13
Don’t Forget That There Are Eyes Everywhere — Adelaide
My mother used to play sitcoms or romance movies whenever she was home. It didn’t matter if she was cleaning the kitchen, cooking dinner, blow drying her hair, or lining up her vintage watches on her nightstand to shine.
The TV would always display a cozy, suburban home, a studio apartment in the West Village, or a cottage nestled in the English Countryside, frosted with snow. The common denominator was that it was anywhere but here, in our stubby house where she and my father had made an attempt at the Dream Life. Buy a house with green shutters, get married in a church, and have a kid that’ll look exactly like the mother but claim the last name of the father.
The longer I watched the suburban homes and cottages, the more I understood why she put them on. Those lives seemed so…peaceful. It didn’t matter if your fashion magazine job was on the line or if the surprise twin sister you met at camp switched places with you. Because by the end, everyone was happy. We were missing that part of the equation.
When my parents fought, I’d slip out the window and run down the street to the park and sit in the wood chips with one of Mom’s fashion magazines. Pictures of glass perfume, lipstick bottles, leather purses, and voluminous dresses. I’d tear them all out and add them to the cork board above my bed.
Running away had a bad reputation. But sometimes, it was the only option. It offered me solace. Privacy.
That was a long time ago. Now, I was in my own personal sitcom, living in a cozy apartment in London. A gold-framed cork board branded with all of my favorite The New Yorker articles, 90s fashion photoshoots, Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s stylish candids, vintage watches, and postcards from all the English cities we explored over the summer. Just a step away from my version of the Dream Life.
But as wonderful as the apartment was, the walls were still thin. Thin enough that I could hear every wet sigh Sabrina let out last night. As well as each instance she rewound The Notebook before the old couple died.
From down the hall.
Several paces away.
The moment a bird chirped at 5:01 a.m., I shot out of bed and grabbed my sneakers. Two and a half miles in and Kensington Park Road’s Victorian townhouses appeared as a slab of blurry white paint in my peripheral. The air was fresh. Brisk. Tugging at the pumpkin-orange and barn-red leaves on the trees. It heightened the smell of the crates of fresh flowers at Andy’s Flower Shop down the block.
It was a wave of relief compared to the past nine hours.
The look on Dorian’s face as I left him by the pond still pulled at a muscle in my chest. He was painted in disbelief. Arms slouched at his sides and brows pushed together in the center. As if I had done something wrong. As if I was the one who had waltzed right up to him, ignoring our rule to avoid one another. As if I had pushed him into the water.
I couldn’t believe that society had been pushing this “women are confusing” agenda for so long when men like this existed. What a bunch of nonsense. All we had left was Marty.
I waved to Marty across the street. He waved back as I waited for the black cabs, cyclists, and cherry red buses to pass.
The smiling old man sat on the bench outside Big Ben’s Bakery every Sunday morning with a croissant spewing chocolate like a tiny volcano. Hail could be falling from the sky while termites ate the seat around him, and he’d still be smiling.
I wanted to be like Marty. Rosy cheeks, a croissant in my hand, and zero thoughts about Dorian.
The one positive thing about yesterday was Sabrina getting a glimpse into who Dorian was: unavailable and narcissistic. Maybe not the latter but definitely the former.
When Mia had found me in a moister state than I had been previously, she dragged me inside where Brina was crying in the bathroom.
“He really does have a girlfriend.” She had choked out the words, holding up her phone with a picture of Dorian kissing the blond I had just researched myself. It even made me choke.
“We don’t know that,” Mia reassured her.
“They’re kissing!” she wailed, shaking her phone. My heart ached.
“Let’s get you home,” I said, taking her phone and tucking my arm under her shoulder, Mia followed the same movement.
“Whyareyouallwet?” she murmured, breaking up the emotion in her throat as we left the bathroom and stepped back onto the stone path outside.
“I saw a duck in the pond and thought it’d be fun to see if they acted differently from the ones in the Charles River.”
