Page 102 of Drawn Together
Fletcher laughs in these big cackles with his head tossed back and hair wild, and I know I have my answer before he even could say it. “No girlfriends or wives or anyone else for that matter.” His fingers adorably cross an X over his heart. “You know I’m yours, love.”
Have sweeter words ever existed until now? Not that I know of. Not that my word of the day app has ever shown me.
“And if you can hold off on torturing me by going out with other men…”
I snort a laugh. “What men?”
“All the ones who would love to be right where I am right now.” He grips my fingers tight. “If there’s a movie you want to see, I’ll take you. If there’s a restaurant you want to try out, I’ll pay for dinner. If you want to stay home and just read on the couch, I will gladly join you. You don’t have to find a random guy to do any of that—you already have me. Just give me some time, and I’ll make sure I’m worth it for you, alright?”
“Worth it for me?”
He dips his chin to me. “Give me that time, and I’ll have you in any dusty corner you want us in.”
“It’s just as well; I don’t know if we would work.” My traitor of a grin should be a dead giveaway of the lie on my tongue, but the panic in Fletcher’s eyes tells me he didn’t pick up on it.
“You don’t?”
“I mean, of course we can never be together. Our couple name would just be Flora or Fletcher.”
Fletcher’s head cocks back with a loud laugh, no more tiny giggles or chuckles for him. He guffaws into the cool air, and I feel like setting a bookmark into this moment right here.
“If you need me to change my name for you, baby, I will.”
Fletcher would’ve gladly stayed like that all night, Flora Anderson tucked under his chin, swaying softly to his old records. He breathed in her scent and kept it like a memory in a bottle, something to put on a shelf and pull out when he misses her most. He pulled her tight to his chest, held her so close she could have been a part of him. And prayed endlessly that he wasn’t going to ruin everything they’ve worked hard to build.
Twenty-nine
Wordoftheday:Melo
Definition:Columbianword for a state where everything seems to be alright.
It takes less than a week for Fletcher and me to realize that we cannot be alone in the same room until he takes care of whatever stuff he needs to for us to be together.
For our recent book club, he had plans of us going back to the original coffee shop where we first met. I figured there would be no foul play—just two friends, their two books, and a crowd of people around to keep us separated—but I did not anticipate the way Fletcher would look all propped back in his chair, arms crossed, and eyes taking me in from my shoes to my hair before that slow smile grew. We still annotate each other's reads each week, so when I got my book back and saw new tabs from his collection in it, my curiosity got the best of me. I flipped around to parts he highlighted—such as the printed words ‘she tasted of clover honey, sweet and rich and robust’—and I was jello walking back into my apartment.
The next week, I got a text from him while finishing up the very last two pages I had to complete for Cedric.
Fletcher:Look outside.
My eyes shot to his window instantly, like they’re calibrated to always land on him. And sure enough, there was Fletcher sitting by the window with a mug in hand and his phone in the other. I smiled and waved, and he returned it right back.
Me:I like your hair today.
Fletcher:Settle down, love. My resolve is wearing thin.
The next time we see each other in passing, I tell him that I think we should book line dancing classes as our next book club, and he does a full body shudder.
“You don’t want to take dance lessons with me?” I tease.
“It’s less that I don’t want to, and more that I can’t touch you without touching you.”
And the worst part is, I know exactly what he means. Because I can no longer push his bicep when we’re joking or let my shoes brush his as we read in a park. It’s all been tainted by something richer and darker and needier than I’ve ever had with him. I feel like I just got all-exclusive access to him—like he has a Patreon titled Fletcher After Hours—and I’m now seeing a whole new side of him.
That being said, when the next Friday came around, we knew there was no way we could be alone together. So, Fletcher had the brilliant idea to have Stephan and Lennon come with us.
“I don’t get it.” Stephan pushes his assigned book away. “Why are we here again?”
“We need a barrier.” Fletcher pulls at his hair, and I swear the temperature in the room goes up a minimum of five degrees.
