Don’t Be in Love

14

Don’t Fall Asleep in Libraries — Adelaide

“Adelaideeee.”

I jolted in my seat as Mia’s hand waved in front of my eyes.

“Hello there. Welcome back.” She smiled as I blinked fast and hard, trying to remember why my computer was resting upside down on the table. Flipping it right side up, I was met with a blinking screen, like TV static in the 1960s.

Oh right. It had decided to ruin my life and stop working. I began randomly holding buttons down. That’d work, right?

It didn’t.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Giving myself a five minute break.”

“With your eyes closed?”

“Studies show if you take a nap for even just five minutes, it’s enough to rejuvenate your creativity.”

“Will that make your laptop work too?”

My eyes shot open. I huffed. “What had you been saying before? About plans?”

“Sabrina’s dads invited us to a movie premiere, tomorrow night, can you believe that?” she shrieked.

“Shh, we’re in a library,” I warned.

The last thing I needed was for the librarian to kick us out. This was my only place of solitude for studying. Even when I was closed off in my room at the apartment with my headphones on, trying to study, I found myself giving in to watching Strictly Come Dancing with Brina or proofreading Mia’s articles or chatting with their families on the phone during Monday night dinners when I should really be making headway on Dover’s paper (as it was marked in my planner under every Monday in October).

She rolled on, lowering her voice just a spec. “Brina said we get to dress up and watch the actors walk the red carpet before the movie. We have to be at her parent’s place for six in order to make the carpet at seven.”

“When is this?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. I just said that.” She gave me a disapproving glance. “Don’t say—”

I squinted, preparing for the attack, leaning back in my chair. “I think I’m going to—”

“—that you’re going—”

“—to have to pass.” I shielded my face.

“—to pass.” She sighed.

The setting sun coming through the wall-stretched windows was warm enough to put me to sleep. I could curl my arms up and use my overheated laptop as a pillow even with the intimidated look on Mia’s face. Tall, gaunt trees craned for a view inside our hidden corner of the library. Their burnt orange and lemon ricotta yellow leaves were like claws trying to get at the books.

“Tomorrow is the last day of midterms and all I want to do after is read the past six Cultural Comments from The New Yorker, watch reality TV, stuff my face with the creamiest vanilla frappe I can find, and sleep before I have to do this all over again.” I gestured to the calculator (for creating KPIs), stacks of papers (highlighted printed syllabi), two cups of coffee (that I still loathed) and a mutilated lip gloss tube (because I couldn’t stop picking at my lips and needed to lather them in coconut goodness).

Her mouth was pressed into a line. “Is the project kicking your ass that much?”

“You really know how to comfort a friend, don’t you?”

“I didn’t mean it that way! But I hardly hear you say anything anymore that isn’t ‘planner, assignment, or SEO strategy.’”

My skin smelled like coconut as I dropped my head into my palms. “Midterm assignments have been overriding my semester-long assignments lately, so I’ve just had even less time than usual.”

“What do you have left on your project for Sylvie? It’s the project on watches, right?”

I nodded. I chose this small business that handmade watches in Scotland and engraved people’s wishes on the back of the faces.

“My next step is to create content to put in the editorial calendar. I’ll make some graphics, along with taking a day to go shoot photos. I’m not too worried about it, unless my decision to take some of the pictures on a disposable camera blows up in my face and the film ends up entirely blacked out. But if it goes well, then I’ll end up with these perfectly vintage-like photos that’ll match the timeless, elegant ambiance of the campaign. Imagine a catalog with film photos, a Bodoni italicized font, hints of beige and ice blue bordering images postcard style.”

“No wonder Sylvie was so nice to you that morning. You’re making the rest of us look like couch potatoes,” she threw one of my erasers at my chest.

“I hope she doesn’t forget about the recommendation. It’d be huge.”

“Even if she did, I’m sure she’d still be delighted if you’d ask, ” she finished in a fake British accent.

“I didn’t realize she sounded like the crumpled crab apple of a woman from Snow White .”

