Don’t Be in Love

28

Don’t Pay Attention to the Ghosts — Adelaide

One week later, I not only had the photos for my project, but a finished hundred-page Globalization paper, a twenty-second birthday to celebrate in London, and a nerve in the back of my brain that forced me to think of Dorian Blackwood every hour on the hour like a grandfather clock. There had to be some recluse intern running around in my head pressing the Think of Dorian button. Maybe a forgotten paperweight.

Knowing that I was seeing him in about ten minutes made it worse. Every time the bookstore door chimed open, my head snapped up.

I lacked the privilege of distraction seeing as I finished all my work for the semester and applied to every open marketing internship for the summer in London (except Beverly). I’d ask about next semester’s workload if I knew the professors.

Digital scrapbooking was my only option. Mood boarding was out of the picture at the moment. It was hard to get a magazine around here that didn’t include Dorian’s face within the pages.

I’ve been throwing together various scrapbook pages on my laptop since July after Mia showed me her physical one stuffed with pastel ribbons, notes, tickets, lace, and stickers that looked like stamps.

Her mom had made it for her before she left for London. Mia was meant to fill it with photos while she was here.

There was a twang of jealousy in my chest. A curling, twisting pain that felt more like heartbreak and less like envy. Her mother’s handwriting was on every page. Hair ribbons that were saved for over a decade. Original copies of report cards. An unspoken inscription of family support.

I remember when I was told I’d be valedictorian in high school. My first thought was about the speech. The dreaded speech at graduation. If it weren’t for the university scholarships, I would’ve let my GPA drop just enough to miss it.

Graduation day, I stood at the podium with my speech. I looked out at everyone’s parents, siblings, cousins, and grandparents. They all held plastic-wrapped roses and cards pushed into bright yellow envelopes. The objects possessed me. I knew each one would end with “love, Mom & Dad.” They were the worst part. Each person would have that card forever. A card that listed their accomplishments that their parents got to witness.

I couldn’t look away from them. I was stuck.

Everyone was going to walk across the stage to accept their diploma and smile for their mom’s photograph that would exist on their family home’s mantel for forty years. While my aunt sat in the crowd by herself.

I was appreciative that she came but it would’ve been easier if she just wasn’t there at all.

I had reached out to both of my parents because I felt obligated to. Maybe they’d want to see me. See how my hair had grown out. How I got my ears pierced, even though they were slightly off centered because they had gotten infected and needed to be repierced, that one time they weren’t around for. Maybe they’d want to see how I got his lips but her nose. But they never came. Never answered my emails or my voicemails.

Only seven days had passed since I sent Laila my postcard, but I still worried. Customs can take a while—or so I was told.

“There’s no way she’s received it yet,” Sabrina had reassured me. “She’ll definitely text you when she gets it anyway.”

That wasn’t something we did. Example one: no word from her today and it was her niece’s birthday.

Not that I cared. I hated birthdays. I hated all big occasions.

I was surrounded by the ghosts of who should’ve been there every time. Sometimes the ghosts would fade to the back in a crowded room. Stick to the walls. Stretch their heads over shoulders.

They were always there. Reminding me that no matter how many hours I worked, how many friends I made, how many job acceptances I got, I still wouldn’t have a scrapbook.

I inhaled.

Two ghosts hovered. Hidden away in the backroom, they accompanied the birthday balloons Iris and Dotty had waiting for me.

I shut my laptop, put my headphones on, and brought a stack of returned books to their correct shelves to pass the time. I slid each book alphabetically by author onto the shelf above me, careful to keep them from falling on their side in the gap. I continued on that pattern until something moved in my peripheral and my hand froze.

The music faded away as I took in the absurdly attractive man standing at the front desk.

Whichever part of my brain was in charge of receiving words and breaking them down into meaning had diminished. The only meaning I could understand was Dorian.

Dorian in a suit. Dorian checking his watch. Dorian holding flowers. Holding peonies.

