36
Don’t Ever Trust Him — Adelaide
Even in the years I was close to my aunt, when my parents were together, and she came over for holidays, took on babysitting duties, and made me the victim of poor hairstyles before Saturday soccer practices, I never knew how … funny she could be.
When we lived together, she went to work, and I went to school. At night, she’d cook dinner (I assumed, I never saw) and leave it on the counter for me. Her portion would have already been picked off the serving plate.
I didn’t know if she had friends at work or hobbies outside the office or if she preferred sour candy to chocolate. She wore a variation of the same trousers every day and answered emails like they had an expiration date. That was all I knew. She was the coworker that sat in the cubicle farthest away from me, in a way.
On our second scheduled call, I learned that she was recently promoted to manage a team—
“—of interns . Half of them think they know more than me and the other half really do know more than me.” I received a series of questions on How many emails is too many emails? and Are Friday meetings out now? et cetera . “I need your insight. I want to be the cool manager.”
I read her my Beverly cover letter four times before we finally decided it was perfect. Then I emailed Sylvie for that recommendation letter, and she responded within minutes, promising to send it to the HR department.
An hour into the phone call, I learned that she got a mini goldendoodle—apparently that was a dog—before the fiancé (Benedict) moved in. She said it was lonely without me.
We stopped there and pivoted back to the fiancé.
I didn’t ask why we never had these types of conversations before when I really needed them because I was too fearful to mess up. To throw tacks out on the road that we were smoothly cruising along now.
“You need to talk to her at some point,” Mia reminded me as we crossed the slushy street to the pub where it was filled with others who chose to spend New Year’s Eve with friends and lovers rather than family. Lampposts were still decorated with green garland and artificial sparkly snowflakes, acting as a guide in the busy street. Based on the density in the city right now, London had to have made the top of every Where To Celebrate New Year’s Eve? list.
“One conversation at a time.” I clutched the scarf that Dorian had left me, trying to keep it from flying off. I resisted the urge to press it to my nose and smell his cologne.
Her head whipped around as our leather boots hit the sidewalk. “Does that mean you’re going to be having the other conversation? With Brina?”
“I ... ” I had to tell Sabrina.
Tell her what exactly? That I can’t stop thinking about the man she’s in love with?
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And knowing that he felt the same way …
Mia noted my silence and continued. “I told you my original stance on this: if you don’t care for him, then it’s not worth upsetting her. But if you do … Well, I get it. Especially after what you said happened on Christmas Eve. But you should tell her.”
We reached the pub and she held the door open for me, letting a gust of hot air and the strong scent of bourbon funnel out before we stepped inside. Moving toward the bar, our shoulders bumped sequins and skin. My wool sleeve was snagged by the time we took a seat; televisions with the countdown to midnight hung above. I pulled my coat off as she ordered us drinks.
“Does this mean you’re going to tell him how you feel?” Mia asked, her elbows on the bar.
How I feel? As in the stabbing fire poker to the gut I suffered from each time I saw him? That fountain pen drag across my heart as if the features of his face were being drawn into my blood? The absolute nausea I got any time I thought he was going to tell me he was in love with Victoria and didn’t want to see me anymore?
I was sure those explanations would go so well . I’d throw myself into the freezing cold Thames before I even gave myself the chance to say, “fire poker.”
“You look like you’re over computing.”
“I’m just …”
“Overwhelmed?” she guessed.
“Very,” I sighed, accepting my drink from the bartender and taking a heavy swig.
Mia followed suit. “Have you talked to him since?”
“I haven’t.” I said it with a tinge of regret because he had given me an opening. In the form of a text the day after Christmas.
Heard you called James. How are you?
Lighthearted. Nothing serious. Yet, I still couldn’t pull myself together to respond.
I itched to call him, ask how he was, nag him for pictures of his meals in Italy. I wanted to hear him say that he cared for me again in his soft, sultry British accent so I could confirm that I hadn’t made it all up. So I could kiss him when he came home and not wonder if he’d pull away.
His hold on me had become plant overgrowth; a vine wrapped around every bone in my chest.
“So you’re avoiding him?”
“My specialty, isn’t it?” I raised my glass. “It was a horrible idea. And if I continue to avoid him, I’ll still end up seeing him at this ball where he’ll look atrociously more attractive than usual.”
“Maybe the words will come out easier.”