“Are you referencing the Evil Queen? Did you just forget the name of the easiest Disney villain?”

“I am tired, woman, I told you,” I argued in a hushed tone, trying not to laugh. Students sitting at the strip of tables against the windows remained stoic. No one passed us a second glance. “All I dream about anymore are spreadsheets, slideshows, drafted emails I’ve yet to send, and Maureen’s stupid cat outside my balcony.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that’s all you dream about. Let’s be honest here.”

I glared at her.

“Alright, fine. We won’t talk about it.” She lifted her hands up in surrender. “Have you thought any more about what Sylvie said?”

“Every day. I can’t stop thinking that if she knows about Dorian, then someone else must know too.”

I had considered asking James about it. But that’d mean I was getting involved. And I was sticking by my rule to not get involved. Despite partially being involved.

“How would she know though? She’s probably just making an assumption because you guys are in the same class, and he sits right in front of you.”

“That’s possible. But why wouldn’t she have said something earlier then? It’s the middle of October.” I twisted the pearl bracelet clasped around my purse strap. “I’m nervous she saw us at the Townsen Dinner outside.”

“I mean you both made quite a splash .”

“I don’t think you’re funny.”

“You totally do. You’re just clouded with marketing jargon. Even if she did see you with him, it’s not a big deal. She’s obviously looking out for you.”

“There was just this…tone in her voice. It was different.”

“The Evil Queen different?” Her brow rose.

I threw my eraser back at her, knocking it off her shoulder. “It was odd. My gut is saying it was odd and that’s the only word I can come up with at this point.”

She blew out a breath of air. “Maybe Sylvie wants Dorian for herself.”

“Sylvie’s in her fifties,” I deadpanned.

“Don’t shame age gap relationships with older women and men of adult age, Adelaide. This is Dorian we’re talking about.”

“Dorian is twenty-two,” I deadpanned, again .

She continued on. “I’ve even seen my journalism professor whispering about student gossip with other professors. Dorian’s name always comes up. Gossip may be frowned upon ‘by the Board,’ but the staff is just as into it.”

“Mia, I think that the gossip around here is getting to your brain.”

“Fine.” She shrugged her shoulders and began collecting her pastel set of highlighters. “Don’t listen to the reporter in training. I will let you finish up and think about this situation more in peace. Your blueberry keychain is beginning to look tasty which means I need to get back and eat.”

She stood and shook her backpack, making enough room to slide her laptop in. “I’ll see you in a few hours?”

I lifted my laptop screen. Still black. It seemed like I’d be handwriting for the next hour.

“Yeah, I’ll head out soon. There’s leftover butter chicken in the fridge up for grabs by the way.”

“You’re the love of my life, Adelaide.” She twirled, her arm outstretched with a binder in her hand, almost completely whacking a bust statue off its pedestal.

I shot up from my chair—as if to somehow catch the statue from five feet away—right as she pulled her arm back like a rampant dog on a leash before anything could happen.

“I will be going now,” she said quietly, tiptoeing out of the library.

Adelaide. Adelaide. Adelaide.

Dorian’s voice was everywhere. Soft and swooping. His soothing tone spoke in cursive. It hooked onto my ears and hugged the back of my head. It even grazed my spine.

Adelaide. Adelaide. Adelaide.

I wanted to lean into it. Bottle it and attach it to my purse to listen to when the sway of the trees and the smell of the ink on a page weren’t enough to calm me. I wanted to know what it tasted—

Adelaide .

My shoulder blades struck the back of the wooden chair. Long pieces of black hair hung in my face like an ink wash painting. I swiped it away and was still met with darkness. I couldn’t even see the trees outside the windows. The only light in the library came from the antique lamp on my table.

“Holy shit, I fell asleep.” I pushed my sleeve up to find my watch. “What time—”

“Quarter past eleven.”

My chair legs jutted against the hardwood floor as I found Dorian sitting on the table beside me. The last time I saw him, he was drenched.

