Don’t Be in Love

38

Don’t Tell Her You Love Her — Dorian

There was a constant, unstoppable patter in my chest that refused to settle. If I was older than sixty, I’d question if I was having a mild heart attack or just really serious heartburn from all the pasta this month. But honestly, it started the moment I woke up this morning knowing I’d be getting on a flight to come home, where Adelaide was. Or hopefully was.

When I had called her before the flight took off, the call was short. She was busy working. Fortunately, that’s all I wanted to confirm so I could stop at her flat without her knowing.

“I dropped the pocketbook off in her mailbox,” I told Jasmine over the phone, practically jogging to the bookshop from the flat. Waiting on my driver or a cab would take too long. Even if it was tremendously colder here with the packed snow on the pavements being blown around by the wind.

“You did?” she gawked. It sounded like she was in the middle of eating. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Jasmine, I took the damn bag all the way to Italy with me because I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I should’ve given her the gift on her birthday like I wanted to rather than letting this friendship linger so long.” I refrained from mentioning the baseball cap keychain I clutched every day like a pocket watch.

“Why don’t you just give it to her in person?”

“As much as I’d love to see her reaction, I want it to be a surprise. She’s at work right now anyway. I’m on my way to see her.”

“Are you nervous at all?” her tone was soft.

“Exceptionally. It’s pathetic.”

“You shouldn’t be. I bet she’s missed you.”

I missed her.

During holiday, I was drawing her profile on café napkins like I was selling silhouettes for spare change. I found her in the rain-fallen nights. In every keychain and cheesy postcard. It was the reason why I had several pushed into my back pocket, too indecisive to pick one. (One with Italy plastered across it like a tacky billboard, or a picturesque one with a painting of the Colosseum? I wasn’t sure which, so I got both.) Luckily, finding a silver keychain was easy enough.

London was calling me home all week. But it was in the form of her heartbeat rather than the nostalgia of my childhood.

I sighed, avoiding the gaps in the pavements filled with recent rain. “I wish you were here. You’re better at this stuff than me.”

“At dating?” she questioned, abashed.

“Yeah right,” I laughed. “I was referring to saying how you feel.”

“I don’t know. It sounded like you did just that before you left.”

“What I told her is only a quarter of how I feel. I can’t imagine if I tried to say anything more. I didn’t hear from her at all while I was gone. And I know her phone was working because she talked to James.”

“She talked to James?” Her arched brows were visible through the speaker. “Hm. Did she call him, or did he call her?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“He called her.”

“That’s a good sign then.”

“It is?”

“It says that she wasn’t reaching out to anyone.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Well, I didn’t say it’d make you feel better, I just said it mattered! If she called James, then that’d be a different story.”

“I guess.”

“Wait—does James know you’re going to see her?”

“Eh, no. He doesn’t.”

“Dorian.” She always had a soft spot for James. We all did. It was James.

“The January is in a few days, Jasmine, and I want to bring her as my date if she says yes. You know that’s always been James’s thing. He loves this event and I’m not going to upset him right after our holiday.”

“What’s your plan? Show up to the ball with her and see how he reacts?”

“No, of course not. I’d tell him beforehand.”

Her disagreement was palpable through the phone. “What are you going to say to her when you see her?”

“‘How was your holiday?’”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“When I left, I opened the floor for her to tell me how she’s feeling. If I say anything more, then I may as well throw myself into the Thames.” No response. “Hello?” I checked.

“Did you know the last time the Thames froze over was in nineteen forty-seven?” she asked.

“You really thought now was the best time to look that up?”

“Gotta make sure you won’t be hitting a river of ice on the way down.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m calling the lawyer and cutting you out of my will.”

“Aw, I was in your will?” she cooed.

“Every time I call you, I regret it more than the time before.”

“It got your mind off what you’re going to say though, didn’t it?”

Without realizing it, I was outside the bookshop. “I’m here,” and filled with a mixture of dread and eagerness.

“Just be honest with her. Women really aren’t all that complicated. We’re just overthinkers.”

“Thanks, Jasmine. I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you,” she responded before hanging up.

I smoothed out my navy sweater and straightened my cap before pushing the front open.

My heart was running at the speed of the transit system, whirling around in my chest with no track and a broken brake. I glanced around the bookshop as if it’d slow the speed.

Several people were shopping, wrapped in scarves and twill coats, noses bitten by the wind. Books smacked the shelves, shoes scuffed the floor, and conversations were quiet but blended, bringing a collective loud noise into the store.

Then it stopped.

