Don’t Be in Love

12

Don’t Stand Near Ponds, Especially During

Arguments — Adelaide

It was raining, again. Usually, I’d be excited to have London greet me at night with a patter on my window like an imaginary Romeo.

I enjoyed watching everyone stop in the middle of their routes to collectively swing their umbrellas up over their heads and then continue on, like a snippet from a musical.

Birds bathed in the puddles. Trees became as vibrant as the ones in watercolor paintings. Even the Thames got a chance to join in on the city’s noise.

But it was all ruined now. And right as the rain was so close to becoming a friend. How unfortunate.

I slipped on my dress and watched the rain tug on my tree outside, all I could think of was Dorian last night.

Dorian’s stubbornness. Dorian’s smirk. Dorian’s wet hair. Dorian’s jacket over my head. Dorian’s soaked shirt. It completely tarnished the rain.

The curtain rods screeched as I pulled the drapes forward to cover the outside. Focus . I zipped up the back of the cocktail dress and dragged my tights over my legs. The sheer black fabric was sprinkled in tiny crystals that I had glued on years ago during Christmas break after seeing a similar pair in Vogue .

I had stolen the tights from my mother’s closet before she had left. For the first few years, it was difficult to look at them. To see something that was hers. Something she had worn when she was happy. A piece from her Before.

But sometimes it was easier to pretend that I had this great mother who left me garments as a token rather than a woman who up and left her daughter because I reminded her too much of her failed family.

The first time I wore them, my aunt had stared a second too long. She knew. Yet, she hadn’t said anything. As per usual.

It felt like bad luck to wear them now.

Who would’ve thought the Townsen Dinner took place on campus every year? Well, not me. The school was capable of affording Buckingham Palace to rent if they wanted to (unlikely that was a legal option). But the grounds did have a magical touch to them at night that I hadn’t experienced.

Anytime I was on campus late, it was to leave the library. And I didn’t go prancing through the gardens after. But walking through them now, I wish I had.

The majority of the space behind campus was clean-cut lawn decorated with iron tables, chairs, and trees. It simply looked like a vast forest where fairies took advantage of the seating, only lit by the small sconces attached to the school’s verandas. A werewolf or Mr. Darcy wearing a billowing coat could pop out at any moment.

“The Dinner happens in there.” Sabrina pointed to the one lone stone building across the grounds. A pawn set apart from its chess pieces. “It’s designated for events and other university-hosted things.”

As the main campus’s veranda ended, I swung my umbrella over our heads as we stepped onto the pavers stamped into the grass, like lily pads in a pond. My feet wobbled in my heels.

We followed the stream of students, filing into the building. Many of whom wore designer dresses. Archival pieces. Right off-the-runway pieces.

“Is that a chandelier?” Mia whispered, tilting her head back as we entered the lobby. Her box braids dipped down her ivory dress, a pearlescent hairclip twinkling.

“That’s a chandelier,” I responded, watching the grandiose gems refract light off the walls. “Really accentuates the spiral staircase, don’t you think?”

Mia spoke in a terrible British accent, “I wouldn’t go that far. The staircase is only made of a maple wood, nothing tasteful like a Parisian marble.”

“Oh, a Parisian marble you say?” I twirled my fake mustache.

“ Guys ,” Sabrina glared at us as she checked our coats at the desk.

“Her words are divisive. But her eyes are saying we’re hilarious,” I told Mia.

“Americans.” Sabrina’s hair bobbed as she shook her head.

Leaving our coats, we walked past the desk and up the spiral staircase. Sabrina’s face quieted as we joined the group of luscious fabrics and tapping heels. Her neck arched every time a male with brown hair popped up in front of us.

“Do you think Dorian’s already here?” she fretted.

“I’m not sure. But we’ll have fun either way.” I reached for her hand and squeezed as we reached the second floor.

“A ballroom with floor-to-ceiling windows. I think the chandelier just became less impressive,” I commented, taking in the view.

The ballroom was shaped like a half-moon, four long tables satisfying the back of the room along the windows. They were draped with black tablecloths and crystal flatware. At the front of the space, students were mingling, some even dancing to a small group of musicians playing violins and cellos.

“Are we sure we’re in the right place?” I asked. “I knew Townsen events were … lavish. But it feels like we’ve entered some Secret Student Society and they’re going to chop off a piece of our hair for admittance.”

“Oh, we’re in the right place. I just saw Brad from Psychology II picking something out of his teeth,” Mia pointed to Brad, who was indeed trying to get something out of his teeth.

“I need tea,” Sabrina exhaled, going straight to a side table that housed a tea dispenser and porcelain teacups. I stood back at the edge of the entry way as Mia followed her for the cucumber sandwiches.

Where was he?

I didn’t want him to be here. I wanted tonight to be easy. Easy would be fantastic. Chat with my friends, eat some sad excuse for a pie, convince someone’s affluential, spoiled college kid that I was social yet professional enough to work for their CEO of a mother when I graduated. Not keep a third eye on Dorian all night.

