Don't Be In Love

by Liana Cincotti

An inch closer and I’d perfectly collide with his face.

An inch closer and I’d perfectly collide with his face.

“Twenty minute walk from here. Why?” ​“It’s already dark. I can walk you home.” ​I shoved a book in front of his face. “It’s fine, I’m here past when we finish anyways.” “I can wait. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Twenty minute walk from here. Why?” ​“It’s already dark. I can walk you home.” ​I shoved a book in front of his face. “It’s fine, I’m here past when we finish anyways.” “I can wait. I don’t have anywhere to be.”

I wobbled and he grabbed my elbow to steady me, the same way he did when we rode around on the train the night we met. My heart hiccupped unexpectedly.

I wobbled and he grabbed my elbow to steady me, the same way he did when we rode around on the train the night we met. My heart hiccupped unexpectedly.

“He had a lovely accent, terrible manners, and was always full of himself,” I recited. “You think I have a lovely accent?” he asked, only a small curve to the corner of his lips. “Don’t be fooled, everyone around here has a nice accent.” “Well, I think you have a lovely accent too,”

“He had a lovely accent, terrible manners, and was always full of himself,” I recited. “You think I have a lovely accent?” he asked, only a small curve to the corner of his lips. “Don’t be fooled, everyone around here has a nice accent.” “Well, I think you have a lovely accent too,”

I twisted, but my face came within inches of his. His eyes were lowered toward my mouth. A fast breath came from his lips. The same espresso scent on his clothes that peppered his room surrounded me. I could count his eyelashes from this vicinity. Long blots of ink that drained into dark eyes.

I twisted, but my face came within inches of his. His eyes were lowered toward my mouth. A fast breath came from his lips. The same espresso scent on his clothes that peppered his room surrounded me. I could count his eyelashes from this vicinity. Long blots of ink that drained into dark eyes.

Forty-eight hours and I still couldn’t get rid of the smell of Dorian either. It was nauseating. Glued to the sweater I had been wearing, which now sat in my hamper begging to be cleansed. But the speed at which my heart was racing behind that tree was nowhere close to the pace it was beating at now.

Forty-eight hours and I still couldn’t get rid of the smell of Dorian either. It was nauseating. Glued to the sweater I had been wearing, which now sat in my hamper begging to be cleansed. But the speed at which my heart was racing behind that tree was nowhere close to the pace it was beating at now.

He had black trousers on, and a white T-shirt that rose above his lower stomach. I could see the tattoo that rested on his hip. My gaze glued to it, trapping me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The ink followed the curve of the muscle in his torso, the way a quill guided above a line on paper. The last time I saw it, my thumb was pressed into it.

He stood up abruptly, forcing me to take a step backward to give myself space. Suddenly, I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

Maybe it’d be easier to find it if Dorian wasn’t staring at me.

Shoved Dorian onto the floor. But suddenly, his hand was on my wrist, and he was pulling me down with him.

The pounding of my heart which was beating against Dorian’s ribcage …

And I was completely lying on top of him. Chest against chest, torso against torso, hips against hips. My right knee was wedged between his legs, pressed against the hardwood floor. My cheek was smooshed against the cotton of his T-shirt. The buckle of his belt uncomfortably poked my stomach.

I could even feel the pulse in his fingers, where he was holding onto my arms to keep me from slipping off of him.

My forehead lightly grazed his chin.

There was a pause in our back and forth. He searched my face. Up close, I could only imagine how much he was finding.

“Come to the Dinner with me,” he asked with determination. ​“As your date?” I questioned, dumbfounded. ​“Of course.”

He let go of my left arm to push a piece of hair back behind my ear.

“What are you talking about?” ​“I’m not interested in her, so there’s no point to this.” ​“You don’t even know her. She’s very easy to love.” ​“I’m sure she is, but I’m not interested.”

“Come to the Dinner with me.”

