Page 70 of Drawn Together
With every sectioned piece of my hair being straightened, Lennon tells me of every set and celebrity she has had the privilege to work with. Ellis Jude in the Taming of The Beast. Sawyer Ellisworth in You Cling To Me. The Jett Rhodes in Jungle Reckoning. She got to contour his abs, fix his perfect hair, and shape up the stubble on his sharp jawline, and I have never been so jealous in my life. I make a mental note that Fletcher and I have to watch all his movies together and zoom in on his abs to admire my roommate's work.
Sloane plays with my hair until it’s to her liking, then slips the earrings in, before spraying me head to toe in hair spray—she claims it’s for my makeup and my hair, but she also sprayed my boots, so I’m not sure how to take that.
I stand up, slip my jacket back on, and watch as she takes a step back to admire her hard work. “Well, would you look at that.”
“Hm?”
“You wear my earrings better than I do. That means they’re yours now.”
“No.” I reach a hand up to hold the golden hoop. “I can’t—”
“I won’t take them back; they’re not made for me.”
The admiration in her voice is so palpable that I spin from the mirror to her willowy frame by the doorway. With arms stretched out, I pull her into my embrace, and it hits me—I have never hugged Lennon. I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone other than Stephan do it.
“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear, and slowly two arms slip over my shoulders, squeezing me back.
I count to thirty before slipping away, not missing the tiny slip of a tear in the corner of her eyes. Maybe Fletcher didn’t need my thirty-second hug, but Lennon certainly did.
With her door closed, neither of us heard the apartment door open twenty minutes before, so I stop abruptly when we walk out and see Fletcher with a pumpkin scone halfway to his mouth. As he stands up, he practically throws the scone on a plate, causing the crumbs in his lap to fall to the ground.
I like how he does that—stands up whenever I come into the room. Maybe it’s the historical romances I’ve read, but something about a man who stands at your entrance is so endearing.
“Hi,” he chokes out, around the bite behind his lips.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, light and silky. “Hi.”
On the couch, Stephan nods to his girlfriend as she climbs in his lap. “Excellent job as always, babe.”
She pops her shoulders. “Feels good to stretch my cosmetic muscles sometimes.”
I am locked in on Fletcher, everything else around us a blur. His eyes keep circling my face to my ears to the slope of my neck to my hair, and I feel every moving glance like a brushing touch to my skin, light and sweet. Fletcher takes me in, and I don’t know if I’ve ever known what it’s like it to feel pretty until this moment. But, his wide-eyed gaze, standing up from his chair so fast like a lady entered a room, and the tick in his jaw all point me to the reassurance that none of Lennon’s work went to waste.
“You, uh, straightened your hair for him.”
“Well, technically, Lennon did it.”
Lennon throws a thumbs up over her shoulder at us.
“It’s so long…” His voice trails off.
That’s true. My straightened hair feels like I have never had a haircut before, reaching all the way down to my mid back.
“You…” Fletcher’s throat bobs in a swallow, and there’s that look again. That wonder in his eyes. I bet he knows that exact face on me—the look of watching him slip his glasses on when he can’t read street signs, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms on display.
“You look beautiful, Flora.” His lips continue to move, but no other sound comes. Instead, a smile replaces the ‘O’ he’s sporting. “I hope you have a really, really good time.”
The slight tinge of disappointment in my gut is proof of just how badly I need to go on this date. Distraction. Distraction. Distraction.
“Thanks, Fletcher.” I smile back. “I hope so, too.”
I am, in fact, not having a good time.
“Still waiting for your party?”
I’m sorry, did I say that Door Dashing Monistat was embarrassing? I was very, poorly mistaken. Nothing has been even a modicum of embarrassment compared to this right here.
I pick at the tablecloth resting above my thighs. “He’s coming, he just got stuck in traffic.”