She cracked a smile. A sunrise of a face breaking the ocean line. “Doesn’t sound like a conducive environment for research since you interrupted their space. What’d you find?”
“I found that they react the same way when a tiny one tried to bite me. British animals obtain the same amount of politeness as my deli guy back home.”
She laughed. “What actually happened to you?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” When we’re old and gray and you’ve forgotten who Dorian is.
Her smile fizzled out once we returned to the apartment and she spotted my watch on the coffee table that “looked exactly like the one Dorian had worn that one time in—” The rest of the words became unrecognizable from the mixture of her accent and the tears.
We curled up on the couch—after I moved my watch—and wrapped a single blanket around us as if we were trying to test glow-in-the-dark bracelets, putting on the least romantic film society has ever watched.
Fast & Furious .
Brina was nodding off within the first half hour of the film, her cheek pressing into my shoulder. Mia held her head up as I scooted out from under her, replacing the space with a pillow. She slipped the bobby pins out of her hair while I worked on her mascara with a cotton ball.
She must’ve woken up and returned to her bed around 1 a.m. because that’s when I heard, He sent you letters, Allie!
I folded my pillow around my head like a half-open sushi roll. Come on, Sabrina. He’s just a guy .
I wanted her to be happy. But watching her cry over someone like Dorian was … bittersweet. It pulled me away from the present and threw me into the past.
It was my mother all over again. Hours spent alone in her room. Porcelain dishware designated for guests collected dust. Even the TV collected dust. I hadn’t seen any new sitcoms or romance films that came out until I was living at my aunt’s.
Slowly, the photos of Dad disappeared from the fridge. Childhood pictures were suddenly missing faces. It was as if a murder had been solved and all the evidence was being disposed of. The smell of sawdust that lived in his clothes had dissipated from his closet.
He had ruined her life. And she, consequently, had ruined mine.
I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. You’re wasting your time . This will never do you any good .
Sabrina was better off getting over him now. Today’s pain would save her a lifetime of trauma.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead before I jogged across the street to Big Ben’s Bakery.
“How are you doing, Marty?” I held my hand up to shield the rising sun.
“Enjoying this lovely Sunday morning with my croissant.” He leaned back into the bench, laying a hand over his belly and raising the pastry as the sun warmed his face. “This is earlier than your usual time, ain’t it?” He flicked his wrist to check his watch. “Early night?”
I massaged a muscle in my neck. “Late actually.”
“Studying?”
I laughed. “For once, I wish. How’s your itinerary going? You’re back to New York next week, right?”
“Sadly. Got to get back home to the cat and the business. I’ve only made it through about half my list though.” He sat up to pull a folded piece of paper out of his pocket before handing it to me.
It was a page from a notepad with Marty’s Bagels printed at the header. About six things at the top of the list were crossed out. The rest of the itinerary read:
· 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
That last one seemed like something I shouldn’t have seen.
“You still did a lot. I heard the telephone booths are really dirty anyways, so I don’t think you’re missing out,” I said, trying to make him feel better as I put it back in his hand.
“That’s the city for ya. There’s an unhygienic downside to everything.” He took a bite of his croissant, flakes sticking to his scrubby facial hair, watching a double-decker drive by. “You know what, why don’t you keep this.”
“The list?” The paper somehow back in my palm.
“Finish it for me. Let me know if the telephone booths are as gross as they say.”
“You should keep this. Frame it until you come back to London,” I urged.
He pointed his croissant at me. “It’s your list now. Think of it as a piece of me so that you don’t forget to visit my shop in New York. Deal?”
“Deal.” I smiled. “See you in New York, Marty. Have a safe flight home.” I opened the door to the bakery. The bell chimed and wafts of butter and melted chocolate rushed forward.
“Make sure to write me when you’ve done everything!” he shouted.
“Fine!” I laughed as the door swung shut behind me.
“Adelaide?” A warm English accent startled me.
I turned in line and found—“Professor Emmerson?”
