Page 62 of Drawn Together
She hisses a curse when her fingers slip across a book, a thin paper cut materializing at the tip.
“Sorry,” I say, as if I personally cut her, and grab a nearby band aid from the safety kit.
Lennon wraps the bandage around her pointer finger, hissing. “It’s the smallest ones that hurt the most.”
I wince in sympathy. “Sorry,”
“Stop that,” she deadpans and hops off the counter when she’s done. “Or, make it up to me by letting me fix you up and having a very fun night with a rebound that doesn’t love your mom.”
“Oh my gosh,” I laugh, cheeks flaming. “He did not love my mom.”
“Regardless, there is a very cute boy out there who you can wrangle up and do line dances with and talk about…bodice rippers and alien time travel books.”
So, that’s my plan. Find an attractive man. Go on my first, first date. Keep things casual. And finally, let these wild thoughts about Fletcher Harding leave my mind once and for all.
Twenty
Wordoftheday:Aspectabund
Definition: being able to let expressive emotion show easily through one’s face and eyes
Nausea crawls its way under my skin as I follow Lennon, Stephan, and unfortunately, Fletcher, to a small table in the back of ‘Hey, Y’all’—ironically, the name of the line dance place and not a phrase that my roommate suddenly picked up on. I had full hopes of it being just Lennon and I tonight, but she informed me as we were walking out the door that we would have company as well. Fletcher looks almost as sick as I feel.
But the goal of the night remains the same. I need a good distraction to pull me away from this insignificant thing that my brain incessantly pushes as significant.
Lennon sets a drink in front of me—it smells like red hots and spiced apples—and I take a hesitant sip and the liquid burns down my throat, warming my body as it travels. By the time I set the glass back down, my roommate and her boyfriend are off. Fletcher and I sip on our drinks under the neon lights as wewatch the couple bob and weave around all the other dancers. The smoke and beer in the air unsettles me, but the clove and rain scent wafting off him reminds me of autumn back home, so I lean a little closer.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” He leans in so he can hear better.
“Are you looking for a date tonight?”
I tell myself the answer is completely irrelevant. I almost believe it, too.
“Ah.” He shakes his head at the ground, ears turning pink. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
I’m temporarily saved from having to hear his answer as a large group of people scoot past us, forcing us to move, stomachs against the high-top table. Fletcher lifts a hand over my temple to avoid getting hit from the amount of purses passing by and the sloshing drinks tipping just over the edge, little droplets dancing by our feet.
“It’s not really my thing.” We lean back in our chairs once the crowd passes.
“Dating? Or the line dancing?”
“Agh, either, I guess. I’ve had a few girlfriends here and there, but I don’t really like meeting them in bars or…I don’t know. I’m just here, alright?”
That doesn’t feel like an answer, but I don’t exactly want to know about his past girlfriends, so I zip my lips.
He leans down to whisper in my ear, breath tickling my hair. “Have your eye on anyone?”
I hum and glance around the bar, satisfied to find that there are plenty of good-looking men out tonight. All I need is just one to get over this weird feeling in my stomach so I can get back to normal.
My eyes lock onto a blonde man with an Irish flag jersey on, a lager in hand, and a tooth-gap smile. “Oh.” I point. “Him.”
“Him?” Fletcher deadpans.
“What?”
