Page 60 of Drawn Together
Fingers reach, grabbing one tendril of my curls, and he studies it, then me. And just like that I’m suddenly jealous of all his paperbacks for experiencing what it’s like to be held and known so intimately by Fletcher Harding.
My mouth hangs open, like a gaping fish hung to a wall, and I have…nothing to say here.
“You’re so quiet.” His eyes are filled with doubt and worry and wanting and more. I don’t need a mirror to know mine are the same in this tight space between us. “Where are all those big words you’ve been saving up?”
“They’ve seemed to have left me.”
“Me too, I think,” he whispers, so low I almost wonder if I fabricated the next words myself.
“So pretty.”
I want to ask if he means me or my hair he’s holding or my family pictures or maybe my stupid flowery phone case, but I can’t. Because in a flash of light, the door flies open and there’s Margot who shouts, “I FOUND THEM!” to which everyone else groans, including Fletcher.
Fletcher wondered then if it would be worth it—the jail time repercussions, the millions of dollars he would be sued by his own publisher—to just leave it all at the table right now with this angel of a girl.
Nineteen
Wordoftheday:forelsket
Definition: a Norwegian wordthat describes the euphoric, blissful first feelings of falling in love
Here is a compiled list of the things I’ve done since I realized that I have a massive, undeniably ludicrous crush on Fletcher Harding: Watched The Wedding Singer twice, re-fluffed the couch, vacuumed everywhere—even behind the fridge—organized the cabinets, cleaned the shared bathroom—it’s fascinating how much hair two girls can accumulate—and washed and dried my duvet cover, wrapping myself up in the warmth and trying my hardest not to stare at Fletcher’s open curtains across the street. I also made homemade fettuccine and didn’t eat it, listened to Lennon talk about how slow the bookstore was today, watched The Wedding Singer again, ate a handful of fresh cherries from a nearby stand I passed on the way home, and finally, I made a list of all the things that are unattractive about my friend.
Last night was an anomaly. A rare blip of time caused by alcohol and sardine games, and really great pizza. Once we all decided the game was over—aka Margot declaring it was bedtime—Stephan and Lennon passed out blankets, air mattresses, and everything needed for a long sleep on the floor. Noah took the recliner, Stephan and Lennon traipsed off to his room, Margot took the couch and half the pillows, and I took the air mattress and spare sheets. Fletcher took a single throw blanket, his whole body on the carpet, minus a single foot propped up beside mine on my air mattress. It didn’t occur to me until the morning that he lived there—he had a warm bed and sheets and a nightstand to hold his water and Kindle—and yet, he slept in until ten o'clock that morning, happily on the floor beside me.
That was when the crush really, really hit me.
The key here is to acknowledge the obvious: Fletcher is attractive. Let’s just get that out there. He’s tall and lean and funny. He has an excellent jaw line, and a dimple I’d like to take a nap in. And his fingers are always so warm.
But that can’t be all there is. I mean, there’s gotta be some ugly in him somewhere, if not on the outside.
So, this afternoon I sat on the living room couch against the bay window and clicked my pen in place, ready to list them all off. You ready? Great.
Cons:
He stole my muffin and I’m still not quite over it.
He is too blunt.
He had to find someone as desperate as me to teach him about romance.
He dog-ears his pages.
He never drinks a full cup of coffee, ever. Every time we order one, he drinks half of it and wants a new one.
His phone is always below 10% battery.
He cracks his knuckles a lot.
He has poor taste in every food ever, minus the one pasta dish that we swapped.
See? He’s not so great. He is an average man, in fact. Just like any other passing stranger in an airport. Him being my friend is just mere coincidence. It means nothing. The gentle touch on my wrist? Nothing. The way he stares into my eyes? Abysmal.
The fact is, I have been lonely for too long. I’ve been isolated until the recent months, and Fletcher is single and a friend and good looking, and it’s only natural for me to form some disposition of a crush. The important thing is, I caught it early and I can nip it right in the bud.
If only I had done the same with Austin, maybe we would be friends still. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to spend the last two years of college alone, ducking around corridors that he might be in or only eating in my dorm in case he was at the cafe.
I would argue that the loneliest sound in the world is the symphony of laughter one door over.