But I didn’t catch any left dimples or even a head of platinum hair. Most of the men wore the same attire: black dress pants that matched their black suit jackets with white button-downs underneath.

Then someone moved, and there was Dorian.

I saw the silver rings on his fingers first, and the crease of his dark brow next. His navy blue jacket was off, thrown over a chair somewhere. Shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing two tattoos. His smile was abundant. A painting of joy. His eyes were closed with heavy laughter. Strands of hair fell forward like branches as James held onto his arm trying to finish a story. It was how I found him the night we met, but wildly different in so many ways.

I hadn’t realized how long I had been staring until his laugh ceased and his gaze caught me like an arrow to the chest.

Shit . Should I wave? Turn around and pretend like I hadn’t been staring? The dinosaur trick? Maybe I—

His face bloomed into something earnest. I was expecting discomfort. A sweeping glance in the opposite direction. But he stared right back at me. Silver rings rubbed at the side of his neck.

Placing a hand in his pocket, I watched as his lips mouthed one word: Wow .

I shook my head, as if to say, Do you ever stop?

He rolled his tongue in disbelief. You don’t believe me?

I know you.

His brows rose. Really?

Yup .

Maybe I know you.

Do you? I bit the inside of my cheek.

He tapped his watch. You’re already ready to leave .

I pressed my lips together. Point taken .

He hid a smile. The lines beside his lips softened like butter as his smile dropped altogether.

Opening his mouth, I read the words he shaped out.

You look beautiful.

My heart thudded against my chest.

Thank you, I mouthed back .

His face was peaceful. No crease or smirk or fidgeting. It was romantic, in theory. It seemed genuine, in theory. Being told you looked beautiful could confuse anyone. It warmed you from the inside out like a sip of mulled wine running down your throat on a night where the windows were frosted over.

But I knew Dorian. I knew men like Dorian. They chased. Caught. Relished. And then moved on.

Watching it firsthand between your parents wasn’t necessary but that’s where I gained my patch of honor in Spotting Typical Men, stitched right onto my frontal lobe.

Each student here had assisted in providing me enough evidence of that only ten minutes later when we sat down to eat. Almost every head was turned towards Dorian.

The tables around us were loud with chatter, but ours was rowdy with whispers as people peppered him with questions about his dating life.

Princesses, models, actresses. There wasn’t a category we hadn’t touched on. New files were opening and labeling themselves in my brain the more everyone spoke.

So much for the students being academic titans that I would have to fight off with my planner and overheated laptop.

A phone rang and everyone quieted. I immediately caught strands of dark hair falling forward in my peripheral.

Dorian leaned over to whisper something in James’s ear. James said something with a disapproving look before Dorian stood and walked out of the room on a call. Everyone stared at the empty seat and glanced at James.

“You think he’ll come back, right? The dancing hasn’t even begun yet,” Sabrina asked, worry strung across her brow.

“I’m sure it’s just a quick call,” Mia assured her.

“It’s probably Victoria,” a girl across from us—Amber, I think—whispered.

“Who’s Victoria?” another girl asked.

“She’s Dorian’s girlfriend,” she responded.

The files I had been building in my head suddenly burst from their cabinets. A girlfriend?

Sabrina’s fork clanked against her plate.

“What’s her name?” Mia sat forward instantly.

“Victoria Sutton. Her and Dorian have been off and on for years,” Amber took a loud slurp from her straw. “If he hasn’t been seen with anyone, then he’s probably with her again.”

Sabrina was either swaying beside me or my vision was blurring around the edges from the built-up resentment uncurling behind my eyes.

I needed to slow down on the mulled wine.

I immediately pulled out my phone and began typing Victoria’s name into—

“No phones.” My heart caught in my throat as a man in a tweed suit appeared out of nowhere, plucking my phone away.

“Excuse me?” I twisted in my seat, clutching the back of my chair.

“We have a no phone policy at Townsen Events.” His voice dragged low as if to say obviously .

“Since when?”

“Since 1705 when the college was founded and phones didn’t exist,” he responded with a smug smile.

“I just needed to check my email.” I reached for my—

He moved his hand away. “If you want to use your phone, you can go outside.”

I stood up and took the phone, striding towards the doorway, down the stairs, and back outside. I was too prideful to not not go outside now.

Alright.

Fortunately, the rain had come to a halt. But it had left the grass a soppy mess. Mud was kicked up over the stone path we had originally followed. Glancing at my heels, I pivoted, taking the (cleaner) path to the right, where it ventured into the trees.

Crickets chirped and slow streams of water dripped off of the leaves I passed under. The soft lull of the string music was faint as I found a small pond reflecting the light of the moon and took a seat on its neighboring bench.

The phone screen blinded me as I finished typing in Victoria Sutton .

Twenty-two years old. Also in her last year at Townsen University. Model. Social media star. Swore by green juice for puffy eyes.

She was pretty. Blond hair, pale skin with a bright blush to her cheeks.

I scrolled on, searching for some sort of headline that— ah uh . There it was: Is Victoria Sutton Seeing Dorian Bla—

“What are you doing?”