She waved me over before lifting a teacup to her lips and cozying into her corner table. A toasted blueberry muffin sat on her plate.
I almost pointed to myself. You mean me? But, yup, she was looking right at me. I left the order line.
“Sit, sit,” she insisted.
I sat down in shock. She must’ve had a hundred students across all of her classes, at least. And we’d only spoken once: when I asked for extra credit during week two as a just in case . Other than that, I was just a raised hand that was never called on.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I had saw you through the window talking to that gentleman. I never see anyone I know this early, let alone one of my students.” Her cheeks wrinkled as she set her teacup down. The clink was muffled by the abundance of people ordering at the counter behind us.
“That was Marty. I usually come closer to seven, but he’s been here every time. This was his last Sunday before returning to New York,” I explained.
I folded and unfolded my hands in my lap. This couldn’t have been worse timing. I was wearing a raggedy T-shirt that was three sizes too big, and I was ninety percent sure that there were two circles of sweat underneath my sleeves. I was not an angelic runner. Whereas she looked straight out of a home design magazine with a blue and white striped blouse, gold bangles on her wrists, and pink blush on her cheeks.
“I’m happy you’re getting to know people, even if they’re New Yorkers.” She laughed with the vibrancy of a hydrangea bush. “It can be difficult to adjust being abroad away from family. Many of the students struggle with it the first month.”
Couldn’t have been easier, actually.
“It hasn’t been too bad of an adjustment,” I smiled, hoping that it sounded like, I’m malleable. I can adjust to anything! Like a person necessary for an internship of someone you may know.
“Something about that doesn’t surprise me. The work you’ve been passing in has been exceptional, to say the least. Especially for a transfer student. I’ve been teaching some of the same students since they entered as first years and they’ve never grown. It’s no surprise that you’re here on a full scholarship. You work very hard. ” She waved her finger the same way she did in class during presentations to make sure everyone was paying attention.
My chest filled like a balloon. Instead of helium or confetti though, it was packed with pride. “Thank you so much. The class means a lot to me.”
“I can tell. I only imagine what you’ll accomplish after graduation.” She stabbed the muffin with her fork and raised it to her mouth. But she paused. “If you ever need a recommendation, I’d be more than happy to write you one.”
The chair almost collapsed beneath me. “That would be incredible, thank you,” I responded, trying my best not to sound like I just had my Sylvie Emmerson Fan Club dream come to life.
“Of course. Companies need marketers with an attention to detail and work ethic like yours.” She took a bite of the muffin and swallowed. “How have the rest of your classes been? Oh my, that bad?”
I pressed my lips together trying not to laugh. “It’s manageable.”
“Don’t tell me my class is the worst,” she asked, dreading the answer based on the V at the center of her eyebrows.
“No, no! Not at all.” Her assignments were the sum of everything I loved about marketing. Branding. Slide decks. Content creation. Campaign brainstorming. The only downside was doing it all over again with Dorian. “Professor Dover’s hundred-page assignment haunts me while I sleep.”
“Oh no, you have Professor Dover?” She whistled. “ The Doom Paper as the students call it. He assigns it every semester. I wouldn’t worry though. You’ll do just fine,” she reassured me.
I’d feel fine when the assignment was done.
“Well, I’ve taken enough of your morning. I’ll let you get on with the rest of your weekend. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” She patted my hand, standing up and collecting her bag and a few papers.
“It was nice seeing you, Professor.” I smiled.
“Enjoy the rest of your Sunday. Oh, and Ms. Adorno.” She held onto the back of my chair and lowered her voice.
“Be careful about who you spend time with on campus. The Board is very … keen on how scholarship students act outside of academics. The professors are all very aware that most of the students would be perfectly comfortable if they didn’t find jobs after graduation. But I know how hard you’re working towards this. Who you associate yourself with can tarnish your image inside and outside the university. And you understand how important your brand is more than anyone. So I’d stay away from Mr. Blackwood if I were you.”