have to put an end to these futile fantasies. Come Monday morning, I will be everything my father has advised: helpful and interested in Aubrey’s work, but emotionally detached. This is how it has to be if I hope to protect my position at the university and preserve my sanity.

  What I really need is a diversion. I’m tempted to call Sabrina. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  But really, what would be the harm? I need a friend, and she was supportive when I came home from the UK, telling me she’d always be there for me if I needed her. All I know is that I have to do something. All this overthinking is killing me. A trip to Ottawa might be fun. We could take in a few museums, hit up some good restaurants…

  Yes, I’ll call Sabrina—not tonight, though—a Valentine’s Day call might be misconstrued. I’ll call her tomorrow. I feel better already, just having made a decision.

  Sunday, February 15

  I phoned Sabrina today. I can’t decide how I feel about our talk. I have the distinct impression I’ve leaped from the frying pan smack dab into the middle of the fire. When I mentioned a trip to Ottawa to visit her, I swear I heard her exhale—a long, low sigh—a sigh of victory perhaps, as if she’d been waiting for me to utter those very words since she left for Ottawa at Christmastime. I should have left well enough alone. As she breathed out, I felt my own chest tighten, and the rest of the conversation was a jumble of words competing with the shrieking inside my brain, something to the tune of “WHAT IN THE LIVING FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  But there I go, overanalyzing again. In fact, allowing myself to believe she’s so eager to see me makes me sound like an arrogant git. In what way is securing my attention a victory? I’m a mess, and if she knew better, she’d keep her distance. Either she doesn’t know better or she’s just as desperate for companionship as I am…

  Monday, February 16

  How many sensations can one woman provoke in the course of an hour? In the case of Aubrey Price, apparently a metric fuckton. She gave me an emotional workout this morning, handing me my ass in the process.

  First, there was anger. I arrived at my dad’s office to look for him after he didn’t show up for our coffee meeting, only to find Aubrey alone in his private office, rooting through his desk. What the hell was she doing in there alone? My father would be horrified at the thought that she was in there without his approval. (Add to that the panic I felt, being alone in that office with her without any witnesses…imagine my first thoughts. I lost all ability to be rational.)

  Next came embarrassment. As it turned out, her reason for being in my father’s office was not just legitimate, but sanctioned by him. He’d been called away and she was helping him find some documents in his filing cabinet. He confirmed as much when I phoned him. I had needlessly lost my temper and made a buffoon of myself. Great.

  Shame followed. She could have been a bitch and thrown my words and accusations back at me, but she immediately brushed my behavior aside, claiming I’d made an honest mistake.

  Finally, I settled into a state of gratitude. Not only did she forgive my asinine behavior, she listened to me as I waxed on about my brothers and my friendship with Penny. I completely forgot myself with her. I could have sat and chatted with her for hours. She was so frigging receptive to my jabbering, I swear I was on the verge of telling her all about what happened at Oxford. Luckily, I caught myself in time and got the hell out of there.

  (But not before allowing myself to believe she’d enjoyed our chat as much as I had. So, I suppose you can add delusional to the emotional catalog of my day.)

  And now, I’m left thinking that all the qualities I’m observing in Aubrey (some borne of attraction—I won’t attempt to deny it—but others based on her actions and words), would make her an amazing friend and confidante. I can imagine her listening quietly and nodding sympathetically as I pour out my soul to her. The thought of doing that, however fantastical and ill-advised the notion is, makes me feel strangely content.

  If I could speak to her now, perhaps wax poetic, I’d share a sonnet with her—one which I’m identifying with in a completely different way tonight. It makes more sense to me now than it ever has before…

  Sonnet 29

  “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

  I all alone beweep my outcast state

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

  And look upon myself and curse my fate,

  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

  Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,

  Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

  For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”

  ~W. Shakespeare


  “I think on thee…and then my state…sings hymns at heaven’s gate…” God, how I wish I could feel this way when I think of Sabrina (or anyone but Aubrey, for that matter). That would be so very convenient.

  Friday, February 20

  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.)

  Wednesday, February 25

  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 sp
end 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…)

  Sunday, March 1

  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.