Don’t Be in Love

18

Don’t Think About the First Time You

Both Kissed — Adelaide

I knew what James said yesterday. The conversation was involuntarily filed away in my brain, right in between my Strategic Brand Management syllabus and the wine cellar scene from The Parent Trap .

I knew what he said. She used Dorian . He had realized .

But that was difficult to comprehend when there was an image of Dorian and Victoria making out on my phone under the headline:

“Dorian Blackwood is Greeted with Romantic Return from Girlfriend After Her Three Months Abroad” — London Today

There were several images, actually. Angles really. Like some preppy, collegiate magazine spread.

One of her grabbing onto his bottom lip with her teeth. One with her hands under his shirt. Another with her whispering into his ear. And another and another and another and another.

I flipped the phone upside down and smacked it against the desk beside the register. No more screen time.

“What’s wrong?” Mia asked, slicing the tape down the middle, and opening another box of books. I took the scissors after, hunching over to do the same.

“Nothing,” I responded with a closed-mouth smile, shredding the tape and dropping the scissors back into her hands.

“You saw the photos, didn’t ya?” Dotty asked, coming from the backroom with a list of invoices.

“What photos?” Mia perked up.

I let a curtain of hair hide the right side of my face from Mia as I gave Dotty a death glare.

“I thought you were avoiding the boy. I didn’t think you cared!” Dotty defended herself.

“Boy?” Mia questioned.

Dotty rifled through the papers on the desk until she found a vibrant magazine, handing it over to Mia. “Page twenty-six,” she clarified.

“Holy shit. That’s the girl—Victoria.” Mia looked to me for an explanation.

The cardboard box snapped under the scissors. I quickly pulled them out and returned them to the desk. “It’s his girlfriend. It’s normal to kiss your girlfriend.”

“But he’s obviously interested in you,” Mia urged.

I stood up and took a pile of books with me, walking as far away as I could get.

Unfortunately, the store was small.

“You have to talk to him about this. It has to be PR or something,” Mia argued, her voice getting closer.

“I’m not talking to him about his relationship.” I snuck into the corner where the history books were.

She followed.

“But there has to be an explanation—”

“I am not going to waste my—already—minimal time getting romantically involved with a man who will be interested in me for approximately four weeks before he gets bored,” and finds another girl, and takes all of my favorite places to eat, my favorite words to say, the people I enjoy seeing after class, and the recipes I’ve handwritten to share them with her and leave me without anything.

“I don’t think he’s like that,” Mia said softly.

“Really?” I took the magazine that hung in her hands and reminded her of the photo.

She was at a loss for words.

I shook my head and shelved three books. “People are only interested in you for as long as you’re new.”

I didn’t need an unfaithful boyfriend or to be divorcee to know that. Dad’s woodchip-ridden scent that had followed me to London in my old pajamas was a souvenir in itself.

“He’s not coming today then, I assume?” Dotty asked, peeking into the aisle.

I felt guilty for telling him I was busy. Especially because the last few sessions had been great. Really great. As if we were becoming friends.

But that was the problem. We couldn’t be friends. Because all I could think about were the un-friend-like things we had done and what a horrible friend to Sabrina that made me.

Now that I was learning more about him—his hobbies, his habits—it only added more weight. More interest.

I could feel myself leaning in more. Memorizing the freckles on his throat and the annunciation that his accent carried on certain words.

I needed distance. A reminder of real life and the consequences that came with it, perched on my shoulders waiting to dive like resentful ravens. “No, he isn’t.”

Mia interjected, “Well, about that. I’m actually staying late tonight to make up hours from going out last Friday. And I knew you brought your nice purse today and there’s no room for an umbrella in there. But I didn’t want you to walk home alone in the rain so—”

The front door chimed, opening.

In walked Dorian, an umbrella hanging at his side. Wet specks polka dotted his navy blue sweater, a change from his usual black and grays. I hated that I noticed that. That I liked it.

His gaze swept across the room, from Dotty to Mia to me.

The corner of his mouth ticked upward.

“Hi.” He smiled.

“Hi.” I smiled back, the muscles in my face going rogue.

“Ready to go home?” he asked.

