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

  Tuesday, March 3

  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…

  Wednesday, March 4

  It’s been a long day, one I wasn’t even remotely rested enough to face. Perhaps my exhaustion is to blame for my outlandish behavior. I’m not sure how best to justify it, but I wish I could take back my actions.

  Having secured an alternate venue for my Friday tutorials after class today, I should have headed to the English office to check on my office hour appointments before my meeting with my advisor, but once again, I was drawn to Aubrey, and since I’d heard her telling Julie she was going to the Hart House library to do some reading, I felt compelled to swing by, hoping to share a few words with her. Plus, I had a note burning a hole in my pocket, something I wanted to give her which I’d penned late last night after reading poetry until all hours. I thought she’d find a handwritten note romantic and charming. Somehow, I doubt that’s the final impression I left her with after our encounter today.

  When I arrived at the library, she was flaked out on a couch reading. I sat in a chair across the room and watched her for a while. Every few pages, she’d look up and stare
into space. She seemed so melancholy…wistful almost…so beautiful. At one point, she stood and looked out the window for a few moments. Sadly, she was wearing a really long sweater. Happily, I have a fertile imagination. I swear, the thought of her luscious ass in those tight, black pants makes me lose the ability to think rationally.

  A few minutes later, rational behavior joined its counterpart rational thought—both having gone up in smoke, apparently—and the next thing I knew, I was texting her (revealing my presence in the room and again feeling like a bit of a stalker, for the third day in a row) and begging her to remove her sweater. Whether this was a playful request or a desperate command, I don’t know, but Aubrey complied, regardless. She unbuttoned and slipped off the sweater and, perhaps understanding the motive behind my words, she returned to the window, taunting me by stretching her hands over her head. In addition to affording me a chance to salivate over her glorious ass, this move gave me a quick glance at a swath of creamy skin below the hem of her T-shirt that begged to be touched and kissed.

  The way she looked at me over her shoulder as she slowly lowered her arms made me utterly unravel.

  Was she more sensuous today than other days? Was there something about the quiet tension in the room that inspired my quickening desire? Or had Tuesday’s meeting—the embrace we’d shared, the feeling of her breath on my neck, her fingers in my hair—had this promise of physical delights to come awakened an insatiable lust that had to be articulated? I don’t know. I can’t account for what I said and did next.

  I pictured her on that sofa with sunlight streaming across her naked body. I saw her beckon me to join her, begging me to kiss her, and even though this was all a fabrication, the machinations of my overwrought imagination, I needed her to know how much I wanted that—how desperately I wanted to devour her lips with mine, and then traverse her entire body with my tongue. The physical need to do this was acute to the point of pain.

  I sent her a series of pointed and wildly inappropriate text messages, the physical gestures accompanying them undeniable in their intent. If she were ever to recoil, fearful of my feelings and the passion inspiring them, today would have been the day. She didn’t. She met my eyes. The desire in her gaze matched my own. Had we been alone in that room, I would have seduced her on that sofa without another thought. It stands to follow, then, that I owe my safe escape to the handful of undergrads sprawled around the room. After drawing Aubrey’s attention to the note I was leaving for her on the chair, I fled, taking a moment to send her a plea from the hallway, begging her to erase our ill-advised correspondence. Good sense had returned, and with it, the potential peril of having put my lewd desires into words became clear.

  Given the raunchiness of the exchange I’d initiated, I’m sure she was expecting the note I’d left behind to be similar in nature. It wasn’t. It was quite lovely, actually, inspired by the Bard’s wonderful words in Sonnet 57.

  “Being your slave, what should I do but tend

  Upon the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time at all to spend,

  Nor services to do, till you require.

  Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

  Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

  When you have bid your servant once adieu;

  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

  Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

  But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

  Save, where you are how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love that in your will,

  Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.”

  ~W. Shakespeare

  Could I have picked a poem whose tone was more incongruous with the behavior I’d just exhibited? Aubrey must think I’m mad. I may well be. With fifty-seven days in the interim, by the end of the semester, I could be positively certifiable.

  Sunday, March 8

  “Whatever.”

  I hate that word. I never hear it without wanting to throttle the person saying it.

  What does it mean?

  Do whatever you want. It makes no difference to me. I don’t care. Fuck you.

  If I’d ever doubted the damage words can do, Nicola made their catastrophic powers clear with three words. Those three words that she uttered—he molested me—they didn’t just damage my life, they obliterated my hopes and dreams. Indeed, I’m no stranger to the power of words.

  And last night, Aubrey dealt me a “whatever.” I lost my shit.