“Which words?”
“‘I like you.’”
I pressed my fingertips into the corner of my eyes.
What Mia thought was some major revelation for me actually felt bland, because the past four months have felt much more tumultuous than like .
The mistakes I regret the most are the ones I didn’t allow to happen.
I looked around the bar. Smiles painted the faces of everyone squished into the tight space. Glasses clanked, shoes stomped, giggles shrieked, and plastic noise makers sang. A cacophony of happiness that somehow unified for a symphony. But a peacefulness resonated between those who held hands beneath high top tables and splayed out fingers on partners’ lower backs.
“I have to tell him,” I decided.
“You do?” Mia’s eyes blew up. (Not literally but in width they sure did.) Her iridescent pink eyeshadow elongated.
“I do. The moment he gets home. I have absolutely no clue what I’m going to say, and this may be the one thing I’ve never planned ahead for and I should. But if I start planning then I’ll start overthinking and it’ll never happen. Once I tell him, I’ll explain everything to Brina.”
“Wow, I can’t believe this.”
“I can’t either.”
She squeezed the hand that wasn’t clutching my drink. “Whatever you need, I’ll be here.”
“Thank you.” I leaned my head against her shoulder, staring up at the television casting some performer singing a New Year’s-related tune. “In the meantime, I think I’ll have a few more of these.” I dropped my empty glass on the bar and asked for another.
And another ten minutes later.
And another ten minutes after that.
And maybe I only asked for half a glass after that because there was no way I drank that much already. The bartender only put the glass in my hand a few seconds ago.
“No. More. Drinks. Got it?” Mia said in a demanding tone. “I’d prefer if you were conscious for the walk home. Especially when midnight is in two minutes.”
I waved my hand. It wasn’t like I was drunk . I never got drunk. Especially not over a guy.
Before I could take another sip of what was left at the bottom of the crystal glass, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Grabbing the phone, the notification came up blurry, its bright screen blinding me in the dimness of the bar.
I rubbed my eyes and squinted in frustration, trying to get the words to focus as I opened the alert. But as the headline cleared up, I didn’t have to read it more than once to understand what it said.
Any fogginess that was clouding my thoughts or making the music in here actually sound good, diminished, along with the air in my lungs.
Both faded at the sight of Dorian’s lips against Victoria’s.
Dorian Blackwood and Victoria Sutton Exclusive Again.
Bile rose in my throat.
I scrolled past the photos as quickly as possible looking for the context in the article.
“ Blackwood (photographed on the left) and Sutton (photographed on the right) were spotted together outside Sutton’s apartment on Christmas Eve. Their relationship has been in question since their break-up last year, however with the couple being spotted on Christmas Eve, kissing, we can finally confirm that they are back to—”
On Christmas Eve.
“What’s wrong?” Mia’s voice interrupted but it sounded far away.
I was trapped inside a snow globe, and she was knocking on the glass. I stared at. The words weren’t forming. She gave up and then realization hit. She took my phone.
Her gasp was muffled. All I could see was Dorian’s dark hair mixed with Victoria’s blond.
“This can’t be real,” she said from a distance.
“It is.” He was wearing the same clothes I ran my hands over that night.
There were even Christmas lights hanging above them at Victoria’s apartment complex like a goddamn holiday card.
“Addy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” It was fine, my heart wasn’t being torn and pulled out of my chest like a garden tool scavenging for unrequited blood.
I guess there’s no point in telling Sabrina now. There’s nothing to tell. She’ll need me anyway once she sees this. Someone will need to hold her while she shakes and cries. I need to get my own tears out of the way.
“I just—I need to leave.”
“Let’s go then.” She collected her coat and put her glass down.
“No, stay here. I’ll go.”
“But—”
“Mia, I need to be alone.”
She sat back down, agreeing, before jumping forward to give me a hug and releasing me.
I pulled on my coat and rushed out onto the sidewalk.
I couldn’t muster up a walk in the snow, so I held out a shaky hand until a cab stopped. I got in and gave the driver the address before my voice could succumb to the emotion in my throat.
My body and mind were building up like a wall of bricks, fortifying our wall, just as they always had. A wall so thick that it had become numb. Overgrown in vines and moss. But right before the last brick could go in, all the tears slipped out.
It wasn’t until I was back in my flat that I realized I had been clutching his scarf.