Don't Be In Love

by Liana Cincotti

“Mia had mentioned her,” I answered. “And you care?” A crease of surprise spread across his forehead. “No, of—” “Don’t lie.” It was like my attempt at a groundstroke fell flat, underwhelming him. I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not ly—” “Are you jealous?” Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Why would I be jealous?” “Because I think you think about that night too,” he said quietly.

His eyes were doing that thing again. The thing where they shot a zing right through my spine.

Wrapping its fingers around my waist and pulling— I gasped, gulping a cloud of air. My heart pounded in my chest as I clung to Dorian. My fingers buried themselves into his soaked dress shirt, gripping onto his shoulders. The muscles that made up my throat were rattling as I tried to get steady flows of air in and out, like the frame of a building being taken by a breeze.

His hand breached my jaw as he took my face into his hands. This was so much worse than being together in the rain. “Adelaide, are you alright?” he asked. His eyes were wide, marked by remnants of the pond. They searched my face, marking checkpoints as they went along. “Please tell me you’re alright.”

“Adelaide, wait.” My skeletal system jumped each time he said my name.

But I couldn’t. Because all I could focus on was the absolute disarray in which his shirt was in because it was barely there. A transparent cloth stuck against his chest and abdomen from the water.

The look on Dorian’s face as I left him by the pond still pulled at a muscle in my chest.

Go on the London Eye • Send a postcard back home • Try something new • Buy a shirt with the UK flag on it • Use a telephone booth • Kiss a Brit

and a mutilated lip gloss tube (because I couldn’t stop picking at my lips

Adelaide. Adelaide. Adelaide. Dorian’s voice was everywhere. Soft and swooping. His soothing tone spoke in cursive. It hooked onto my ears and hugged the back of my head. It even grazed my spine.

Adelaide. Adelaide. Adelaide. I wanted to lean into it. Bottle it and attach it to my purse to listen to when the sway of the trees and the smell of the ink on a page weren’t enough to calm me. I wanted to know what it tasted— Adelaide.

God, he looked handsome when he was taken aback. Get it together.

Oh wonderful, here came the Overworked Stress Tears filling my throat. “Hey, it’s alright. I can fix it,” Dorian offered, his voice soft and reassuring, pushing off the table to lean over my shoulder. His face right beside mine, his shoulder neighboring mine. I could smell the coffee on his black sweater.

His lips almost brushed mine. It was so fast; I couldn’t tell if I had imagined it. My heart replaced the emotion in my esophagus.

I sat back and watched him work, careful to not brush his shoulder with mine.

Side effects included: staring longer than usual, counting the number of moles on his neck and the outgrown curls above his ear, and having the urge to ask why there was always paint under his nails.

I laughed and his mouth kicked upward. That dimple appeared on his left cheek.

“Oh, you thought I meant the computer? I was talking about me. You owe me damages for the past two weeks of no tutoring.”

I laughed, again. And then he laughed from the reaction on my face. It was joyous and wonderous. The laughter of a boy who was chasing after a butterfly.

He looked at me with an unreadable expression before redirecting his gaze.

His head shifted, and so did his glance. I was pinned by his eyes.

One that had to do with the fact that I could count the number of inches between our lips and the time it would take to grab his belt loop and pull him forward.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he said as he twisted the key, screwing the piece in. “It’s fine. It was just a dress.” Said no one ever. “I could buy you a new one.” “I don’t need you to buy me anything, Dorian.” “I know, Adelaide. I don’t need to do anything, but I want to.”

He followed my gaze. Kiss a Brit. Blood crawled its way up my neck. “I guess you can cross that last one off.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Especially if you’ve kissed any other—” “I haven’t. Focusing on class only, as I’ve mentioned.”

I stood up from the floor. He followed.

His eyes darted to mine and then back down. He handed me the laptop; I passed him his jacket. Then he picked up my bag and I checked my emails on my phone one more time. Our usual post-session ritual.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he replied, pulling an umbrella out of his bag.

squeezed my eyes shut and threw my hand out as fingers latched onto my hips, tugging me in the opposite direction. “Jesus Christ, Adelaide, what are you doing?” Dorian breathed out a sigh full of disbelief.

His stomach deflated. I fell deeper into his chest.

“I will buy you new clothes, Adelaide, if it means you’re not fighting with a cat and risking falling twenty feet.”

He exhaled. “I really—God, let me help.” Then his body was leaning over mine.

My eyes could’ve been shut, and I still would’ve felt him there. Even without the rich scent of his sweaters and jackets. No contact between us was necessary. It was simply him. My body was so hyper aware of him.

I could’ve been unconscious, and I would’ve fe...

He followed my hand, his arm running along mine like paint on a canvas, until his fingers were on mine, feeling for the bottle. I retrieved my palm hastily. He wriggled his...

Before I could respond, he was leaning forward, strands of his hair flopping forward as he took the straw into his mouth and sipped. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Then he was standing back up with one swipe of his tongue across his lips before I could let the image simmer any longer.

“Change your slippers, we’re going.” “Going where? I just told you I’m busy.” I shook my shake. “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.”

Only traced the hem of my maxi skirt and tried not to feel the weight of his gaze as he watched the movement until the tires halted,

I heard the tree’s dew drip onto the car’s roof before I noticed Dorian opening my door and reaching for my hand. In public. In the middle of London.

He braced the car frame above me, leaning down. There was so much leaning. So much cutting into my space. I was beginning to get dizzy.

He pushed off the car and offered his hand. Reluctantly, I accepted as he placed his other hand between my head and the car frame, stepping out.

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.

“It’s love. Everything about having love is embarrassing. You’re pining over someone who’s across the room hardly thinking of you. That’s incredibly embarrassing. But I also think there’s something romantic about being secretly fond of someone in a way that only you know.”

But this heavy unidentifiable thing between us. The thing that made me want to ask more and ask who.

His eyes flickered across my face until he was satisfied.

“Why don’t you paint something then. Not the model. Just anything. Anything you want.” Want. 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.

I wanted the satisfaction of running a sharp line of paint across the paper to fulfill that need of holding his jaw. I wanted to try retracing his tattoos from memory to figure out if my dreams had been distorting them for the past month or if I had them memorized down to each curvature.

I did bring something though.” He rifled through his bag and pulled out a T-shirt. “You’ve got to be kidding. Is your name on the back too?” I asked. It was a gray short-sleeve with a British flag at the center—one of the items on the list. “I can make that happen.”

He brushed my hair to the side, meticulously pulling it from the collar without it tugging or knotting. He pushed the last piece behind my ear.

“But London looks good on you.”

“Where did you get this?” I questioned, looking down at the graphic. “My closet,” he responded. He was biting the inside ...