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Chapter Five: The Drive Home

Aurelia  

            Jamie seemed to be very deep in thought at 7:00, so I just stood in the doorway, making (I believed) discreet noises. It wasn't really impolite, because, although I wanted to get his attention, he didn't notice until I started coughing, which wasn't intentional, mind you. I had gone to get a glass of water, and when I came back and started drinking it, it went down the wrong way.

            With jerky, surprised movements, he looked at me, surprised, stopped typing, got up, and ran to my side. He observed the glass in my hand and took it from me, then, looking a bit uneasy and unsure, gave me a quick pat on the back. I was trying to smother the slowly subsiding coughs at this time, and looked at him, trying to say, 'Thanks for the help' sarcastically, without actually being rude. When I had stopped coughing enough to be able to hold the glass again, he gave it back to me, less careful to avoid my fingers than when I had handed him the mug of coffee. I inhaled just a bit sharply at this, but nothing more, not like in the movies, where the glass would have fallen to the floor and shattered. I then took another sip of water and felt the tickling sensation in my throat cease, as one part of me increased my grip on the cup, frightened by the thought of it breaking.

            He was still looking a bit uneasy, eyes (Stop looking at his eyes! I scolded myself.) darting from side to side a bit, as if he was trying to look in both my eyes at the same time. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and walked away. I watched his back until he was out of sight, when I occupied myself with studying the floor.

            I looked up, surprised, when I heard him clear his throat again. He was motioning for me to follow him outside. I nodded, trying to show him he didn't have to use such exaggerated gestures, that I wasn't that thick, and, with downcast eyes, was the first to get out the door. He was saying something behind me, but I didn't turn around. The colour was draining from my face as I realized I found his English babbling rather cute. He was like a little puppy dog, with those eyes and attempts at communication.

            I gave a little aggravated sigh and sort of slid into the car when he opened the door for me. I didn't even register the action as a display of kindness I was so disgusted with myself. Like a little puppy dog? I'd lost it.

            I was going to sigh again as I tugged on my seatbelt, but when I caught him looking at me out of the corner of my eye; the sigh got caught in my throat, as if nervous to approach my lips. I decided to imitate him and clear my throat to get rid of any residual sigh, smiling nervously at him.

            And there was the mumbled English again. You'd think I had picked up a word or two by now, but all I knew was what I had known for years: "Hello" and "Goodnight". Not much hope for conversation there. I might have learned a word or at least recognised one, but I don't think the guy was too articulate to begin.

            "Why are you so confusing to me?" I asked, turning my head. He looked at me, either shocked that I was speaking or trying to understand what I had said. Or maybe both. Turning back to look out the window, I added, "I've usually figured people out by now. I've done it with the language barrier. Why should you be any different?" I looked at him again; I couldn't help it. "Why, Mr Bennett? Or should I call you Jamie?"

            Oh, why did I say anything? He started up again, and this time there was no stopping him, it would seem, now that he had been encouraged by his name appearing in my monologue. It was true, I loved to study people and understand their personalities. I liked to know what made them do the things they did, how they thought, and, on those days when one cannot help being a bit of a hopeless romantic, how they imagined 'the one'.

            Jamie was singing now, and it probably related to what he was saying, but the laugh that escaped me simply couldn't be repressed. He stopped then, but I felt a bit guilty. Unsure of how to make him feel better and grateful for the silence, I didn't say or do anything. I just sat, and thought.

            I know this is a cliché, but there was a presence in the air then. At that very moment, I felt it there, and when the moment was gone, so was it. It was love. I just knew it. I didn't even attempt to convince myself that it was nothing; I didn't get too upset over it. Love was something that I'd felt since I had turned fourteen. It was nothing new, and nothing to get excited over. It was just a strong feeling of admiration and affection for someone, just a little stronger than a crush. Yes, I thought then. That was immature love, the sort you felt for an attractive boy you hardly knew when you were in school; the dark, tall, handsome guy with all the friends. That's all this is.

            That's all it was. It wasn't a new feeling, because I'd felt it quite frequently for years. It had gone away quickly, and it never became more than a momentary presence.

            Still, although I knew this, Jamie intrigued me. I held my breath and strained to hear his. I let out of breathe and looked, carefully, out of the corner of my eye to see what he was doing. He was blinking more than usual, and I thought I saw tears piling up in his eyes. My suspicions were confirmed when he pretended to brush away an eyelash, flicking a tear off his finger.

            I melted like butter. There was nothing I went more maternal about than a man crying.

            What happened next was involuntary. It was done without my permission. My hand lifted itself up and positioned itself over his. Gently, my hand squeezed his and he looked at me. My eyes, already wide, widened even more and I fought to pull my hand back. Finally, it let go; satisfied with the chaos it had caused, and was brought back to my side. I would have apologized, but I was replaying what had just happened in my head, remembering the feel of his hand.

            No! I scolded myself, and desperately looked out the window, watching things whiz by. Blurs of trees and houses began looking familiar as he slowed to a stop.

            "Goodnight," I said to him, getting out of the car with a feeling I had terribly mispronounced it. "Jamie," I quickly added.

            "Goodnight, Aurelia," he said back, and I was relieved to hear his pronunciation was the same as mine.

            I turned in the opposite direction, counted to fifteen, and started running. I pulled out my key, unlocked the door, and closed it behind me faster than I ever had. Leaning against the door, as if Jamie was banging on the door, trying to get in, I felt a great relief spread over me. All my joints felt looser, and I was more relaxed, but, somehow, I felt only discontent. I had been happy with Jamie, I realized, more than a little frightened.

            Taking a few deep breaths, I thought, Don't worry. It's only a crush.

            I smiled suddenly. It's only a crush. That's all it was. And it would pass just like all crushes did. It would fade away, dissipate, vaporize, evanesce, whatever.

            Or, said another voice in my head, It could become love. It could become the love you've never felt but always heard of. Be careful. This Jamie could be the one, or he could break your heart.

            I laughed aloud, and didn't think of that possibility for a long, long time.