Page 76 of Drawn Together
When I turn back, Fletcher is beaming. Any previous sign of fret and worry has slipped away, and I’m left with this raw version of the man I tried so hard to rid my mind of.
Turns out the ‘last minute corner table’ has a better view than I could have ever imagined. Candles flicker on crisp white tablecloths, casting soft shadows on polished silverware, and tall, crystal glasses. A piano plays somewhere near the bar. Through the wide, arching windows, the East River behind us shines in inky blues and silvers. It holds the reflection of the Brooklyn Bridge above us, strung with lights like a pretty new necklace.
“I am so underdressed for this.” I tug on my sweater when I recognize everyone else taking in this view is either in full business suits or dresses that cost more than my rent.
“If it makes you feel better, that lady is wearing oversized pants and a vest with a rose in the pocket. If anything, she should feel weird.”
“She works here Fletcher.”
“I stand by the statement.”
I smile. “This has been the oddest turn of events I have ever experienced.”
“Odd good or…?”
“Odd very good. Seriously, I know you weren’t really wanting to do all of this, and you showed up in your funeral suit, and I just am so gratefu—”
“I did want to do this. Let that not go unsaid. I really wanted to do this.”
“You did?”
“You’re my best friend, Flora. Of course I wanted to.”
It’s a double-edged sword, that sentence. On one hand, I am so horribly embarrassed that while I’ve been over here daydreaming about kissing him and holding his hand and dancing in the moonlight by the water, he’s been thinking whata great friend I am. On the other hand, I’m his best friend. And what a privilege it is to be called Fletcher Harding’s anything.
Best friend. What an unworthy title for a woman who has no clue who she even is, for someone who had to research what her favorite color was before a date. For someone who’s loud and too much and always over the top and—
“What’s that?”
“Hm?”
“That look right there.” He points his chocolate covered fork at me with a frown. “I don’t like that one.”
“I didn’t think I was making a face.”
“Did I say something?” His brows drop. “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”
“No, you didn’t say anything.”
He didn’t. He didn’t say anything wrong—he never has. Even his sly little romance comments were the most genuine parts of Fletcher. He said he didn’t get them, not that he didn’t respect them. In the same way he said I was his best friend, not ‘you are never going to be more than my best friend.’ So, why do I feel like I’m choking back tears, then?
It has nothing to do with Fletcher and everything to do with me.
It has to do with Austin’s words in my head of ‘too much’ and ‘over the top’ and ‘extremely enthusiastic,’ on top of learning tonight that I might be exactly all three of those things. That I have physical proof right here that maybe I can get someone in my life, but can I keep them there?
The short answer is no.
And I think I can grow to accept that one day. I can accept it with just about anyone but Fletcher. I’ve had a handsome, kind, big-hearted man tell me I was his best friend before and lost him in the same way you lose your favorite hoodie.
One day it’s your everything, the one thing that brings you the most comfort in the world, and the next, it’s tossed in a hamper and lost for years. Maybe a distant thought here and there when you’re cold, but ultimately never thought of again.
“What’s wrong?” Fletcher whispers low, just above the steady piano behind us.
“I’m the old hoodie,” I sob.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Fletcher furrows his brows and tucks his hand under my chair, pulling it to his side so our legs are pushed together. “Look, if this is about the bartender…that guy is a jerk, alright? It’s a good thing in the long run; you don’t want to go out with someone like that.”
I nod and try so hard to reign in the tears pooling over. Boy, how many times am I going to cry tonight?
