Page 81 of Don't Be in Love

Digital scrapbooking was my only option. Mood boarding was out of the picture at the moment. It was hard to get a magazine around here that didn’t include Dorian’s face within the pages.

I’ve been throwing together various scrapbook pages on my laptop since July after Mia showed me her physical one stuffed with pastel ribbons, notes, tickets, lace, and stickers that looked like stamps.

Her mom had made it for her before she left for London. Mia was meant to fill it with photos while she was here.

There was a twang of jealousy in my chest. A curling, twisting pain that felt more like heartbreak and less like envy. Her mother’s handwriting was on every page. Hair ribbons that were saved for over a decade. Original copies of report cards. An unspoken inscription of family support.

I remember when I was told I’d be valedictorian in high school. My first thought was about the speech. The dreaded speech at graduation. If it weren’t for the university scholarships, I would’ve let my GPA drop just enough to miss it.

Graduation day, I stood at the podium with my speech. I looked out at everyone’s parents, siblings, cousins, and grandparents. They all held plastic-wrapped roses and cards pushed into bright yellow envelopes. The objects possessed me. I knew each one would end with “love, Mom & Dad.” They were the worst part. Each person would have that card forever. A card that listed their accomplishments that their parents got to witness.

I couldn’t look away from them. I was stuck.

Everyone was going to walk across the stage to accept their diploma and smile for their mom’s photograph that would exist on their family home’s mantel for forty years. While my aunt sat in the crowd by herself.

I was appreciative that she came but it would’ve been easier if she just wasn’t there at all.

I had reached out to both of my parents because I felt obligated to. Maybe they’d want to see me. See how my hair had grown out. How I got my ears pierced, even though they were slightly off centered because they had gotten infected and needed to be repierced, that one time they weren’t around for. Maybe they’d want to see how I got his lips but her nose. But they never came. Never answered my emails or my voicemails.

Only seven days had passed since I sent Laila my postcard, but I still worried. Customs can take a while—or so I was told.

“There’s no way she’s received it yet,” Sabrina had reassured me. “She’ll definitely text you when she gets it anyway.”

That wasn’t something we did. Example one: no word from her today and it was her niece’s birthday.

Not that I cared. I hated birthdays. I hated all big occasions.

I was surrounded by the ghosts of who should’ve been there every time. Sometimes the ghosts would fade to the back in a crowded room. Stick to the walls. Stretch their heads over shoulders.

They were always there. Reminding me that no matter how many hours I worked, how many friends I made, how many job acceptances I got, I still wouldn’t have a scrapbook.

I inhaled.

Two ghosts hovered. Hidden away in the backroom, they accompanied the birthday balloons Iris and Dotty had waiting for me.

I shut my laptop, put my headphones on, and brought a stack of returned books to their correct shelves to pass the time. I slid each book alphabetically by author onto the shelf above me, careful to keep them from falling on their side in the gap. I continued on that pattern until something moved in my peripheral and my hand froze.

The music faded away as I took in the absurdly attractive man standing at the front desk.

Whichever part of my brain was in charge of receiving words and breaking them down into meaning had diminished. The only meaning I could understand was Dorian.

Dorian in a suit. Dorian checking his watch. Dorian holding flowers. Holding peonies.

His presence strung me like a violin bow and kept me still as if I was captured by a haunting melody.

Then I was staring at him too long and he was turning, his eyes instantly catching me. His posture corrected.

I immediately became aware of the shortness of my dress and the chip in my nail polish and the small strand of hair that wouldn’t rest on top of my head.

Wow,he mouthed.

I rolled my eyes.Typical.

You like it, a full smile that squeezed out his dimple said.

I couldn’t help but smile back.

Right as I took a few steps forward, he followed, the two of us meeting in the middle.