“And if you worked somewhere else?” she says, now gathering up the spices that have rolled away.
I shoot her an amused glance, grateful for the distraction but already steeling myself for her reaction. “Are you ready?” I say.
She winces. “That bad?” When I shrug, she sighs. “All right. I’m ready.”
“I’d probably do something in finance. Banking. Investing.” I let the words out in a gust. “I believe a modern term might befinance bro.” Pausing, I glance at her. “Do people still say that?”
She smiles then, a rare, full smile, and something in my chest stutters at the way her eyes seem to laugh. “You’re asking the old lady in the room,” she says. “You’d know better than me.”
My shoulders twitch into a shrug. I shouldn’t care what she thinks, but somehow I do. “Regardless. I’d probably be one of those guys. Loud and obnoxious and conceited. Full of himself, high on the fumes of his own perceived intelligence.”
A burst of laughter escapes her at this, the sound ringing through the kitchen, bouncing from the windows to the linoleum floors to the metal handle of the fridge. It grows and expands and does unexpected, inconvenient things to my pulse, and I’m not sure if I love it or hate it.
“Don’t say that,” she says when her laughter has died. The echoes are still in her expression, though, a breathless smile and brows quirked in challenge. “Whatever you’re going to do, own it. If it’s not something you want to own, do something else. Either way—don’t cower.” She pauses. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I keep telling myself that too,” I admit. The words escape before I can stop them, and although I want to pull them back, Aurora simply jerks her chin at me.
“Try again, then.”
My lips twitch as a strange lightness enters my chest. I take a deep breath, meet her expectant eyes, and nod. “Fine. Okay.” Then, clearing my throat, I say, “I studied finance. I’m good at business and investment. So I’d probably do well as some sort of investment banker.”
She claps a few times, and I raise my brow at her.
“Happy?”
“Proud of you.” Then she gestures to the cardboard box. “You should put that stuff away unless you want to pay me to do it for you.”
Only then do I realize the floor is completely clear again, and I blink in surprise. “I’ll pay you to do it. Thanks—” I say, but she’s already on her way out of the kitchen again, not bothering to excuse herself.
I just watch her go. The shadow of Tyler’s house seems to have vanished finally; she’s brighter, more buoyant, more relaxed.
Maybe she’s forgiving me for seeing her in that holding cell, too. Maybe she’ll let me approach her now, hand outstretched with food like she’s a feral cat.
The only question is…do I want to?
ROMAN
I stayat work late on Wednesday, and on Friday too. I send an email to Aurora letting her know there’s a house key under my front door mat, and although I don’t see her come and go, when I arrive back at my house I can tell she’s been there. In my mind’s eye I picture the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes, zooming through my home, only instead of leaving everything messy in her wake she leaves it clean—the study is done, accompanied by a list of how everything has been organized, written in neat handwriting. She’s finished the dining room too, and based on the neat stacks of old DVDs by the TV stand, she’s now working on the family room.
I don’t know for sure, though; I try not to be at home until she’s gone. I’m avoiding her. Not forever—just for a bit, until I figure a few things out.
Because I realized Wednesday morning getting ready for the day that I was excited to see her. Looking forward to it, even. That was an interesting occurrence. The way my pulse jumped in my veins when I got my first glimpse of her at work was interesting too.
She’s the same Aurora. But something about Tuesday evening while she rage-cleaned at my house seems to have changed the way I look at her—slightly enough that it’s hard to put a finger on but noticeable all the same.
Her pride is now tinged with vulnerability, much more fascinating, much more real; she walked through ex-boyfriend muck with her head held high, but she was unthreatened enough by me to cast that dignity off when she retreated and waged war on my spare bedroom.
She’s loud, not literally but in a less definable way. She’s bright. And I…
I find myself wanting to dig until I get to the parts of her that are ear-splitting instead of merely loud. Blinding instead of bright.
If I keep going in this direction, I’ll get greedier and greedier until I want everything. That’s the pull of Aurora Marigold, and I shouldn’t take another step toward her if my future self is going to want out.
So I’m staying away. Not that it’s helping overly much; I fell asleep in my makeshift office during the lunch break on Thursday, and in those thirty minutes, my brain managed to cast her in my dreams. We were laughing, and then we were kissing, and when I jolted awake my heart was beating so fast I thought something was wrong with my health.
Which, you know, might be the case. I’m certainly thinking about things I’ve never thought about before. Things like dating, and what kind of age gap is considered too extreme.
I’m not saying I want to ask her out. But if I did—if—well…
