Page 68 of Drawn Together
“Incredible,” he groans into my mouth, and I think that might be my first tattoo. Incredible. Anywhere on my body—I don’t care—I just want this moment locked in time with him. I want a piece of this to be permanent.
But just as I think that, he’s gone. Pulled back with wet lips shining in the moon's light, nose pressing against mine as weeach try to catch our breath. I feel like a bow pulled tight and snapped shut, left to deal with the aching need for more. Fletcher leans in, his mouth by my ear, tucking the rogue curls behind it once again so I can hear him loud and clear.
His words are warm against me. “Have a good night, Flora Anderson.”
I huff a disbelieving laugh, and he pulls back with an unabashed smile. I should say it back. But my whole body is numb, and my mouth can’t catch up with my brain.
Then he’s gone. Already turned on his heel and walking to his building across the street, leaving me like a soaked towel rung out to dry.
I end up upstairs—not entirely sure how—but I think the word ‘floating’ is the only way to describe hot I got here. Thankfully, Lennon isn’t home, so when I prop my kiss-ravished self on the windowsill and watch Fletcher move about his apartment, there is no one here to judge me.
When I get in bed that night, half asleep and still reeling, I get a text from him.
Fletcher:I take cash, check, or Zelle.
Fletcher:For the hundred dollars, I mean.
And with those words in my heart, I drift off smiling in my sleep.
Somewhere around two in the morning, I wake up, groggy and thirsty. After chugging a water bottle like a kid after sprinting around on a playground, I check the time on my phone and my latest notification rests at the top, taunting me.
Cedric.Brooks followed you.
I sit upright and rub my eyes. What? He doesn’t even know my name, unless the agent sent him the contract I signed, and he studied my signature? But even then…what? And he followed me at 2:37 A.M. on a random Friday night?
I open the social media app and go to my notifications to find it blank. Nothing in the last three days, since I posted a view from the park, with no new followers. Only a comment from Sloane saying, ‘save me a spot.’
A breath of air huffs out of me, and I lay back down. Of course, Cedric Brooks didn’t follow me on social media at two in the morning.
NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.
Twenty-two
Wordoftheday:desertion
Definition:the action of deserting a person
I have these dreams regularly where I’m someone else. It’s not usually a good or a bad dream, it's just…there. An accountant in Philadelphia who loves bacon cheese fries and is avoiding talking to her ex-boyfriend. A young writer in Alabama that watches Phantom Menace once a month and wears days of the week underwear. A reporter obsessed with celebrity drama, following her clients from state to state, watching them through binoculars like birds.
The usual.
Last night, after my delusions, I dreamt of a woman having the perfect date. I dreamt of wearing a pretty dress, of dancing and fresh flowers and first kisses on porch steps. I dreamt of laughing and hugging and whispering and more laughing.
All the while, I dreamt with Fletcher’s face in mind.
Which is exactly why tonight has to go perfectly. I need to squeeze past all this uncomfortable…liking and get right downto business. Fletcher is my friend—my best friend. I have lost this kind of feeling before over love, crushes, and loss, and while losing Austin hurt, losing Fletcher would crush me.
I have spent the entirety of my Saturday prepping for tonight. I have listened to The Cranberries on repeat all day. I shaved my legs with such precision that it would take a magnifying glass to find a single hair on this body. I wore fluffy socks under my heels that I’m going to wear tonight to break them in. I watched seven makeup tutorials and practiced on my hand.
The outfit I bought solely for tonight—a black skirt and a cream sweater with thick, wool tights underneath—was approved so heavily by Sloane that she sent a picture of her thumbs up rather than simply responding to the mirror selfie that felt horribly unnatural to take. You can’t even see my legs that I spent so long perfecting, but it's the thought that counts. If I feel attractive, surely it will shine through.
I slip a dark coat over my sweater and scrunch my hair one last time before walking out to the living room where Lennon and Stephan are sprawled out on the couch in their matching pajamas.
I have an hour and a half before I have to be there, including the added time I allowed myself in case I got lost on the way—because of course I will—and no clue what to do with it. I could ask Kane if he wanted to meet me earlier than seven, but he hasn’t responded to the last three texts I’ve sent, and I know this is one of those times I need to reel myself in.
Lennon looks up when my boots clack against the hardwoods and she whistles. “Wow.”
“Aw, Flora,” Stephan smiles. “You look nice.”