  I have no idea how it happened. Everything seemed fine on Friday. We went to Mary’s service, not a happy occasion by any stretch of the imagination, but we were there for each other, our fingers secretly intertwined during the whole ceremony. I felt so grounded by that simple touch. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve grown to rely on Aubrey as a stabilizing force. She validated this feeling in a note she gave me afterward in which she mentioned that she feels connected to me, even when we’re apart. I was heartened to see how in sync our feelings were. It seemed to further underscore our compatibility.

  Desperate to forge ahead, eager to know everything about her, to understand what makes her tick, I convinced her to meet me at the Four Seasons Hotel after the service. We shared a clandestine embrace in the stairwell, and feeling her in my arms, so soft and warm, her body melded to mine, I was reminded of the slippery slope I was navigating, revisiting the anguished journey of my week and recalling the advice Penny had shared over breakfast that morning. “Just get it over with,” she’d said, claiming I’ve already lost my objectivity and might as well follow my instincts with Aubrey.

  I refused to see that as my only option, believing it entirely possible to nurture a friendship with Aubrey. Certainly affection would come into play, but I reasoned that there was no need for either one of us to give in to primal sexual urges. I was convinced that we could move forward with a chaste courtship in which the primary goal was simply getting to know one another.

  With that philosophy in mind, I talked Aubrey into joining me for lunch at the Four Seasons, and we spent two hours enjoying a leisurely meal, during which we finally had a chance to talk—properly. I have to admit, there were a few suggestive moments, but we seemed to navigate our way through the minefield of desire and stay remarkably focused on learning about each other. In fact, over the course of those two hours, we covered a hell of a lot of ground.

  I discovered that her parents are not only divorced, but they’ve both relocated, leaving Aubrey here in Toronto to fend for herself, something she’s obviously doing quite admirably, working part-time and still managing to carry a full-course load while achieving Honors standing. Listening to her talk, I got a very clear sense of her pride and determination. Knowing the obstacles she’s overcome made me feel ashamed of the lack of financial obstacles I’ve had to face. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been surrounded by luxuries and all manner of indulgences.

  Despite the many things Aubrey and I have in common (not the least of which is our mutual fondness for witty repartee and an affection for Elizabethan literature), we’ve had very different upbringings. I find myself wanting to give her everything—to take her to nice restaurants, to buy her clothes, to take her on trips…in short, I want to spoil her silly. Already I can tell that won’t be easy. Have I mentioned she’s stubborn as a fucking mule?

  Have I also mentioned she’s so sexy she can liquefy my bones (all but one of them), with a simple hug, a few suggestive whispers and a coy glance from under her eyelashes? The embrace we shared in the underground car park as we headed to my car was very nearly pornographic, despite the fact that we were both fully clothed and we didn’t even so much as kiss…

  Essentially, when faced with her charms, I become a dithering idiot. I’ve swung from one extreme to the other and back again (several times) this week—horny and desperate one minute and restrained and prudent the next, back and forth, changi
ng my tune with the direction of the shifting wind. I suppose it’s no wonder things fell apart last night.

  The day started well enough. Aubrey and I talked on the phone (yes, I took the plunge and made first contact). We had what amounted to a very normal phone call between two people who have just started dating. We even had the most hilarious “phone sex” exchange, innocent enough, and primarily in jest, but another reminder of not just her fantastic sense of humor, but of exciting things to come.

  At least that’s what I thought yesterday. Now I’m not so sure of our future. We went to the benefit concert in honor of Mary last night, had a great time with my brothers, Penny and Julie, and as far as I was concerned, it was a successful evening. Sure it was a little tense here and there, with Cara’s arrival, and Matt’s unfortunate presence (he’s like a bad rash), but having Jeremy, Brad, Penny, and Julie around us, finally aware of what’s going on, normalized things.

  Maybe that was part of the problem. Perhaps that’s what inspired Aubrey’s uncharacteristic outburst last night in the taxi. It was bad enough that I climbed into the backseat of that car with her in the first place, but then to find myself in a position where she was kissing my neck, whispering in my ear, pleading with me to bring her home to the condo…well, how was I supposed to react? She seemed to have lost her ability to think straight and completely forgotten the inadvisability of us being alone together.

  But when I tried to talk sense to her and remind her of the precariousness of the situation, she snapped. I tried to reason with her, but by that point she was too angry to listen. She simply crossed her arms and shut down. I decided she needed a chance to cool down and think things through. As we pulled up to the condo, I asked her if it would be okay if I phoned her, and that’s when she delivered those three unfortunate syllables: