Don't Be In Love

by Liana Cincotti

Senior Year. In London.

But I wasn’t going to push her away with my whole philosophy on love. Especially not when her entire being was as delicate as a hydrangea.

I may have moved across the world to live in a foreign place, but I still wouldn’t call myself spontaneous.

Running to the Tube in my heels with Rye’s coat on my shoulders felt like a scene from a movie.

“Dorian Blackwood is back in London!

“That’s Dorian Blackwood?” Mia looked up in question. I sat still, processing this nightmare. Rye is Dorian Blackwood. I slept with Dorian Blackwood. As in the Dorian Blackwood they call the UK Bachelor. As in the man my newest best friend is in love with.

I wouldn’t ruin this for her. I wouldn’t let him jeopardize this friendship. It was only one night anyways.

Maybe it was possible that he could be a gentleman about this situation and never speak a word about the other night. But I wasn’t taking any chances.

“The other night: the club, the dancing, the Tube, my flat. You left while I was sleeping.” He

“What do I have to do to get you to go on a date with me?” he asked with purpose, finally removing his hand from the door, and stuffing it into his pocket.

He opened his mouth. “I’ll make a deal with you: I’ll keep our night quiet if you help me pass this class.”

floor. He had a head of hair that was as white as snow.

“My mother works for Beverly.”

“My name’s James, by the way,”

“Shouldn’t you have some ridiculous phone box keychain on here?” I smacked his hand away. “Those keychains aren’t ridiculous,” I huffed. There was a tiny red telephone booth hanging from my bedpost in my room as we spoke. The epitome of adorable. “They just don’t match my … collection,” I pointed out.

The blue and gray of the silk scarf, white pearls, and gold rings looped through the strap of my leather bag would clash with red.

I couldn’t go back home anymore. I didn’t even have anything to go back to.

I couldn’t imagine my mother ever asking if I had done my work. She never even asked me about school. I was an entity that existed in our house. Another working individual. I tried to see the silver lining about being forced to learn the reality of life early (that it was only as good as you were willing to work) but it still hadn’t made me numb enough in moments like this.

If I failed … well, I didn’t think my aunt was looking to house me for another five years.

My stomach twisted. Your mother. It was easier to say, “I guess she didn’t think about it,” than to explain that we hadn’t spoken in over five years.

“That can’t be possible,” Evelyn shook the idea away. “Isn’t she pretty?” she asked Dorian. ​“She is very pretty.” He nodded. His eyes met mine.

The women gasped as if he had told them he was cheated on by his sixth wife and was left without a home and prospects. Theatrical as usual.

“Dorian.” I glared at him. “I like it when you say my name with your cute accent. It sounds better your way.”

“Goodnight, Adelaide. I’ll see you tomorrow. From afar.” From afar. That’s what I asked for. So why did I feel like a hollowed out tree?

I enjoyed watching everyone stop in the middle of their routes to collectively swing their umbrellas up over their heads and then continue on, like a snippet from a musical. Birds bathed in the puddles. Trees became as vibrant as the ones in watercolor paintings. Even the Thames got a chance to join in on the city’s noise. But it was all ruined now. And right as the rain was so close to becoming a friend. How unfortunate.

Running away had a bad reputation. But sometimes, it was the only option. It offered me solace. Privacy.

So I’d stay away from Mr. Blackwood if I were you.”

“Addy loves to be alone, she’s like a little grandma.”

“We’re checking something off your to-do list and going over my project because that was our deal. Go throw on some real clothes, it’s my turn to teach you something tonight.”

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.

But I also think there’s something romantic about being secretly fond of someone in a way that only you know.”

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.

“No, because you draw with vulnerability,” I said. It

Embarrassing. She thinks I’m embarrassing. Maybe I was. Maybe that’s what happened to a person who kept going back to someone who didn’t love them.

I wanted to tell him how I was feeling. How she made me feel. Anxious. Admired. Agitated. Adored. Acknowledged. A complex canvas with layers

I needed to hear that I wasn’t insane. Because the way my skin shivered as Victoria kissed me last night felt like the embodiment of loneliness. I walked home with a fishhook grip on my conscious, filled with guilt.

The cause of the attack, you ask? Best friend fancies the woman I’m dreaming about.

I couldn’t tell him now. If I told him I took her to Poppy’s, then he’d know Adelaide meant something.

Art was meant to be enjoyed. To provoke. Not to be pulled apart and judged stroke by stroke. But Adelaide just watched. The same way I watched her run her finger over her computer screen to breakdown definitions and explain analytics.

A fun seasonal change.

“Prove it then,” I argued.

We’re kissing. We’re kissing. We’re kissing and I don’t want to pull away. His lips were soft and sweet and consuming

“I’ve thought about this every day,” he whispered. ​I had thought about this every day too.

“This was a mistake. You live a very different life than mine, and even if you didn’t, I have a life that can’t exist with you in it.” “You don’t mean that.” His grip loosened on my palm. “We can make this work.”

“Make what work? This isn’t personal, but I don’t care to build any type of connection. I have no interest in building any type of relationship with anyone. So don’t waste your time because I’m not capable of loving you.” His face fell.

“I think you’re underestimating the power of tension.”

“I didn’t need anyone to tell me how to find you,” he clarified. “I saw you leaning against the balcony. Your back is practically painted in my brain.” Looking at him was a mistake.

But last night, she had also kissed me like she missed me. The same way I’ve missed her on this instinctual, primal level.

I hated how much I had her memorized. I hated how much overtime my brain was running to remember her while I slept, injecting it into my dreams.

“Stalking you? You sit in the same spot every day. I walked about three feet to find you.”