Page 74 of Don't Be in Love

I almost committed a federal crime by stuffing my hand in the post box and pulling out the postcard addressed to Auntie Laila. There was a reason they made the slot so skinny—so you couldn’t second guess your decision to send your emotionally distant aunt a postcard full of odd niceties and questions on the application process for a fashion house.

The second James left the café was the moment I realized that I needed to suck it up if I wanted this internship. The applications didn’t close until February 1st, so I had two and a half months. I either had to ask James, ask my aunt, or continue to navigate unanswered Reddit pages.

Hi Auntie Laila,

I know we haven’t spoken in a while. I’m actually in London right now studying abroad (hence the weird stamp) but I just wanted to reach out and say Happy Belated 32nd Birthday. I know you’ve studied abroad here too and enjoyed it. I’m hoping to remain in London when I graduate in May, but I need an internship for the summer. Beverly—the luxury brand I used to talk about—is hiring. I know you’ve worked for a fashion house before, so I just had some questions on applying to one, if you had the time?

—Addy

Now we’d wait. I’d either get a response, or I’d never hear from her and cement our relationship as what I’d always known it: ruined.

Leicester Square was packed with the chatter of onlookers and bustling with reporters and photographers. The premiere was sandwiched by tall buildings and shops, forced into one street filled by the red carpet. Movie banners covered the windows on the building above.

After pushing through the crowd and finding someone with an authoritative enough look to show me the entrance, I was in.

One hotel lobby, an elevator ride, and a pointed finger from a man in a black suit at a walnut door, and I was left alone outside James’s room.

I knocked on the door and a shuffle of shoes on carpet followed.

“Are you Adelaide?” an older woman in a pantsuit asked.

I nodded and she moved to the side to let me in.

Smoke—no, steam actually—filled the room as a man ran a steamer over a burgundy dress jacket. The plumes of steam were pushed around by everyone pacing through the room taking phone calls, cleaning up makeup mirrors, zipping up suitcases. Then there was a woman holding a notebook, running through a list with James.

All of the color in the room came from his ribbon pink cheeks and silver hair. They popped vibrantly like strawberry-flavored candies against sand with his burgundy tailored pants on.

I stood by the door, unsure where I was supposed to fit in.

James’s gaze ticked up. “Adelaide.” He smiled, stepping away. “Did you have an easy time getting in?”

“It was—” I was cut off by someone’s phone ringing.

“I just need a few moments, if you don’t mind?” His question swept the room. Everyone quieted before filing out. “Sorry about that.”

“Remember that thing I said about being an inconvenience?”

“I wanted them gone, that had nothing to do with you!”

“I’m going to leave and get tripped on the way out.”

“Good thing this hotel is carpeted then.” Soft creases formed around the corners of his lips as he stifled a laugh.

I snorted. “I’ll be fast then so I can meet my fate.”

I pulled the watch off my wrist and handed it to him. He put it on as I took out my phone and the single-use camera.

“I was thinking something like this, and then this.” I showed him my example photos. One with a hand in the pocket, and another with a hand adjusting at the opposite sleeve.

“Got it.” He nodded.

Getting down on one knee, eye level with his hip, I snapped some pictures with my phone, and then more with the camera. With his hand halfway in his dress pocket, I adjusted his thumb.

He flinched.

“Sorry, I forgot how cold my hands were. Can you just relax your thumb a bit?” I asked, shutting one eye and pressing the other to the viewfinder.

He cleared his throat. “Do I look okay?”