Page 78 of Drawn Together
I watch the restaurant from his perspective. From the point of view of the hundreds to thousands to millions of people in this city that are walking through their own life. Maybe some of them have more friends than I do—most of them, likely. But maybe there’s someone out there who’s only person is themselves. And maybe there’s another woman out there with a hopeless crush on her closest friend, who can easily say that it doesn’t matter, because I have the here and the now and why should I focus on our future when the present is so sweet.
“You know, I think you might be more of a romantic than you let on.” I smile up at him.
His grin back is palpable. “I just gave an old lady a tumor, so let's not get carried away here.”
Once our dessert plates were licked clean, almost literally, and our check was paid, Fletcher and I took another water taxi right back to Park Slope where he insisted on walking me home inthe frigid night air. The closer we get to our street, the slower our steps become. Fletcher's long strides have shortened into a dragging shuffle, and I slow down to stop and look at something every block. Can this night just keep going on? Can a night doomed to be my very worst that transitioned into the best one I’ve had since moving here last just a little longer?
“So.” Fletcher clears his throat as we turn another corner. “What is your favorite color?”
Funny, I planned on saying yellow until this very moment. Yellow, like my favorite sweater, like the leaves stamped along the sidewalks we take every day. Yellow, like the sun setting just behind the skyline on an early fall evening. Yellow, like the spine of his favorite book. But, watching the glint of Fletcher’s eyes as he stares down at me with the kindest smile I have ever seen, I don’t hesitate to answer.
“Hazel.”
If he has any clue just how much I mean it, he doesn’t let me know. We walk in silence, and I pat my hands on my thighs as we approach our street. “Thank you again for coming tonight. You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“You make it sound like I’m so selfless.”
“You are.” I nod, more to myself than anything. “You are more than I ever thought you were. And I’m very grateful.”
“It wasn’t much.”
“It was.” Overwhelming need to defend this perfect night courses its way through me. “It was so much more than I or anyone would’ve made it out to be.”
“You had a list of things you wanted a first date to be like.”
“I didn’t really think you were listening to that.” His eyes were glued to the screen; it seemed like a passing moment of my talking and everyone else's zoning out.
“I’m always listening when you talk.”
My smile stretches wide. “Well, thank you. For the listening. And tonight. And the water taxi.”
“You know.” He coughs and reaches for my arm as I had just turned away, stopping me. “In that book, with the writer and the illustrator…I think there was something left unchecked in her list.”
“There was?”
There was. There is. There will be if he doesn’t take the first step, because I know for a fact I will not be the ‘over enthusiastic’ girl who gets caught up in her own daydreams again.
“There was.”
I turn on my heel, a gasp in my throat at how close he is now—inches from me. My neck tilts and he’s right there.
My voice catches on a high pitch, “Remind me?”
And he does.
His kiss is gentle this time, light and tender. Neither of us are crazed, pushing and pulling for more. There’s a slowness to it—a gesture that we have all the time in the world. Cars honk, people pass us by, but we’re here in this moment with his lips against mine. Both of his hands cup my jaw, thumbs caressing so lightly against my cheeks that I feel like his touch will leave a permanent stain that says, ‘Fletcher was here.’ Our mouths move in tandem—soft, slow pushes that challenge for more, yet stay right here where we are.
When he pulls back, I almost whine, but then he reaches up to take off his glasses and he’s back. Back to kissing me, sweet and soft and so tender I could honestly cry.
I feel like I’ve been given access to a new side of him. A side that I can weave and bob and find my way through until I’ve seen every part of this Fletcher.
This Fletcher who’s sweet, who holds your hand on ferry rides and cries over the loss of his best friend, and who fills you up with desserts and fried foods until you’re begging him to stop.The Fletcher who knows just what I need to hear to feel better and not only delivers, but goes so far above and beyond that I have no choice but to live my way through this uncomfortable liking.
He pulls back like he does everything else with me, no hesitation and no regretting.
“I believe you owe me two hundred dollars now.” His hands slip away from my body, and he tucks his glasses back onto that crooked bridge on his nose. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
My laugh is that of a foghorn, I think. I cackle so loud and gasp so hard that I’m positive someone on this street has to be staring at me with a snarled nose, and I don’t care.
