Page 23 of Don't Be in Love

“I heard you met Adelaide,” I mentioned in a brief breath.

“You did?” His gaze jumped from the ball to me, almost missing the ball.Almost.

Whack.Back to me.

“At least that’s what the chip I planted in the back of your head that night you got pissed had recorded,” I responded.

Thump. Back to him.

“Is that what that weird ringing noise is when I wash my hair?” He touched the back of his head for comedic effect.

I laughed. “Adelaide mentioned it in passing the other day.”

“What’d she say?” he asked.

“Just that you guys have class together. She thought it was odd I didn’t already know.”

“Do you think it’s odd?”

“I’m just surprised you hadn’t mentioned it.”

“I can start mentioning it, but it felt like I already knew her based on everything you’ve said about her. We did go to Westminster’s outdoor movie last night for a class assignment though. Her roommates came too.”

“How was that?” I grunted, rushing toward the net to sweep my racquet under the ball. I backed up as he rushed forward to do the same.

“Good,” he exhaled.

“That’s good,” I nodded. “She’s fun to be around, isn’t she?”

The side of his mouth kicked up as he hit a forehand. “She is. She always makes me laugh. She’s really pretty too.”

Thwack. “She is,” I exhaled. “And smart. She’s really smart. The way she always comes up with these witty responses when we argue is concerningly invigorating.”

“We don’t really argue,” he said, hitting another forehand.

The ball hit the court behind me. “Really?” I asked, letting it roll further back.

“Maybe it’s just a testament to how comfortable she is around you,” he offered, walking forward to the net.Ifcomfortable was a synonym for exasperated. “How’s that project going?”

“We only just started on it. For all I know I’ll still fail out of the class.”

“She wouldn’t let you fail.”

“You’re probably right. She’s too competitive for that,” I said.

“Are you worried about it at all?”

“Being around Adelaide?”

“No, failing.”

“No, I’ll make it work. I’m not looking to graduate top of class or anything, I just need the degree to satisfy my mum. Once that’s done, then I can focus on art.”

“The Blackwood Gallery,” he said, shaping out a sign with his hands.

I laughed, pulling the bottom of my shirt up to wipe my forehead. “And then James Breyer can write about all the young artists we’re showcasing.”

“Gotta get through the semester first.”