His presence strung me like a violin bow and kept me still as if I was captured by a haunting melody.

Then I was staring at him too long and he was turning, his eyes instantly catching me. His posture corrected.

I immediately became aware of the shortness of my dress and the chip in my nail polish and the small strand of hair that wouldn’t rest on top of my head.

Wow, he mouthed.

I rolled my eyes. Typical .

You like it , a full smile that squeezed out his dimple said.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

Right as I took a few steps forward, he followed, the two of us meeting in the middle.

I checked my watch. “You’re early.”

“Am I?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“By a minute,” I confirmed.

“If I were a minute late, you would’ve left without me. I know you better than you think.”

“Well, I’m happy you got here on time. Wouldn’t want you to miss my birthday.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.”

“Surprise!” Cora, Evelyn, Jane, Beatrice, and Lottie cheered, standing from the restaurant table, spooking many of the elders dining around us in the jazz bar.

They all moved around their chairs and greeted me with a hug one-by-one, the pungent smell of sauce and cheese mixing with the smell of their floral perfumes.

“Don’t you look beautiful,” Cora commented, touching the hem of my black short sleeve mini dress and pointing to my knee-high leather boots that I had picked up from a sample sale years ago.

“The smartest twenty-two year-old in Britain.” Jane kissed me on the cheek, pushing Cora out of the way.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Evelyn and Beatrice squeezed my arms, scooting around Jane.

“Aw, those flowers are beautiful,” Lottie commented on the peonies in my hand, complementing Iris and Dotty.

“Oh, we didn’t do that,” Iris explained wide-eyed.

All of the women twisted, half-in, half-out of their seats.

“Well look who the cat dragged in.” Beatrice stood as Dorian walked in from paying the cab.

I leaned forward on the table. “Don’t make it weird,” I begged. “We’re sorta acquaintances now.”

“Acquaintances?” Jane gawked. “That can’t be right.”

The rest of them jumped in to say something, but I cut them short. “ Please . You can say anything you want at December’s book club.”

“No funny business,” Dotty warned them before Iris pointed a finger at the lot.

Lottie rolled her lips in. “Fine.”

“We won’t say anything,” Cora held her hands up right as Dorian made his way to our table.

I caught the surprise on his face from the unexpected group of women. But he reeled it in.

“It’s nice to see you, Dorian,” Evelyn smiled kindly as everyone sat.

“You can say that again,” Jane mumbled. I shook my head praying he missed that.

“It’s nice to see all of you again,” he responded, pulling out two chairs, gesturing to the one on his right.

Oh.

I quickly accepted the seat before I could analyze the situation. With that, he sat beside me and listened intently to Lottie complain about her daughter’s new boyfriend. And then he laughed with Evelyn as she told stories about the time she turned twenty-two. And he understood Cora’s complaints about the rising prices of oranges at the grocery store.

I was so focused on him that I forgot I was even here, and not just watching him from afar.

“Is this the first time you two have been out together?” Beatrice waved a finger between me and Dorian.

“Yes,” we lied as if we rehearsed it.

“Well, isn’t that nice. Don’t you think so, Jane?”

Jane gave her an odd look. “Yes …”

“We come here whenever we want to get out. It’s a great place for dancing,” she explained.

Then Jane caught on. And so did I. Evil, evil woman .

“Do you go dancing often?” Jane asked Dorian.

“Not really, no,” he answered.

“Well, the least you could do is ask Adelaide to dance.”

We looked at each other in horror. Our track record with dancing wasn’t great.

I spoke up. “That’s not necessary—”

“I’m not one for dancing—” He shook his head.

“You’re the youngest ones in this restaurant. Whatever you do, the old timers around here will be impressed,” Beatrice urged.

“I’m not really a jazz fan,” I tried to reason.

“Dance, dance, dance!” Jane began cheering and my stomach plummeted as if someone had tipped my chair back and let my head crack against the floor. Dorian’s face mirrored the same alarm.

One second, our entire table was cheering. Next, the customers around us were clapping.