Page 47 of Don't Be in Love

“Poppy doesn’t believe in smocks here. She thinks if paint ends up on your clothes, then it’s proof of your passion.”

“Poppy has obviously never owned a favorite shirt before.”

“Adelaide, her favorites obviously have paint on them.”

I suppressed a smile. “What are the chances she’s willing to give one of those up?”

“She’d probably give you the shirt off her back if it was in the name of art. I did bring something though.” He rifled through his bag and pulled out a T-shirt.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Is your name on the back too?” I asked. It was a gray short-sleeve with a British flag at the center—one of the items on the list.

“I can make that happen.”

“I’m sure you can.” I took the shirt before he could take it back to some embroider that’s worked in his family for a century. That or he’d probably paintBlackwoodon the back.

I pulled the shirt over my head. The cotton fabric was soft and worn, the woodsy aroma surrounded my nose as I dragged it over my face. The collar sucked all of my hair in like a vacuum, strands trapping themselves in my mouth.

“How much of a tourist do I look like now?” I asked.

He brushed my hair to the side, meticulously pulling it from the collar without it tugging or knotting. He pushed the last piece behind my ear.

“Very much so,” he answered. “But London looks good on you.”

“Where did you get this?” I questioned, looking down at the graphic.

“My closet,” he responded. He was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

I shook out my hair and picked up the paintbrush, trying to ignore the blush on my cheeks. “You’re the worst.”

I dipped the brush in the blue and mixed it with a bit of white and green on the palette attached to the side of the easel. I outlined a house, leaving space at the top for a roof. I brushed short strokes in a horizontal line until the home was fully sided. It truly did look like a toddler’s painting.

“I like your souvenirs by the way,” he commented.

“I like that you draw,” I admitted.

“Because it makes me seem like less of a snob?” he guessed.

“No, because you draw with vulnerability,” I said. It might have been the most honest thing I had said to him. From the quiet look on his face, I could tell he was thinking the same thing. But I wasn’t sure what that meant for me.

16

Don’t Think About Dating Her — Dorian

“You’re throwing your life away,” Victoria spat from above me.

She texted me that there was an emergency while on my way back from Adelaide’s after the art studio, so I came immediately.

If I knew that my life choices were the emergency, I would’ve walked slower. Maybe grab an acetaminophen and a drink to relieve the headache that was forming in my right ear where she was shouting as I fixed the lock in her door that her landlord refused to fix. The packaged deadbolt on her counter made for a good distraction during this conversation.

From my kneeled position on the ground, eye-level with the lock, I unscrewed the old deadbolt with the drill.

“Are you really just going to throw your future away?” she questioned.

“By wanting to open a gallery?” I asked. I was so tired. She must see it.

“Yes!” she shouted.

“This is what you wanted to talk about? I haven’t seen you or heard from you in three months andthisis what you’ve been thinking about?”