Page 80 of Drawn Together
I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes so hard that granular stars form in my vision, like maybe, the harder I push, the more I can stop the whole thought spiral. But it just keeps spinning.
So, the next morning, with a clear head and my wits about me, I text Fletcher.
Me:Thank you again for last night. It was amazing, seriously.
Me:I also wanted to talk about the kiss—we should probably forget it. I know you were trying to give me the perfect date, and you definitely did! But I still need your help with the whole Cedric Brooks thing, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So, yeah. That’s all.
Fletcher took an hour to respond back, and when he did it was a simple:Understood. Have a good day, Flora Anderson.Which I re-read a hundred times, searching for any animosity or despair or regret, only to find nothing there.
Which is why when he texts me Sunday morning asking if I want to go see Jurassic Park with him at the Vale Cinema Series, I promptly respond with: So sorry, I think I caught a bug. Can I get a rain check?
Fletcher being Fletcher, asks if I am okay, and I brush it off once more before also lying to Lennon when she asks why I have been glued to my bed for twenty-four hours. Sure. Why not? This is who I am now, apparently. Someone who is so devoid of her sense of reality that the mere thought of not having a man in her life could result in her whole being unraveling like those sticky notes that unfold like an accordion.
I wish I could say work has been keeping me busy, but that would also be a lie. Though Cedric’s emails have doubled over the last two days, despite it being the weekend, he hasn’t pushed for any further updates in our drafts that I’m still waiting on the team's approval with. He has asked how things are going, and get this, even said he was there if I ‘needed anything.’ Which I don’t—not from him—but what kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity is that to pass up on? So, I responded back and asked him to make a Pinterest board for each character of the books so I can accurately represent them. Shockingly, he responds back that he does not own ‘a Pinterest,’ but he will ‘get right on it.’ And we leave it at that, with very little work left to do on my end without that approval.
I stay in my room as much as I can, only slipping out to pee, shower, and eat crackers right out of the box. I’m on one of those kitchen adventures when I realize that I’m going to have to get groceries soon. So, like the brave woman I am, I face the world and…get them delivered. Less of a challenge than attempting a walk to Trader Joe’s five blocks over and increasing the chance of running into Fletcher on the street with a bag of Golden Glories again.
Only, it didn’t matter that I just went to the lobby. It’s like he knew just how bad I was wanting to not see him, because as I turn to go back into the elevator with my delivered groceries, I see him standing there, a load of paper bags in hand and a confused expression on his face.
His glasses have slipped while his hands are full, notched just below his eye line, so I have a direct view of those brown orbs staring out at me. I can’t read a single thing about him right now. The usual radar of his emotions is broken, and I’m left with this befuddled look on his unshaven face that feels like staring at one of those illusions that’s an elephant one way and a squirrel on the other. I can’t piece together a thing right now, except for the constant dinging of the elevator as it’s held open by Fletcher’s foot, waiting on me.
“Hi.” I slip into the elevator, and the doors close behind me.
“Hi.” He lifts the bags in his hands. “I brought you soup.”
“Why?”
“You…said you had a bug. Lenny mentioned you’ve barely even left your room, I thought—” He shifts so his weight is against the back railing at his waist. “I thought you were really sick.”
“I am.” My cough is meant to reiterate the point, but it feels ingenuine. “I came down with something this weekend.”
“Uh huh.” He nods. “Before or after I kissed you?”
“Fletcher.” I hiss his name like anyone else is in here.
He’s saved from having to respond, thankfully. Because the elevator comes to an abrupt halt, my groceries drop to the ground, and Fletcher clings to his own bags. A quiet ding sounds over the speaker above, but nothing beyond that—no lights flicker, no flashing of buttons—just that one ring of a bell then pure silence.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, not daring to move a muscle.
“The elevator stopped.”
“Yes, but why?”
Fletcher grinds out, “I don’t know. Let me check the elevator manual I keep in my back pocket.”
My eyes squeeze tight. I’ve never been particularly claustrophobic, but then again, this elevator feels increasinglysmall next to the heat radiating from Fletcher taking up the whole twelve-square-foot room. The plastic bags rustle at my feet as Fletcher moves to the button panel, reminding me that no matter how tight my eyes are closed, I’m still stuck here. In the world's smallest room with a man who can’t stop haunting my every thought.
“What do we do?” I open my eyes and take in the space around us. Mirrored walls on the side behind us, two cream walls on the others, then the silver doors clamped shut in front. The yellow bell button below all the floor buttons lights up when Fletcher pushes it.
“I think this is the one that calls someone?” He pushes it again, and we wait in silence. Nothing.
“Maybe try just hitting all of them.”
“All the buttons?”
“It can’t hurt, we’re already here.”
He sighs but follows my suggestion, lighting up the whole 20 floors of buttons like a Christmas tree. Even the door open and door shut buttons don’t do anything.
