Page 107 of Don't Be in Love

Don’t Ever Trust Him — Adelaide

Even in the years I was close to my aunt, when my parents were together, and she came over for holidays, took on babysitting duties, and made me the victim of poor hairstyles before Saturday soccer practices, I never knew how … funny she could be.

When we lived together, she went to work, and I went to school. At night, she’d cook dinner (I assumed, I never saw) and leave it on the counter for me. Her portion would have already been picked off the serving plate.

I didn’t know if she had friends at work or hobbies outside the office or if she preferred sour candy to chocolate. She wore a variation of the same trousers every day and answered emails like they had an expiration date. That was all I knew. She was the coworker that sat in the cubicle farthest away from me, in a way.

On our second scheduled call, I learned that she was recently promoted to manage a team—

“—ofinterns. Half of them think they know more than me and the other half really do know more than me.” I received a series of questions onHow many emails is too many emails?andAre Friday meetings out now?et cetera.“I need your insight. I want to be the cool manager.”

I read her my Beverly cover letter four times before we finally decided it was perfect. Then I emailed Sylvie for that recommendation letter, and she responded within minutes, promising to send it to the HR department.

An hour into the phone call, I learned that she got a mini goldendoodle—apparently that was a dog—before the fiancé (Benedict) moved in. She said it was lonely without me.

We stopped there and pivoted back to the fiancé.

I didn’t ask why we never had these types of conversations before when I really needed them because I was too fearful to mess up. To throw tacks out on the road that we were smoothly cruising along now.

“You need to talk to her at some point,” Mia reminded me as we crossed the slushy street to the pub where it was filled with others who chose to spend New Year’s Eve with friends and lovers rather than family. Lampposts were still decorated with green garland and artificial sparkly snowflakes, acting as a guide in the busy street. Based on the density in the city right now, London had to have made the top of everyWhere To Celebrate New Year’s Eve?list.

“One conversation at a time.” I clutched the scarf that Dorian had left me, trying to keep it from flying off. I resisted the urge to press it to my nose and smell his cologne.

Her head whipped around as our leather boots hit the sidewalk. “Does that mean you’re going to be having theotherconversation? With Brina?”

“I ... ” I had to tell Sabrina.

Tell her what exactly? That I can’t stop thinking about the man she’s in love with?

Icouldn’tstop thinking about him. And knowing that he felt the same way …

Mia noted my silence and continued. “I told you my original stance on this: if you don’t care for him, then it’s not worthupsetting her. But if you do … Well, I get it. Especially after what you said happened on Christmas Eve. But you should tell her.”

We reached the pub and she held the door open for me, letting a gust of hot air and the strong scent of bourbon funnel out before we stepped inside. Moving toward the bar, our shoulders bumped sequins and skin. My wool sleeve was snagged by the time we took a seat; televisions with the countdown to midnight hung above. I pulled my coat off as she ordered us drinks.

“Does this mean you’re going to tell him how you feel?” Mia asked, her elbows on the bar.

How I feel?As in the stabbing fire poker to the gut I suffered from each time I saw him? That fountain pen drag across my heart as if the features of his face were being drawn into my blood? The absolute nausea I got any time I thought he was going to tell me he was in love with Victoria and didn’t want to see me anymore?

I was sure those explanations would goso well. I’d throw myself into the freezing cold Thames before I even gave myself the chance to say, “fire poker.”

“You look like you’re over computing.”

“I’m just …”

“Overwhelmed?” she guessed.

“Very,” I sighed, accepting my drink from the bartender and taking a heavy swig.

Mia followed suit. “Have you talked to him since?”

“I haven’t.” I said it with a tinge of regret because he had given me an opening. In the form of a text the day after Christmas.

Heard you called James. How are you?

Lighthearted. Nothing serious. Yet, I still couldn’t pull myself together to respond.

I itched to call him, ask how he was, nag him for pictures of his meals in Italy. I wanted to hear him say that he cared for me again in his soft, sultry British accent so I could confirm that I hadn’t made it all up. So I could kiss him when he came home and not wonder if he’d pull away.