“Holy shit, I wasn’t dreaming,” I responded, feeling mystified.

His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

God, he looked handsome when he was taken aback. Get it together .

“When did you get here?” he asked, saving me from any other sleep-related questions.

“Three, I think. I was studying for my Consumer Behavior midterm that’s tomorrow but then my laptop stopped and— shit , my laptop. I was supposed to fix my laptop.” My voice strained.

I whipped open the screen and was greeted with my reflection. An earring hung upside down, snagged in a piece of hair, while another strand was stuck to my lip gloss. I brushed it away and clicked a few buttons. Nothing changed.

“Come on, come on .” I had an exam in the morning. This could not be happening.

Oh wonderful, here came the Overworked Stress Tears filling my throat.

“Hey, it’s alright. I can fix it,” Dorian offered, his voice soft and reassuring, pushing off the table to lean over my shoulder. His face right beside mine, his shoulder neighboring mine. I could smell the coffee on his black sweater.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” I argued, emotion still clogging my throat as I turned to face him.

“Do you want your laptop to work?” He twisted. His lips almost brushed mine. It was so fast; I couldn’t tell if I had imagined it. My heart replaced the emotion in my esophagus. Something told me I was just tired because he looked unaffected, waiting for my response.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, and faced the laptop, pressing a few key combinations I had missed. “Does the screen shut off often?”

“Not usually. It’s been glitchy for the past month though. I think it was from the rain when we …” I let the words drop off. He knew what I was referencing.

“There’s probably some water damage then. This should only take a minute.”

He reached for his back pocket, returning with a set of keys. I watched as he sat the laptop upside down and unscrewed the back of it with a house key.

“How do you know what to do?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“My dad works with a lot of video production equipment. There were always cameras and computers lying around the house. Compared to everything else, a laptop is the easiest thing to fix,” he explained.

I nodded in acknowledgment, unsure of what else to say. He said it like his dad wasn’t an award-winning director. Nothing pompous about it.

I sat back and watched him work, careful to not brush his shoulder with mine.

His presence was more poignant than I remembered. Like a blank wall decorated with a single painting. It was difficult not to frantically twist your back to look at it or reach your hand forward to graze its brush strokes. Avoiding it for two weeks didn’t help either.

Side effects included: staring longer than usual, counting the number of moles on his neck and the outgrown curls above his ear, and having the urge to ask why there was always paint under his nails.

Jesus.

His girlfriend probably thought the same thing.

Something was possessing me. I was a victim of a horror movie; possessed and cursed.

I had been dodging him since the pond incident and now I was facing the consequences.

I’d tell him that the bookstore was slammed with customers or that I had nonstop bloody noses or was contagious with something he’d never heard of or that I couldn’t leave my apartment because the mice in the walls were freaking Sabrina out.

(There were no mice.)

Between Sabrina’s tear-filled night and Sylvie’s comments, I was overwhelmed. Even now, a part of me was nervous Sylvie had eyes in the books watching us.

“Let this sit for a few minutes and it should be good.” His words poked through my thoughts. He sat against the edge of the table, facing me.

An internal piece of my computer was resting on his jacket.

“That’s it?” I looked at him in disbelief.

“Well, that and you have to rub its back and take it out to dinner.”

I laughed and his mouth kicked upward. That dimple appeared on his left cheek.

“Easy, I’ll cook it a frozen meal tonight for all its hard work,” I responded.

“Oh, you thought I meant the computer? I was talking about me. You owe me damages for the past two weeks of no tutoring.”

I laughed, again . And then he laughed from the reaction on my face. It was joyous and wonderous. The laughter of a boy who was chasing after a butterfly. The same laughter he shared with James.

The library quieted as we caught our breath. He looked at me with an unreadable expression before redirecting his gaze.

“To be honest, I would like to make you dinner. And I know. I know, it’s out of the question, and you have no problem telling me no.” He shook his head, twisting the ring around his thumb. “But I don’t understand why you’ve been avoiding me.”

His head shifted, and so did his glance. I was pinned by his eyes.

