Page 72 of Drawn Together
My heart's steady thumping slows back down. He must have given me the wrong number, he had to. He typed a two instead of a three, his thumb slipped. He’s been frantic, desperately trying to find my contact and waiting to tell me he couldn’t make it, but he had no way to reach—
Wait. No. That’s definitely not it. I scroll up the conversation, and he answered me twice the other night—once when I asked for his birthday, and the other when I told him my fiddle leaf fig leaves were turning brown, and he told me I was possibly overwatering. He had my number right, and I had his; all my other texts delivered without issues. This was no cute misunderstanding. Did he…block me?
My entire body rushes with intense heat, and I don’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment, but I have the strongest urge to scream into the white tablecloth in my hands. I—Lennon—straightened my hair for this. I wore heels and earrings and sprayed so much perfume that I will never not smell like Dolce Gabbana Limpertance number three. I thought of funny jokes to tell. I figured out my favorite color for this guy. I studied topics to bring up on first dates. I brushed my teeth so hard that I think I erased the last ten years of my eating and drinking history.
My waiter walks up again, and I feel like it’s still story time, having to sing the song about Timmy the turtle getting stuck by a log. We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we can’t go around it, we have to go through it.
“Ma’am, we’re going to have to give away the table.”
“Can I at least—”
“I’m here,” a hurried voice carries across the room.
The voice is warm honey across my skin. Like jumping into a familiar book you’ve read a hundred times or lighting your favorite candle at night. Fletcher’s voice. Because of course he’s here.
“Hi, baby.” Fletcher leans down, pressing his lips against my hair, sending me a wink. “So sorry, I went to the Upstate location by accident.”
“We don’t have an Upstate—”
“You ready?” Fletcher doesn’t so much as glance at my waiter. “I think I can find us somewhere better to eat than this place.”
I look back to the staff and smile at their confused looks. “That would be great.”
Fletcher tosses a twenty on the table—despite us having no check—and we walk out, but not before he traces his fingers down my wrist to my fingertips, locking our hands together in solidarity.
The moment we’re outside, I pull him away from the crowd of people waiting in line to get inside.
“What— What are you doing here?”
There’s a hesitancy in his eyes, and I want to wipe it clean off. “I thought you might need me.”
No thinking, I lurch forward and toss both arms around his neck. He smells like clove, leather, and fresh mint—which has become my favorite scent—and I breathe him in, tucking the scent in my pocket for safe keeping, and whisper low in his ear.
“I did.”
Even if I know it’s pathetic, and even if I’m trying my best to stop it, my eyes water anyway. Tiny pricks of tears filled with disgust and humiliation and gratitude and joy—so much joy at having this man here with me.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he shushes me, as he pats my back, still holding me to him. “It’s alright.”
I pull back, and he’s smiling at me, my favorite dimple caved in.
“Where should we go?”
I sniffle. “Go?”
“You wanted a date tonight—a first date.” His hands tuck into his pants pockets. “And I am here to deliver.”
It’s that exact moment I realize Fletcher is in a suit—a full suit—with a white button-up tucked into black pants, shiny shoes scuffed on the toe, like he tripped on the way here, a simple black tie, and a jacket to top it off. His hair is shiny and damp, and the scruff on his jawline is all cleaned up, aside from a tiny nick on his chin.
“You’re wearing a suit.” I wipe my thumb under my eye to catch the falling tear. “And your hair’s wet?”
“I, uh, had to take a quick shower before I got here.”
“And the suit?” I didn’t even think he owned one, not that I knew of at least.
“It’s my funeral suit.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s not first date talk. Sorry. It’s been a while for me, too.”
“Fletcher, you really don’t have to—”