I jumped up and smacked my phone against my chest, clutching it tight. “Jesus, you scared me,” I yelped, my throat tight.

Dorian threw his hands up. “Didn’t mean to.”

My shoulders fell. “What are you doing out here?”

“I had a call,” he responded. “What are you doing out here?”

“I was taking a phone call too.”

“Who were you talking to?” He crossed his arms.

“My aunt.”

“You said you don’t talk to your aunt.”

“When did I say that?”

“Last night. At the bookshop.”

Shit .

He spoke again. “What are you doing outside then, and why does it involve holding your phone to your chest like a stolen bar of gold?”

I immediately dropped my hand from chest, letting my phone hang at my side. “I just needed some fresh air.”

“In the muddy grass?”

“Perhaps I enjoy grass in its post-rain state. You don’t know me.”

A second of silence past. Another chirp of a cricket. Until Dorian’s eyes darted to my phone and his hand leapt.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked, jumping backward, stunned by how close he just got—both to me and my phone, which was now in his hand.

The rich smell of sandalwood and espresso surrounded me now. Another clean garment ruined.

The phone illuminated his face. His eyes darted across the words. They scanned, read, and then stopped.

“You were looking up Victoria? Why?” he asked. There was no emotion. It was as if he served a ball to my side and simply wanted me to hit it back.

“Mia had mentioned her,” I answered.

“And you care?” A crease of surprise spread across his forehead.

“No, of—”

“Don’t lie.” It was like my attempt at a groundstroke fell flat, underwhelming him.

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not ly—”

“Are you jealous?”

Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because I think you think about that night too,” he said quietly.

His eyes were doing that thing again. The thing where they shot a zing right through my spine. They were half-closed, one foot inside of a dream. As if they were writing a stanza of Italian poetry across my lips. It made the wind against the tree branches sound like soft guitar strums.

“Can I have my phone back?” I shot my hand forward.

“Answer the question.” He pulled it away, taking a step back.

I groaned in frustration. “I can’t believe you’ve somehow convinced someone to be your girlfriend .” I took ahold of the phone.

“Victoria?” His brows furrowed.

“No, my neighbor Maureen. Yes, Victoria .”

“Victoria’s not my girlfriend.”

“Really?”

He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

He sounded just like my dad. It’s complicated , he had told me the day he left us. I was twelve. I have to leave. You’ll be better off without me. Apparently, his new wife and newborn twin daughters weren’t.

“It’s really none of my business anyways now that we’re talking about it. Just. Give. Me. The. Phone!” I pulled like a ten thousand-dollar game of tug-a-war was on the line.

But then he pulled back with twice as much strength. And suddenly the phone was no longer in my grasp, and I was screaming as my hair was thrown in front of my face and the ground left my feet, falling backwards.

The pond water was colder than London’s October rain. It split the goosebumps on my legs, piercing right through my tights. My fingers immediately curled in as water rushed up my nose. It pried at my closed mouth and eyelids, trying to get in. It hurt it was so cold. I was trapped. Crying. Shut inside my old room all over again, blocking my ears but the waves were still roaring. Seaweed brushed my arms with a cold graze. Wrapping its fingers around my waist and pulling—

I gasped, gulping a cloud of air. My heart pounded in my chest as I clung to Dorian. My fingers buried themselves into his soaked dress shirt, gripping onto his shoulders. The muscles that made up my throat were rattling as I tried to get steady flows of air in and out, like the frame of a building being taken by a breeze.

His voice was muffled. I couldn’t make out the words. The memories were louder. His hand breached my jaw as he took my face into his hands.

This was so much worse than being together in the rain.

“Adelaide, are you alright?” he asked. His eyes were wide, marked by remnants of the pond. They searched my face, marking checkpoints as they went along. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. “I’m fine, yes. I’m fine, I’m fine.” I pushed away from him, quickly finding the edge of the pond and pulling myself out. The only thing keeping me breathing was the sight of my phone safely on the grass.

“Adelaide, wait.” My skeletal system jumped each time he said my name.

The water sloshed behind me. I turned to find his chest rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to scream at him for ruining my dress and causing me to raise my voice an octave and making me question my feelings and I so badly wanted to shove him back into the water.

But I couldn’t. Because all I could focus on was the absolute disarray in which his shirt was in because it was barely there. A transparent cloth stuck against his chest and abdomen from the water.

Suddenly, I was back in that night where I was pulling his shirt off. Another vexing reminder of what I was trying to forget. Another memento for me to deal with when I tried to fall asleep tonight, or saw him in class Monday, or watched Hugh Grant come out of the lake in Bridget Jones’s Diary with a cigarette in his mouth.

I’d never watch that movie again.

I spun away. “I need to go.”

“But—”

“Adelaide!” an urgent shout came, but in the opposite direction.

Mia. She rushed forward and then came to an abrupt stop, taking my wet appearance in. And taking in Dorian’s a bit longer. “What happened to—”

I held my hand up. “We’ll talk about it later. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sabrina.”