Page 22 of Drawn Together

“I have never been so uncomfortable in my life.”

His mouth twitches. “If it helps, you can’t see much from here.”

“Fletcher, I am making eye contact with the captain on my cereal box.”

“I am so sorry. I swear I never looked and—”

“You have to have seen me at some point, otherwise you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about.”

“It makes sense, now.” He runs a hand along his jaw, the red in his cheeks deepening. “It felt very out of character for you.”

My head falls into my hands, and I groan so loud that my ears begin ringing with another thought. “Oh dear lord, did Stephan see me? Or worse, Noah?”

“Why is Noah worse?”

“Irrelevant.”

He huffs. “If Stephan did, then he never mentioned it, and believe me he would have. He has no filter, and it would’ve been brought up the first second he met you at trivia night. And Noah has worse eyesight than me, so you’re covered on that end.”

Why are neither of those facts bringing me any comfort right now?

“Fletcher, I don’t think you can comprehend how horrible this is.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s awful.”

“Not ideal.”

“It’s…it’s…” Words fail me.

“Need me to bring up the word of the day app?”

“I need you to hit me in the head with a shovel so I can forget the last ten minutes.”

“I would never.”

“You would never,” I agree, and slump into the leather chair near me. “Malcom never told me.”

“Who?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I think I know what will help out.”

“Valium?”

He snorts and reaches a hand down for me to grab, but I just stare at it.

“Come on. They’ll probably be a while, and it’s nice up there.”

“Up where?”

The moment Fletcher swings the door open I stop short.

On the roof of the apartment, string lights zigzag above us—glowing amber and soft—swaying gently in the crisp mid-autumn breeze, creating a warm halo over everything—the lounge chairs draped in wool blankets, the low wooden table with a few mismatched mugs left behind that I am ninety-percent sure Lennon had something to do with.

Even the fake grass walkway is lit up in the golden cast. Behind the table, two hot tubs sit side by side, rimmed with faint mist around the covers.

Not a soul in sight. Above the traffic, above the noise of honking cars and my fellow residents waiting for clearance to their homes, we sit in total silence.

It’s like this rooftop is wrapped in its own little cocoon.

Fletcher walks past me, meanwhile I am just a doorstop stuck in place at the view.

It’s not a massive building—only a few floors higher than ours—but, it does have a the perfect view of the city skyline—lights and buildings as far as my eye can see, and thousands of little lives out there in my view.

Fletcher lifts the cover on one of the tubs—the one furthest away—and the steam rises instantly, curling in the cold air like it’s exhaling.

I don’t even realize how tense my body’s been until that heat wafts over and touches my face—my shoulders ache, my back pulls.

Every part of me begs for that burning feeling of sliding into a hot tub with your skin all red and blood pressure questionably low.

The air smells like rain that never came, mingled with the faintest hint of cinnamon from someone’s apartment below. The city lights glitter in the distance, just over the ledge, but up here it feels like a fall retreat, tucked away in some storybook version of New York I didn’t think existed.

I wrap my arms around myself, not entirely from the chill.

“You want to get in?” I look up, and Fletcher is staring from me to the hot tub and back.

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

He glances around like one is going to appear out of thin air. Honestly, in a paradise like this, it just might. “Uhhh…” He reaches behind him and pulls the dark navy quarter zip over his head, leaving him in a white tee that he also yanks off. “Just wear my shirt.”

“What will you wear?”

“It’s a hot tub, Flora.”

“So?”

“So, I probably just won’t wear a shirt.”

Oh, right. Yes.

“Um, okay. But can you just go ahead and get in first.”

“To make sure it’s not poisonous?”

More like I don’t want to make eye contact with your pecs under the moonlight.

“Exactly.”

He smiles, a little boyish and shy, as I turn around and let him get in.

Did I think that not looking directly at his naked torso would save me in this moment? Because I was sorely mistaken. There are wet, dripping sounds mixed with his hissing and groaning at the heat of the water.

“All good now.”

“Great.”

I turn around and see he has folded the white shirt for me on a chair closest to me. I can only see some of him, the upper expanse of his chest leading to the round caps around his shoulders. There’s a divot between his pecs, a little inverted hump that I keep getting my eyes caught on.

“I guess, I’ll just…” I tug at my sweater, but hesitate to yank it off right in front of him.

“Ah, right.” He closes his eyes and turns so almost all of me is out of view.