Somewhere in between there also included: pretending that Dorian wasn’t quietly looking at me from behind his laptop during tutoring,

“She’s fun to be around, isn’t she?” The side of his mouth kicked up as he hit a forehand. “She is. She always makes me laugh. She’s really pretty too.” Thwack. “She is,” I exhaled. “And smart. She’s really smart. The way she always comes up with these witty responses when we argue is concerningly invigorating.”

My face was hot from him glancing at me so often.

“Is this the student you’re helping?” Beatrice asked. Everyone seemed to move forward in their seats. I pinched the bridge of my nose. ​His brow arched in curiosity. Talking about me, huh? I rolled my eyes. “Yes. This is Dorian.” “You didn’t mention he was handsome,” Cora whispered conspicuously. He bit his lip, catching a laugh before it could escape.

“Why aren’t you two dating?” Evelyn asked, knotting the end of the thread. “Because we’re not interested in each other like that,” I blurted out. He bit the inside of his cheek, crossing his arms. Oh really?

“Isn’t she pretty?” she asked Dorian. ​“She is very pretty.” He nodded. His eyes met mine. It was so earnest that it was painful to absorb. Brown orbs swirling with a palette of golden watercolors that threatened to pull me in. ​“And isn’t she smart?” ​“Incredibly smart.” He nodded. I couldn’t read his face. It was quiet but full of thought. A closed book full of wisdom written in foreign languages, disguised with a simple cover. Only, his face was never simple.

“Well, why don’t you ask her out!” Evelyn argued. ​I lost hold of his gaze. He turned to Evelyn. “I have. Unfortunately, she’s uninterested in me.” Oh.

He had rosy cheeks, the color of the strawberry jam I had added to my butte...

“But she’s willing to tutor me, so I’ll take whatever she offers.”

The more he spoke, the more I questioned if this charming act was habitual … or if it was genuine.

“Does that mean I’ll get to see you?” He glanced over at me. “From afar,” I said pointedly. “What if I happen to bump into you on the dancefloor?” “Dorian.” I glared at him. “I like it when you say my name with your cute accent. It sounds better your way.”

He smirked, and it was tumultuous. The boyishness charm in his cheeks was deafening. I wanted to capture it, box it up, and hang it on a keychain so I didn’t have to face it again.

Suddenly, some of the rain lessened. I looked over and found fabric blocking my left peripheral. He was holding his jacket over my head as we ran. The rain was completely soaking his hair. Dark brown strands became black, matting themselves to his forehead.

My heart scaled my throat.

He clutched the material and squeezed, the muscles in his arms tensing. The white fabric of his T-shirt clung to each curve and sharp angle of his body. From the line of his shoulders to the dip between the muscles in his chest to his torso. It made the roman numeral tattoo on his chest poignant. Rising and fall, taking in air.

The last time I had seen that tattoo was the first time. He had been kissing my neck. Saying my name in that accent when—

“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?

Dorian’s stubbornness. Dorian’s smirk. Dorian’s wet hair. Dorian’s jacket over my head. Dorian’s soaked shirt. It completely tarnished the rain.

Then someone moved, and there was Dorian. I saw the silver rings on his fingers first, and the crease of his dark brow next. His navy blue jacket was off, thrown over a chair somewhere. Shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing two tattoos. His smile was abundant. A painting of joy. His eyes were closed with heavy laughter. Strands of hair fell forward like branches as James held onto his arm trying to finish a story. It was how I found him the night we met, but wildly different in so many ways.

I hadn’t realized how long I had been staring until his laugh ceased and his gaze caught me like an arrow to the chest.

Placing a hand in his pocket, I watched as his lips mouthed one word: Wow.

I know you. ​His brows rose. Really? ​Yup. ​Maybe I know you. Do you? I bit the inside of my cheek. He tapped his watch. You’re already ready to leave. I pressed my lips together. Point taken.

He hid a smile. The lines beside his lips softened like butter as his smile dropped altogether.

Opening his mouth, I read the words he shaped out. You look beautiful. My heart thudded against my che...

“I was taking a phone call too.” “Who were you talking to?” He crossed his arms. “My aunt.” “You said you don’t talk to your aunt.” “When did I say that?” “Last night. At the bookshop.”