Page 111 of Don't Be in Love

“You’re being awfully calm.”

“Would you rather I have a mental breakdown? Because I already did that.”

She picked her phone up, looking at the pictures again. “At least I get a visual from the story now.”

I took my pillow and whacked her.

She laughed, falling backward. I followed the motion, lying beside her.

“You never told me what happened after you guys kissed. Did he say anything?” she asked the ceiling.

I exhaled. “He told me he cared for me.”

“Do you believe him?” The pillowcase rustled as she looked at me.

“I don’t. Not anymore.” The ceiling’s closed mouth in the form of a white crack stared at me. It told me I was an idiot. Or at least that’s how I felt.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“I assume you’re going to tell me whether or not I say yes.”

“I believe him. And I think he’s probably been meaning to say much more than that for a while.”

I smooshed the side of my face into my duvet, looking at her. “Then why was he with Victoria on Christmas Eve, too?”

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.