“Close your eyes.”

“They are closed.”

“Are you sure?”

“Flora, should I bring up the windows again?”

“This is up close Fletcher. You can see…details.”

“I’m not looking.”

I work my jeans over my butt before lifting my sweater off my head and folding the two where I am certain they won’t get wet.

The cold air is brisk, and my entire body erupts in goose bumps in the spare second it takes me to cover myself in Fletcher’s shirt.

The soft cotton fabric glides over my body and settles mid-thigh, and though the coverage feels lacking, I am more than happy to wear something other than just a bra and underwear that don’t match in the slightest. Fletcher sucks in a deep breath as he leans into the jets and I am instantly jealous, so I hurry my butt along the way and call out “Done,” as I climb up the tiny stairs to get in.

Fletcher’s face is all red from the heat of the water, so I pause before my toe can even test the heat.

“Is it scalding?”

He clears his throat. “No, it’s uh, perfect.”

The blood rushing to his face says otherwise but okay.

Slipping into the hot water, every muscle in my body relaxes.

Fletcher was right; he did know exactly what would help me out.

I feel like someone's pressure washed the inside of my brain to rid it of embarrassing memories.

A deep, traitorous moan slips from my lips into the chilly night air as I lean back against a jet that pushes delicious pressure against my upper back.

“I need to stay here for the rest of my life. I can Door Dash everything and have a little bell boy to fetch me my water.”

Fletcher smiles, the red in his face slowly fading as he gets used to the water. “I like it, too. It’s nice up here. No one really even knows about it, so usually it’s just us.”

“Us?”

Does Fletcher bring lady friends up here? Why does that feel so yucky?

“Steph, Lenny, and I. I usually have to leave before they start making out.”

I smile. “How long do they last?”

“Thirty minutes, max.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Call it what you want, Flora. I’m not sticking around for it.”

“Speaking of, how's the romance column going at work?” I trail my fingers on top of the water and dunk them in, over and over.

“Better, I think. He published my first yesterday and said it would ‘work for now,’ so I’m convinced he doesn’t hate me.”

“Good to hear the vampires worked on you.”

“Not the vampires.”

“Darcy, then?”

“Blame it on the books, sure.” He stretches his arms out beside him, dipping a little lower in the water. “What about you?”

“I think in this world I’m more of a werewolf girl. I’d rather have the fur and not be cold all the ti—”

“I meant work. How is it going with the, uh, author guy?”

“Oh.” I scoop up some bubbles in my hand and blow them into the wind, they all pop before they get up.

“Not too bad. He’s been...” I certainly wouldn’t use the words kind, sweet, or friendly to describe our recent conversations.

His one to two sentence responses to my five paragraphs are usually mild, at best. Which, granted, is at least ten steps above where we were, so I think I have to take it.

“Better.”

“Better?”

“He’s not a complete jerk anymore, but he’s not exactly nice either? I think his wife asked him to stop torturing young artists.”

Fletcher snorts. “You think?”

“Yeah. That or his little blue pills have started kicking in, and his mood is far better.”

“Maybe.”

Fletcher moves right along. Meanwhile, my city-wide view is turning into a bit of a haze as a jet pokes me in the back.

“Sloane’s fall break is soon, right?”

I smile. It’s kind of nice how he remembers everything. I bet he would make an excellent receptionist for a man like Cedric.

“Two more weeks. I think we’re gonna spend the entire day shopping. She got a part time job at a local pharmacy a couple months ago and has been saving all her money just for this trip, so I have a feeling my closet—”

“Or lack thereof?”

“Precisely—will be heavily scrutinized. Last Christmas, she gave me a certificate for a ‘free fashion consult,’ in which she grilled my style for about an hour.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It certainly was for her.”

I don’t know how long we stayed like this—it could have been an hour, it could have been five minutes—while Fletcher tells me about Stephan’s newest dream of wanting to start a podcast with him called ‘Hey, We’re Talking Here!

’ and Fletcher said the thought makes him want to vomit.

I tell him about my recent attempts of getting out of the apartment more: stopping by little shops on the way to work, researching different, affordable eating options and other bookstores to compare to Nook and Cranny.

That I have switched out my closest pharmacy, a Walgreens one block away, to a more local one called ‘Darren's Drugs.’ Where I, to my surprise, found out the owner’s name is not Darren.