“How did Mia get your number?” I spoke over the rain as it pattered the umbrella above us. I attempted to hold onto the handle, but the difference in our height made our arms seesaw back and forth. He peeled my hand off in debate, holding it above me.

“I gave it to her when you started skipping out on our meetings a few weeks ago and began walking home by yourself again.” He gave me a level look. “Think I’d forget?”

“One could’ve hoped.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I could’ve walked home with Mia—”

“Mia is working late tonight.” He responded with a smug smile. Try again , it said.

“You’re smarter than you look.”

“Is that how you’ve assessed me?”

“Assessed you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’ve caught you staring at me a few times.”

“I have not.”

“Oh, we’re lying now?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Everyone looks at you, you’re the Dorian Blackwood,” I waved my hands.

He rolled his eyes. “I know why everyone else looks. I want to know why you look.”

“We spend three nights a week studying together, Dorian. There’s nothing flirtatious about me making sure you’re paying attention.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“What do you want me to say? That you’re insanely hot?”

“If that’s what comes to mind, then yes.”

I smacked his arm but laughed anyway. A quiet pause built between us as our laughter died. Swaying trees and rustling leaves frazzled by the rain filled the space. But it wasn’t loud enough for me to ignore the sound of his breathing or the beat of his footsteps.

“How’s your laptop working?” he asked.

“Good, thankfully,” I said appreciatively. “How’s your art class? Arnold any closer to asking Poppy out?”

“It may be another five years until Arnold gathers up the confidence to talk to Poppy, let alone ask her out.”

“There’s no way that’s possible.”

“You obviously know nothing about Arnold.”

“His crush will fizzle out at some point.”

“Says who?”

“Says the attention span of men.”

“I think you’re talking to the wrong men then.”

The umbrella shuddered slightly. I glanced up at him expecting a smirk, but there was none. Earnest was the only word that came to mind. His face softened. No pull at the corners of his lips or tension in his jaw. It carried all of my attention to his eyes where all of the light came from. Just as the windows bled light in the dark now.

I focused on my Mary Janes, bringing us to a normal walking pace again. His face made my cheeks ache. As if I had eaten too many madeleine cookies.

He cleared his throat. “Did you talk with James yesterday?”

“Why?” I startled. Did James tell him I asked about Victoria?

“Didn’t know if he told you about the Halloween Party.”

“Since when were there Halloween parties in the UK?”

“Since you told James how much you love them apparently. But based on the look on your face, I’m missing something?”

What an instigator . “I’m not one for holidays. But I’d love to hear about the party when it’s over.” I smiled before he could ask.

He didn’t care. “Mia and Sabrina already told James yes.”

“You’re despicable.”

“Just thorough.”

“Where’s the party?”

“James’s mum’s home right outside London. Tomorrow night.” As we approached a puddle, he caught my hand so I could hop over. I attempted to detach myself from the feeling until my hand was back at my side. “It’s invite-only, so no one else from Townsen will be there. You’d even get to wear a pretty dress.”

“I’ll think about it.” I wouldn’t. Thinking about it would be precarious. It would mean I wanted to say yes.

We turned down my street. My tree waited at the end of the block.

But he stopped abruptly, pulling us to the side under the black and white striped awning of Brina’s favorite floral shop, away from those passing by. It was closed now, its black windows acting as a mirror.

“Come with me. Be my date,” he offered. He dropped the umbrella at his side.

I wanted to say yes.

But my answer had to be no. I couldn’t let wanting steer my life. I’d end up like my parents if I did.

“Dorian—”

“Hear me out. It’s a masquerade. No one will know it’s you. No one would know it’s us.”

“My friend loves you,” I reiterated.

He stepped closer.

My throat tightened. The bones making up each structure in my chest wavered like a coastal cottage cracked by the salty ocean air.

The telephone booth across the street watched us. The lights inside flickered as if it was frantically waving a hand saying, What are you doing?

I don’t know. I really don’t know. His hand is on my forearm and it’s draining me of all my logic.

“Based on the way you’re looking at me right now, I’m starting to doubt that’s the reason.” He shook his head. Rain droplets flew from the ends of his hair.

“ It doesn’t matter what my reason is . You have a girlfriend.”

“I do not.” His eyebrows drew in.

“I saw about twenty articles that said so.”