I knew the answer: Sylvie and Sabrina.

But why did it feel like there was this third answer bubbling at the surface each time he looked at me? One that had to do with the fact that I could count the number of inches between our lips and the time it would take to grab his belt loop and pull him forward.

I needed something else to stare at. I picked the window behind him like a coward.

“The Townsen Dinner was a difficult night for Sabrina. She’s needed me the past few weeks.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. Sabrina did want more movie nights than usual. But she always wasn’t getting over Dorian like I had hoped.

“Did she have a difficult night or did you?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have the best night either. Ending events in ponds isn’t my first choice.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“How am I avoiding the question?”

“Because you were royally pissed off before that.”

“That’s no surprise, I usually am when I’m with you.”

“Do you say anything you’re genuinely thinking when you’re around me, because it feels a lot like you’re covering something up.”

“And what would that be?”

He opened his mouth and shut it. I waited as he searched my face, calculating his response.

“Nothing.” He leaned back. I hadn’t even realized we had begun to ease forward.

He returned to the laptop, placing the piece back in.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he said as he twisted the key, screwing the piece in.

“It’s fine. It was just a dress.” Said no one ever .

“I could buy you a new one.”

“I don’t need you to buy me anything, Dorian.”

“I know, Adelaide. I don’t need to do anything, but I want to.” He flipped the computer over, opened the screen, and—

“Oh my gosh, you fixed it!” Relief flooded my chest as my wallpaper of Elizabeth James’s home from The Parent Trap appeared. My shoulders finally loosened. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

“It was my fault anyway. I’ll bring an umbrella for the next walk.”

“I should probably get going.” I stood, reaching for my bag on the table. “Oh sorry,” I apologized as I extended my arm across his lap to grab my bag. This was weird now. Why did I make it weird?

“I can get it—”

I interrupted him. “No, that’s al—” The contents of my bag hit the floor.

We both crouched down, scrambling to pick everything up. I was stuffing things back in—for once not caring if something was crushed—so I could get out of here. Whereas he was refolding papers and brushing them off.

“You really do make to-do lists for everything,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“You have your London itinerary in to-do list format .” He was amused reading the note.

I reached for it, but he pulled back. “I don’t have a London Itinerary,” I countered.

“Whose list is it then?” He held up the small note, a bagel logo at the top.

“Oh, that’s Marty’s.”

“Marty?” His amusement fell. “You’re sharing notes with other guys, but I can only communicate with you via email?”

“Marty is the man who sits outside my bakery.”

His eyes narrowed. “And he gave you this list?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“That sounds like a lie. I need to ask Marty myself.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He went back home to New York.”

“This all sounds very convenient for your lie.”

I yanked the note back. “Believe what you want. It’s not mine.”

“Fine, I’ll throw it out for you then.” His hand launched at the paper.

“You can’t!”

He responded with satisfaction. “So you did make the list!”

“I didn’t! I’d never”—I scanned the list—“go on the London Eye.”

His lips parted. “ You haven’t been on the London Eye , and you’ve been here five months?

“It’s a giant spinning wheel of metal that’s eerily close to a body of water.”

“Have you done any of these things?”

My eyes snagged on the last line. He followed my gaze. Kiss a Brit . Blood crawled its way up my neck.

“I guess you can cross that last one off.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Especially if you’ve kissed any other—”

“I haven’t. Focusing on class only, as I’ve mentioned.”

He nodded, taking his bottom lip in between his teeth in thought.

Chirps and tweets from bugs against the windows were clearer now. An unhelpful audience that loudened our silence. I stood up from the floor. He followed.

“Well, this’ll be a good way to think about things that aren’t class.” His eyes darted to mine and then back down.

He handed me the laptop; I passed him his jacket. Then he picked up my bag and I checked my emails on my phone one more time. Our usual post-session ritual.

Part of me had missed it the past two weeks. But logic told me that it was simply a needed distraction from running around.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he replied, pulling an umbrella out of his bag.