And I found her on a short ladder at the back of the store with a box in her arms that she was pulling books from and sliding onto the top shelf. I watched her for a moment as she’d check her long sleeve top to make sure the box wasn’t ruining the fabric.

She looked so beautiful. With a long skirt on and heeled boots, she was picturesque. Watching her push a strand of hair behind her ear felt like a missed opportunity for a painting.

I didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath.

It felt like my heart was wilting and thriving all at the same time.

A century old fireplace sparked to life in my chest. One that had been dormant for what felt like my entire life. The flame flicked at the hearth as she searched the shelf. Her deep brown eyes read the spines. The same brown eyes that pulled every etched note out of my chest.

Nothing was just brown anymore. The purse that hung from her shoulder most days was no longer just a glove-tanned leather, but the same color as her hair under the darkness of the bookshop awning.

The tree that greeted us outside her flat at night was the same shade of her eyes before she leaned forward and kissed me. They were the color of the espresso I made every morning for the past five months. Most mornings I made it just to remind myself of the color without having to stare at her.

I love her . I love her so much .

She dropped a book and yelped as it struck the floor. No one seemed to notice though.

I jogged over and picked it up, handing it back.

“Hi,” I said, looking up at her. It felt like a warm shot of espresso ran over my skin standing this close to her.

And then she looked at me like I was a ghost. Her eyes were wide with surprise. An unwanted surprise.

After accepting the book, her hand recoiled into her frame.

My heart sank. I was back on that sidewalk in the rain in October.

Don’t waste your time because I’m not capable of loving you, she had said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked before stepping off the ladder. Her skirt swished around her ankles as she stepped down.

“I came straight from the airport. I wanted to see you.” I scratched the back of my neck. All of the confidence I gained on the flight diminished.

The unexpected alertness in her eyes quickly shifted to reservation. She put the box of books down. “Really? You wanted to see me?”

“Of course I wanted to see you.”

She brushed her hair out of her face before finally looking at me. “Did you stop and see Victoria too?”

“You saw the photos.” I had completely forgotten. The news was a quick phone call between me and my publicist, but it wasn’t anything new. Nothing anyone in my immediate life had paid attention to. I assumed by now that she’d realize none of it was fact.

But this only made her scowl deeper. A crease formed between her brows, not unlike how it appeared during our earlier arguments.

She lowered her voice, “Of course I saw the photos, they’re everywhere.”

“It’s not what you think,” I urged, reaching for her.

She pulled away, crossing her arms. “It doesn’t matter what I think because there’s literal proof.”

“Adelaide, I know how those photos look, but she tried to kiss me .”

“She didn’t try—she did kiss you. And I hate that I even know that but I’m grateful because I don’t think you would’ve ever mentioned it.”

“That’s not true,” I shook my head.

“Really? Then why didn’t you mention it once when you came and saw me after? Didn’t think to mention it on the London Eye or in the telephone booth? It wasn’t like we were low on time.”

“I—” Because I was going to tell you I loved you and that I left her. But looking at her now, there was no way in hell she felt the same way. Not when she was so quick to believe that I’d cheat on her.

She laughed. She laughed . “Honestly Dorian, I’m thankful you don’t have an excuse, because I don’t want to hear it. If you had let me finish what I had tried to say over the phone, you would’ve saved yourself a trip because we need to stop talking indefinitely.”

“You were going to tell me over the phone that you no longer want to speak to me, and just expect me to abide? And after what I said to you before I left?” Tell me you care for me. Because I care for you.

She was unbelievable .

Her cheekbones were matted maroon. “Do you understand how embarrassing it was to spend my holiday thinking about you constantly, only to find out that you were with someone else hours before?”

True, venomous guilt sank in as I realized that her anger wasn’t powered by hatred, but by sadness. “Adelaide—”

She waved her hand, stopping me. “I don’t care, and I don’t want to know. I meant what I said about not forming relationships. I have no interest in entertaining this anymore.” It felt like a serrated knife was being plunged into my chest. She was twisting it and pulling like a caught fishhook. “Our deal is over, so we don’t need to see each other. You passed the class. You can be with Victoria, and I can stop hurting my best friend.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but there was nothing left in me. I was on the verge of needing CPR.

She took that as an invitation to finish the conversation. “I’m trying to build a career here. A life.” Her voice softened. “I’ll never be taken seriously if my name is only ever attached to yours … so no one can ever know about us. No one can ever see us together. You have to pretend that you never met me.”

With that, she crouched down, picked up the box of books, and returned to her ladder.

I was numb.

I pressed my hand to my back pocket, feeling the impression of the souvenirs, before walking out of the store and leaving a trail of unspoken words behind me.

Suddenly, we were strangers again.