32
Don’t Upset Maureen — Adelaide
Boredom was finally starting to seep in with Mia and Sabrina gone. After two weeks of The New Yorker, morning runs in the snow after the sidewalks were cleared, applying to every job possible, and eating the same chicken and microwavable rice for dinner every night, I needed something to do. Iris and Dotty even barred me from working more than forty hours a week.
Would it be inappropriate to reach out to my professors about next semester’s work to get a head start? Probably. But solitude was driving me to consider it. Several times.
Sending that email on Christmas Eve would look rather depressing too.
“Jude Law, you’re so beautiful, but that’s somehow making me feel worse.” I sighed and sunk into the couch further as Jude looked up drunkenly at Cameron Diaz on the TV. Then she tugged on his tie and Jude fell forward.
I used to love this scene. Melt at the way Jude melted.
Now all I pictured was Dorian putting his hand over mine when I adjusted his tie at the movie premiere.
Just because we have a deal doesn’t mean I don’t respect your boundaries.
That’s what he had said, his gaze completely consuming me.
I needed to take a break. This was getting unhealthy.
Pausing Jude Law’s beautiful face, I threw on my coat and boots, grabbed my purse where my telephone booth was hidden away, and braced for the snow.
I couldn’t eat chicken and rice one more time, so I stepped into the sidewalk’s slush and ventured out for food.
Breathing in chilled my throat, forcing out a dry cough. Twilight was starting to hit the sky, despite it only being five o’clock, triggering the streetlamps to switch on. A thin layer of snow topped of each lamp, while the windowsills jutting out of the buildings were catching the falling flakes. They resembled those ceramic Christmas village homes with the tiny bulbs in the windows.
Whereas my poor tree was sagging under the weight.
“Sorry bud.” I patted its frozen bark before walking to the market two blocks down.
By the time I had a box of raw pasta in hand and was walking back, the sky was completely dark and the angelic swirling light designs that the city hung between each building over the streets sparkled at full force.
The warmth of the apartment complex hit me with a gust of wind as I entered the building. Slowly moving up the stairs, I unbuttoned my coat and pulled my keys out. The complex was quiet with so many traveling for the holiday. The sound of my boots hitting the stairs rung out. Unfortunately, our floor still had some neighbors home—
What the hell was he doing here?
At the end of the third floor where my apartment door resided, was Dorian.
“Adelaide, I know you’re home. Mia said you were staying here during holiday, so please just open the door.” Dorian braced the threshold as if he could reason with the door to open.
Even from behind him his presence made my heart hammer. His coat was tossed on the ground, so I was stuck staring at the muscles in his forearms where a black henley sweater was rolled up at the elbow.
I stood still trying to figure out if this was some hallucination. Maybe I had been eating bad chicken all week. Maybe Nancy Meyers put hallucinogens in her films.
But if I wasn’t hallucinating, then how was I going to leave the building without him noticing and still make my pasta …
“She’s not here, pretty boy!” My neighbor’s sudden appearance jolted me—and the box of pasta.
“Maureen!” Dorian cheered.
Time to intervene. “I am so sorry, enjoy your Christmas Eve,” I apologized, swept Dorian’s coat up, grabbed his arm, and pushed him into the apartment.
Before I could shut the door, he was already speaking.
“Why haven’t you answered my texts?” he asked.
I kicked my snowy boots off and quickly peeled the numerous layers from my body, dropping them on the coat rack in the foyer.
Five minutes ago, I couldn’t feel my toes. Now my cheeks were splotchy like I was struck by rogue raspberries, and my hands wouldn’t dry no matter how many times I wiped them on my jeans.
“Because I told you I’d be busy,” I huffed, trying to avoid his eyes. I pulled my sweater over my head and then unzipped my jeans—
“Bloody hell, I’m not sober enough for this.” He covered his eyes and turned away.
I rolled my eyes. “You can turn around. I have leggings on under these.”
“Oh.” He twisted and braced the threshold as I let my jeans puddle around my ankles before stepping out. He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me you were spending Christmas alone?”
“I’m pretty sure my first answer also answers that.” I walked past him and moved down the hall into the kitchen. A tinge of annoyance followed as he strode behind me. I had plans for tonight: pasta and Jude Law. The last thing I needed was him here. Missing my friends had begun to fill the space in my mind that was Dorian.
“It doesn’t look like you’re busy,” he argued.
I opened the box of farfalle on the island. “I’d say cooking dinner makes me pretty busy.”
“It’s Christmas, Adelaide.”
“Christmas Eve, actually. And I don’t like celebrations anyway, you know that.” Turning, I reached for the pot on the top shelf, my arm brushing against the Christmas garland.
Instantly, he was beside me, his arm sweeping past mine to grab the pot. It clanked against the countertop as he looked down at me.
“Why aren’t you looking at me?” he asked.
“I’m looking at you right now.” I hated it.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m in a rush, that’s why,” I exhaled, moving around him to fill the pot up in the sink.
“In a rush to do what? Spend the holiday alone like Maureen?”
“What’s wrong with being like Maureen?”
The water stopped. His hand sat atop the faucet lever.
“She has a cat and lives alone,” he responded.
“Sounds significantly better than being stuck with you.”
“Significantly?” he scoffed. “Really?”
“ Relly ,” I imitated his accent.
He narrowed his gaze. “Fine. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Thank yo—”
“You’re way too stubborn to be like Maureen,” he finished.
I glared at him. “That’s an admirable quality. Some would even say attractive.”
“I think there are many things about you that people find attractive, Adelaide.” A muscle moved in his forearm, his hand gripping the edge of the sink.
I pressed the side of my hip against the sink, needing the equivalent of a pinch to wake up . But it didn’t diminish the drumming of dormant muscles in my chest that clung to my ribcage and urged to escape. They pattered at the pace of a piano being struck with need .
His head tilted down just a fraction of an inch, but it was still something. Something that brought the tips of our noses closer than they were before and interrupted the stream of the bulb’s light above.
“Do you mean that?” I asked.
“No.” A satisfied smirk slowly intruded his serious look.
Instinctively, I dunked my fingers in the pot and threw a handful of water at him.
His reaction was delayed. The result left his hair at the front of his head riddled with droplets. Lashes, skin, and sweater polka-dotted in it. He stared at me in disbelief before plunging his hand into the pot. Water was in my eyes before I could duck.
The volume of water that passed between us was vastly different. He was sprinkled in it, whereas my face was soaked.
I grabbed the half-full pot and catapulted it—
“Shit!” he ducked, but not fast enough. He stood back up with defeat. Hair was matted to his forehead, already curling.
“I think that makes us even now.” I gave him a smug smile, empty pot in hand. Water was still swimming down the side of my jaw.
His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek in comical disbelief. He swiped his hand across his forehead, sending water flying toward the cabinets.
“Alright, that’s it. Let’s go.” He announced before shaking out his hair with his hand.
“Go where?”
“To complete your list. Now put your trousers back on.”