Page 28 of Don't Be in Love

The lights coming from the apartment windows lining the street were blurred. But I could still identify the leaning tree that lived outside my balcony.

As we reached the awning that stretched outside my apartment lobby, he pulled the jacket off from over my head and wrung it out. He clutched the material and squeezed, the muscles in his arms tensing. The white fabric of his T-shirt clung to each curve and sharp angle of his body. From the line of his shoulders to the dip between the muscles in his chest to his torso. It made the roman numeral tattoo on his chest poignant. Rising and fall, taking in air.

The last time I had seen that tattoo was the first time. He had been kissing my neck. Saying my name in that accent when—

“Is your dress okay?” he asked, worried, his jacket hung at his side now. He was looking at me. Waiting for me to respond. Rain running down his neck.

“What?”

“The dress, in your bag?” he wiped the moisture from his forehead.

“Oh. Oh my gosh.” I swiped the leather of the bag, watching the water jump off before slipping my hand inside. I exhaled. “I think it’s okay. I’m sorry about your jacket. I can buy you a new one.”

“I don’t need a new jacket, Adelaide,” he responded.

“I feel really bad,” I apologized, patting down my hair that wasn’t nearly as wet as his.

“I’m not worried about the jacket.”

“How are you going to get home?” I asked. The rain was still coming down in full force.

“I can call someone. I’m not worried about it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Goodnight, Adelaide. I’ll see you tomorrow. From afar.”

From afar. That’s what I asked for. So why did I feel like a hollowed out tree?

12

Don’t Stand Near Ponds, Especially During

Arguments — Adelaide

It was raining, again. Usually, I’d be excited to have London greet me at night with a patter on my window like an imaginary Romeo.

I enjoyed watching everyone stop in the middle of their routes to collectively swing their umbrellas up over their heads and then continue on, like a snippet from a musical.

Birds bathed in the puddles. Trees became as vibrant as the ones in watercolor paintings. Even the Thames got a chance to join in on the city’s noise.

But it was all ruined now. Andrightas the rain was so close to becoming a friend. How unfortunate.

I slipped on my dress and watched the rain tug on my tree outside, all I could think of was Dorian last night.

Dorian’s stubbornness. Dorian’s smirk. Dorian’s wet hair. Dorian’s jacket over my head. Dorian’s soaked shirt. It completely tarnished the rain.

The curtain rods screeched as I pulled the drapes forward to cover the outside.Focus. I zipped up the back of the cocktail dress and dragged my tights over my legs. The sheer black fabric was sprinkled in tiny crystals that I had glued on years ago during Christmas break after seeing a similar pair inVogue.

I had stolen the tights from my mother’s closet before she had left. For the first few years, it was difficult to look at them. To see something that was hers. Something she had worn when she was happy. A piece from her Before.

But sometimes it was easier to pretend that I had this great mother who left me garments as a token rather than a woman who up and left her daughter because I reminded her too much of her failed family.

The first time I wore them, my aunt had stared a second too long. She knew. Yet, she hadn’t said anything. As per usual.

It felt like bad luck to wear them now.

Who would’ve thought the Townsen Dinner took place on campus every year? Well, not me. The school was capable of affording Buckingham Palace to rent if they wanted to (unlikely that was a legal option). But the grounds did have a magical touch to them at night that I hadn’t experienced.