“You sure know nothing about a fake headline for someone working in marketing.”

“You’re kissing someone in them.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he pressed.

“Do you hear yourself?”

“It. Doesn’t. Mean. Anything.”

“Prove it then,” I argued.

One moment his eyes were skipping across my face like a pebble in a pond. And the next, his hand was leaving my forearm and taking the back of my neck, pulling me in.

I didn’t have time to react. There was no time to react when Dorian Blackwood looked at you like that.

His lips met mine and I gasped despite myself.It felt like all the lights in London exploded.

His hand tugged the hair at the nape of my neck, and I leaned into his hold, kissing him back without hesitation. I reacted as if this was habitual. Like my subconscious—who had been designing my dreams for the past two months—kicked in and took hold of the pedal. Heavy-footed, it pushed to the floor.

I was drowning. Back in that pond outside the school and he was bringing me back to shore again. Holding me up, cupping the sides of my face. The drumming of the rain on the sidewalk was a distant sound compared to the roaring in my ears.

We’re kissing. We’re kissing. We’re kissing and I don’t want to pull away.

His lips were soft and sweet and consuming and decisive.

Like feeling the seasons turn from summer to fall, when the goosebumps spread, the air chilled, and the trees changed. It was beautiful and steadfast. Then one night, you were placing the hot skin of your palm against the frosted window to cool yourself down from the heat of the hearth.

But I couldn’t cool down. Every surface of my body that he touched was on fire. Every surface of my body that he wasn’t touching was on fire. Anticipation was the brink, and I wanted to dive in.

I grabbed onto his jacket and pulled him against my chest.

He groaned. His lips parted just enough in the proclamation, and I was instantly parting mine. I wanted more. I needed more.

His hands left my face and ran down my back, making their way to my hips. It was primal—the way he held onto me, the way he kissed me. But there was also a sense of care. Caution.

I couldn’t think on it further. Not when we were accelerating.

His tongue ran over my bottom lip and his heart thumped against mine as I finally explored the clean smell of his hair that lived on the T-shirt he had given me two weeks ago.

It was painful, how familiar it all was.

“We should stop,” I murmured between breaths.

“Should we?” he asked against my lips.

God , his voice was so attractive, and I found myself leaning onto my toes to reach more of him.

“I’ve thought about this every day,” he whispered.

I had thought about this every day too. I had thought about the way his hands clutched onto my hips. And how he kissed with his head tilted to the left. The way he unwound, letting all of his truths spill out as if I force-fed him some serum.

I wore these thoughts like a Scarlet Letter since that night in August. They smeared my face every time I looked at him.

Now, they were officially stitched into my skin. Paint glued to a canvas.

Suddenly, the sound of the rain became clearer. I could hear it bouncing off the awning above my head. I could hear the creaky sound of the front door of our apartment building opening down the block. The pot smacking against the stovetop in my kitchen where Brina was most likely making us dinner right now in the only place I had called home in eight years.

I was guilty.

If I wasn’t guilty before, I was guilty now.

I knew what Dorian meant to Sabrina this time around and I went ahead and kissed him anyway and enjoyed it . I already let myself think about him and us for months .

And now I was acting on all of those thoughts.

I pulled away, suffering from labored breathing and the look on his face. The evidence of us kissing was in the dark color of his lips and the dishevelment of his hair. I hadn’t even realized I had been running my hands through it.

I clutched my chest. I couldn’t muster up words in this state. I couldn’t be logical right now.

“I need to go,” were the only words I could come up with. I turned—

He reached for my hand. “Adelaide, wait—”

“No.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “This was a mistake. You live a very different life than mine, and even if you didn’t, I have a life that can’t exist with you in it.”

“You don’t mean that.” His grip loosened on my palm. “We can make this work.”

“Make what work? This isn’t personal, but I don’t care to build any type of connection. I have no interest in building any type of relationship with anyone. So don’t waste your time because I’m not capable of loving you.”

His face fell.

I didn’t know why I was surprised, because that was my goal—to get him to back off.

But I didn’t realize how much it was going to puncture me in return.

For once in my life, I understood what it must’ve felt like for my father to have left my mother. And for my mother to have had to face it despite believing something else entirely.