Page 33 of Don't Be in Love

The pond water was colder than London’s October rain. It split the goosebumps on my legs, piercing right through my tights. My fingers immediately curled in as water rushed up my nose. It pried at my closed mouth and eyelids, trying to get in. Ithurtit was so cold. I was trapped. Crying. Shut inside my old room all over again, blocking my ears but the waves were still roaring. Seaweed brushed my arms with a cold graze. Wrapping its fingers around my waist and pulling—

I gasped, gulping a cloud of air. My heart pounded in my chest as I clung to Dorian. My fingers buried themselves into his soaked dress shirt, gripping onto his shoulders. The muscles that made up my throat were rattling as I tried to get steady flows of air in and out, like the frame of a building being taken by a breeze.

His voice was muffled. I couldn’t make out the words. The memories were louder. His hand breached my jaw as he took my face into his hands.

This was so much worse than being together in the rain.

“Adelaide, are you alright?” he asked. His eyes were wide, marked by remnants of the pond. They searched my face, marking checkpoints as they went along. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.“I’m fine, yes. I’m fine, I’m fine.” I pushed away from him, quickly finding the edge of the pond and pulling myself out. The only thing keeping me breathing was the sight of my phone safely on the grass.

“Adelaide, wait.” My skeletal system jumped each time he said my name.

The water sloshed behind me. I turned to find his chest rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm.

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to scream at him for ruining my dress and causing me to raise my voice an octave and making me question my feelings and Iso badlywanted to shove him back into the water.

But I couldn’t. Because all I could focus on was the absolute disarray in which his shirt was in because it was barely there. A transparent cloth stuck against his chest and abdomen from the water.

Suddenly, I was back in that night where I was pulling his shirt off. Another vexing reminder of what I was trying to forget. Another memento for me to deal with when I tried to fall asleep tonight, or saw him in class Monday, or watched Hugh Grant come out of the lake inBridget Jones’s Diarywith a cigarette in his mouth.

I’d never watch that movie again.

I spun away. “I need to go.”

“But—”

“Adelaide!” an urgent shout came, but in the opposite direction.

Mia.She rushed forward and then came to an abrupt stop, taking my wet appearance in. And taking in Dorian’s a bit longer. “What happened to—”

I held my hand up. “We’ll talk about it later. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Sabrina.”

13

Don’t Forget That There Are Eyes Everywhere — Adelaide

My mother used to play sitcoms or romance movies whenever she was home. It didn’t matter if she was cleaning the kitchen, cooking dinner, blow drying her hair, or lining up her vintage watches on her nightstand to shine.

The TV would always display a cozy, suburban home, a studio apartment in the West Village, or a cottage nestled in the English Countryside, frosted with snow. The common denominator was that it was anywhere but here, in our stubby house where she and my father had made an attempt at the Dream Life. Buy a house with green shutters, get married in a church, and have a kid that’ll look exactly like the mother but claim the last name of the father.

The longer I watched the suburban homes and cottages, the more I understood why she put them on. Those lives seemed so…peaceful. It didn’t matter if your fashion magazine job was on the line or if the surprise twin sister you met at camp switched places with you. Because by the end, everyone was happy. We were missing that part of the equation.

When my parents fought, I’d slip out the window and run down the street to the park and sit in the wood chips with one of Mom’s fashion magazines. Pictures of glass perfume, lipstickbottles, leather purses, and voluminous dresses. I’d tear them all out and add them to the cork board above my bed.

Running away had a bad reputation. But sometimes, it was the only option. It offered me solace. Privacy.

That was a long time ago. Now, I was in my own personal sitcom, living in a cozy apartment in London. A gold-framed cork board branded with all of my favoriteThe New Yorkerarticles, 90s fashion photoshoots, Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s stylish candids, vintage watches, and postcards from all the English cities we explored over the summer. Just a step away from my version of the Dream Life.

But as wonderful as the apartment was, the walls were still thin. Thin enough that I could hear every wet sigh Sabrina let out last night. As well as each instance she rewoundThe Notebookbefore the old couple died.

From down the hall.

Several paces away.

The moment a bird chirped at 5:01 a.m., I shot out of bed and grabbed my sneakers. Two and a half miles in and Kensington Park Road’s Victorian townhouses appeared as a slab of blurry white paint in my peripheral. The air was fresh. Brisk. Tugging at the pumpkin-orange and barn-red leaves on the trees. It heightened the smell of the crates of fresh flowers at Andy’s Flower Shop down the block.