By: Clive Aaron Gill

Amelia sat opposite Milo in a busy café after their college art class. Roasted coffee and buttery pastries scented the air. Their conversation flowed effortlessly for an hour, and his thick, black hair falling over his forehead caused her pulse to quicken.

Milo invited her to his loft. Her hesitancy dissolved with his warm smile. In Milo’s home, glass jars held paintbrushes, and he showed Amelia several of his abstract artworks.

They hugged, and his trembling, paint-stained hands traced the curve of her back beneath her long, glossy brown hair. Pressing closer, she felt his heartbeat against her cheek, and her fingertips tingled. In the electric quietness, they undressed each other slowly. She shivered at his intensity, the confidence of his attention. For the first time, she didn’t hold back.

But the shift she’d imagined never arrived. She blamed herself.

*

That night, Amelia’s mother served spaghetti with tomato sauce and seasoned meatballs, slightly overcooked. Amelia barely touched her food, her usual lively chatter replaced by silence. The silverware clinked, and her parents exchanged an anxious glance.

Her father asked, “Are you okay, Amelia?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

As Amelia got ready for bed, her mother stepped into her bedroom and quietly closed the door. “How was your date?” she asked in a firm tone.

How will Mama react?

“We’ve always been honest with each other, Amelia.”

“I’m not sure. I mean, I lost my virginity.”

“Oh, honey ….” Her mother’s eyes widened. She sat on the edge of the bed, and a flush crept up her neck. “I didn’t realize you two were that serious.”

“We’re not, really.”

“Then why —” She stopped herself and twisted her wedding ring. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. You’re twenty-two. You make your own choices. Did you feel okay about it?”

“I think so. But we’re not in love. It felt … kind of empty. I wanted it to matter more.”

Amelia’s mother nodded. “Was it … were you being safe?”

“Yes, Mom.”

 “Maybe … maybe you could ask him to dinner. It’s good to get to know someone better, even if it doesn’t lead to a love story.”

Amelia exhaled softly, relieved her mother hadn’t pressured her to pursue a relationship with Milo.

The following Saturday evening, Milo arrived carrying a large bouquet of yellow carnations and gave them to Amelia’s mother.

 “I love them,” she said. “Carnations are my favorite.” She placed them in a vase in the living room.

Milo complimented Amelia’s mother on her lasagna. He and Amelia debated “The Gallerist” movie. Every few minutes his finger found the tip of his nose, betraying his nervousness. When her father dismissed digital artists as people who didn’t know how to hold a real brush, Milo laughed too loudly. Amelia winced, her grip tightening on her glass.

Late that evening, Milo thanked everyone, and Amelia accompanied him to the door.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. “And for giving my mother the carnations.”

He kissed her cheek. “It was fun.”

“Yes, it was.”

After Milo left, Amelia closed the door and leaned her forehead against the wood.

Mama was right. There doesn’t always have to be a love story.

###

Clive Aaron Gill’s stories and poems have been widely published in literary magazines and anthologies. He has shared his tales and engaged audiences at writers’ workshops and at public and private events.