Page 66 of Drawn Together
“Then you tell him.”
I ponder that. “What is my favorite color?”
Fletcher snorts. “Flora.”
“But what do I do?”
He sighs and sets his popcorn down, trying to keep the movement to a minimum for the cranky lady up front. “I don’t think I should give you dating advice.”
“Why not?” Apparently my offended voice is higher, because then the lady turns to me this time, and I can’t quite understand what she’s saying, but I know there is little chance of me making it off this roof alive if I don’t reel this conversation in.
I lean closer to Fletcher to whisper, “Why not?”
“I don’t have the best track record for dating. You’ve been in a relationship. You know how this goes. Do whatever you did back then, and you’ll be great.”
“It’s my first, first date.”
The confession catches in my throat, like a physical obstruction, as embarrassment grows.
“It’s— How?” He turns fully from the movie to me, all his attention on my burning face. “You said you had a boyfriend?”
“Yeah, from twelve to twenty-three. We went on dates when we were old enough, but I’ve never had a real first date. I don’t know…”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to keep him interested.”
“Keep him interested?” He shakes his head. Inconceivable. “Flora, your normal self should be more than enough to keep him interested.”
I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not, but my mouth twists.
“Do people kiss on first dates?”
“Shit.” He pulls at his hair. “I don’t know, Flora.”
“Well, I mean, do you?”
“It depends.” He blushes.
“On?”
“Don’t worry about it. If he wants to kiss you, he will, okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper back.
We sit like that for most of the movie, Fletcher’s eyes glued to the projector while I chew away at my bottom lip and stress eat the unlimited free popcorn, wondering how I am possibly going to pull this off. The last time I kissed a man, he left me that very night. And not in a casual ‘oops this doesn’t work’ but in a detrimental, full one-eighty life switch way. Logically, Kane and this date will mean very little to my life. Even so, if I have to hearabout my poor kissing skills or how ‘too excited’ I am again, I will in fact move back home. Kidding. But kind of not?
“Fletcher?”
“Yeah?”
"What if… What if I’m a terrible kisser?" I blurt out, the question hanging heavy in the air between us. Now that the confession is out, he turns my way fully, expression unreadable behind his glasses in the dim light.
"Who told you that you were a bad kisser?" He squints, the playful glint that had been in his eyes moments before now replaced with a serious, almost intense look. He’s no longer whispering; instead, his voice resonates, a deep rumble in his throat that vibrates through me.
“No one,” I whisper the lie. “I just am.”
He shakes his head with a sarcastic laugh, completely ignoring the glares of the woman in front.
