Page 51 of Don't Be in Love

“You would?”

“Of course. I could even help you promote it. Reach out to galleries about their newsletters. Organize a branded website with the paintings.”

He absorbed the offer before moving on.

One of the paintings was for his older sister Jasmine and her pottery studio in the South of France. Despite her living abroad, they spoke every week. Much of their conversations revolved around their mother’s dating schemes and finding ways to irk one another.

“She knows all about you,” he mentioned. It wasn’t phrased in a romantic way. But my stomach still dipped the way a golf ball went over a hump in a mini golf course.

On the walk back home from the bookstore last night, I jumped over puddles. He held the umbrella above our heads with his left hand. I clutched onto his right, reluctantly, in order to avoid falling asecondtime.

“What will you be subjecting me to next? I tried painting, I have a T-shirt with a flag plastered across it,” I listed them off.

My patent leather flats smacked against the pavement as I hopped. His rings dug into my fingers as I squeezed tight, careful not to fall, but let go immediately once my feet were back on the ground.

“I’m thinking the postcard one,” he responded, his eyes snagging on one of the many postcard carousels we passed. All the tourist shops sold the same ones. Cheesy variations of the British flag with oversaturated images of the monuments. One of them was pinned to the cork board above my desk.

“I’ll have to find one with a pastry on it for Marty. He’d love that,” I thought aloud.

“I was actually thinking you could send it to your aunt,” he responded.

“I see what you’re doing, and I appreciate it, but no. My aunt and I don’t have that type of relationship.”

“But maybe you could.”

Before I left for class this morning, there was a blank postcard in my mailbox with a sticky note.

I’ll bring you a stamp when you’re ready.

Twelve hours later, there was a collection of pen dots in the top left corner of the postcard. It looked as if I forgot how to spell. Or how to use a pen.

I picked up the pile of clothes from my chair and moved them to the end of my bed. His shirt with the British flag was in there. Even covered, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The legs of the chair squeaked in debate as I sat.

“I don’t want to do this either,” I grumbled.

The postcard resting on my desk was giving me a headache like an unopened Pandora’s box. I had zero desire to touch it though; its existence made my head throb. I’d rather dangle from Big Ben’s clock than dip a toe in the past via a postcard.

There wasn’t a word in the English language that I could start with that sounded right. “Dear Auntie Laila” was too formal. Especially for an aunt who was in her twenties the last time I saw her. I also hadn’t called her “Auntie” in ten years. It was difficult to call your aunt anything when she stopped acting like a relative the moment her older brother decided to move on from his family.

Unfortunately for her, she was my only other relative in the area. Twenty-five years old and trapped caring for her fifteen-year-old niece.

Another ink dot appeared.

What were you supposed to say to someone who despised you for upending their life with your presence, but was the only family you had left?

I had no clue.

The drawer screeched as I opened it wide and dropped the blank postcard in, shutting it hard enough to hear it hit the back of the desk: a place I wouldn’t have to think about it.

“Jameson,” I bowed my head from across the hall.

“Adelaideson.” James mimicked my manner, pretending to tip his imaginary cap.

“We’re starting to scare the first years,” he commented, motioning to a few girls giving us odd looks.

Correction: they were givingmethe odd looks. He received daydreaming glances and arm-grabbing attention.