Page 46 of Don't Be in Love

“You say it like he’s committed murder. What’s wrong with a crush?”

I could’ve written a dissertation on it. Ran my own TedTalk on it.

Crush, like love, was a sweet, romantic word for lust. Crushes were The Chase portion of the lust. That well-known Pursuit rather than the actual person or relationship.

Crushes were exciting because they were completely fictionalized. They led to unreliable, energetic lust.

I felt it whenever Dorian grabbed onto my hips or stared at my lips or looked into my eyes when he wanted an honest answer.

It wasn’t that lust shouldn’t be enjoyed. But this unpredictable version that made you question your emotions and their motives? That’s where it went downhill.

I settled for a simpler response that wouldn’t lead to my TedTalk: “It’sembarrassing.”

“Of course it is.” His brows crinkled together. “It’slove. Everything about having love is embarrassing. You’re pining over someone who’s across the room hardly thinking of you. That’s incredibly embarrassing. But I also think there’s something romantic about being secretly fond of someone in a way that only you know.”

I never heard him speak so seriously. He seemed to even shock himself.

The air in the room was thick. Not middle-of-October-air or even an expensive heating unit hung behind me. But this heavy unidentifiablethingbetween us. The thing that made me want to askmoreand askwho.

“Have you never had a crush?” he questioned.

“No.” I brushed my hands on my skirt.

“I don’t think I believe you.” His words dragged my gaze back up.

“Why would I lie?”

“Because you don’t want to be embarrassed.” He watched me carefully.

“It’s a good thing I have nothing to be embarrassed about then.”

“I guess so.” His eyes flickered across my face until he was satisfied. “Well then. Do you want to start?”

I handed him the pencil.

He pressed his forearm to the paper on the easel and sketched the silhouette of the model. He started with the arch of his back and the curve of his neck. Then he shaped out his side profile, trying to get the arch of his nose just right. Within a few minutes, angled arms, bent knees, and a thoughtful face were drawn.

“Alright, you’re up,” he said, putting the pencil down and flipping the notepad to a new page so that his drawing hung over the easel.

“I thought we were working off your drawing.”

“You have to make your own. It’s the first-timer rule.” He handed me the pencil.

“Dorian, I will look like a toddler compared to you.”

There was a pull at the corner of his lips. “Why don’t you paint something then. Not the model. Just anything. Anything you want.”

Want.

Looking at him now, his head bent to meet my eye and the knowledge of our knees barely touching, he was what I wanted.

What I wanted to paint, of course.

To explore the color of his eyes with the selection of brown paints with a hint of orange to achieve that brightness. I wanted the satisfaction of running a sharp line of paint across the paper to fulfill that need of holding his jaw. I wanted to try retracing his tattoos from memory to figure out if my dreams had been distorting them for the past month or if I had them memorized down to each curvature.

I cleared my throat. I stretched my arm across his lap for the brush. He instantly moved. I took that as an offer to scootch in rather than a reaction to my proximity in order to maintain sanity.

I dipped it in the blue and then realized— “Are there any smocks?” I glanced down at my white shirt.