Page 25 of Drawn Together

Nineteen

Word of the day: forelsket

Definition: a Norwegian word that describes the euphoric, blissful first feelings of falling in love

Here is a compiled list of the things I’ve done since I realized that I have a massive, undeniably ludicrous crush on Fletcher Harding: Watched The Wedding Singer twice, re-fluffed the couch, vacuumed everywhere—even behind the fridge—organized the cabinets, cleaned the shared bathroom—it’s fascinating how much hair two girls can accumulate—and washed and dried my duvet cover, wrapping myself up in the warmth and trying my hardest not to stare at Fletcher’s open curtains across the street.

I also made homemade fettuccine and didn’t eat it, listened to Lennon talk about how slow the bookstore was today, watched The Wedding Singer again, ate a handful of fresh cherries from a nearby stand I passed on the way home, and finally, I made a list of all the things that are unattractive about my friend.

Last night was an anomaly. A rare blip of time caused by alcohol and sardine games, and really great pizza.

Once we all decided the game was over—aka Margot declaring it was bedtime—Stephan and Lennon passed out blankets, air mattresses, and everything needed for a long sleep on the floor.

Noah took the recliner, Stephan and Lennon traipsed off to his room, Margot took the couch and half the pillows, and I took the air mattress and spare sheets.

Fletcher took a single throw blanket, his whole body on the carpet, minus a single foot propped up beside mine on my air mattress.

It didn’t occur to me until the morning that he lived there—he had a warm bed and sheets and a nightstand to hold his water and Kindle—and yet, he slept in until ten o'clock that morning, happily on the floor beside me.

That was when the crush really, really hit me.

The key here is to acknowledge the obvious: Fletcher is attractive. Let’s just get that out there. He’s tall and lean and funny. He has an excellent jaw line, and a dimple I’d like to take a nap in. And his fingers are always so warm.

But that can’t be all there is. I mean, there’s gotta be some ugly in him somewhere, if not on the outside.

So, this afternoon I sat on the living room couch against the bay window and clicked my pen in place, ready to list them all off. You ready? Great.

Cons:

He stole my muffin and I’m still not quite over it.

He is too blunt.

He had to find someone as desperate as me to teach him about romance.

He dog-ears his pages.

He never drinks a full cup of coffee, ever. Every time we order one, he drinks half of it and wants a new one.

His phone is always below 10% battery.

He cracks his knuckles a lot.

He has poor taste in every food ever, minus the one pasta dish that we swapped.

See? He’s not so great. He is an average man, in fact. Just like any other passing stranger in an airport. Him being my friend is just mere coincidence. It means nothing. The gentle touch on my wrist? Nothing. The way he stares into my eyes? Abysmal.

The fact is, I have been lonely for too long. I’ve been isolated until the recent months, and Fletcher is single and a friend and good looking, and it’s only natural for me to form some disposition of a crush. The important thing is, I caught it early and I can nip it right in the bud.

If only I had done the same with Austin, maybe we would be friends still. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to spend the last two years of college alone, ducking around corridors that he might be in or only eating in my dorm in case he was at the cafe.

I would argue that the loneliest sound in the world is the symphony of laughter one door over.

Point is, I know the battle I am heading into, and I know I have to fight this attraction as hard as I can if I want to keep Fletcher in my life moving forward.

I do, by the way. Want to keep him in my life. If that wasn’t clear enough.

My phone buzzes beside me, and when I see Fletcher’s name, I drop it into the laundry basket at my feet, full of clean socks and underwear and my vibrating phone.

I have no clue what I would even say right now, or if he even remembered last night’s moment in the closet.

I let the phone ring out until it’s fully silent before snaking it out of the basket and checking my recent text.

Fletcher: Sorry if I made things weird last night.

Me: It wasn’t weird!

He starts typing, stops, then starts, and stops. I figure he’s not going to say anything else, but the vibrations come back, and he’s calling me again. With a violent effort, I throw my phone back in the laundry until the vibrating stops and pull it out to text him one more time.

I cannot fall for another friend. No, no, no. I will not. It would be one step forward, ten steps back.

Me: Sorry, super busy! I’ll talk to you later?

It takes an absurd amount of time for him to reply but when he does it says,

Fletcher: No problem. Have a good day, Flora.

In all fairness, I tried to have a good day.

But I spent my morning frantic over a potentially unrequited—or even worse, requited—crush, and dove straight into my next commission page for Cedric.

I have redone this one three times, and considering his feedback is lighter—not to bother, but can we remove the flowers in the field?

Also, it’s nighttime here—I am a little more obliged to do as he asks.

Even in my adjusting and contrasting and shading lines, I kept coming back to two things: the closet, and how positive are we that I am not about to die of carbon monoxide poisoning?

According to the building manager, highly unlikely, but not impossible. So, there goes the day of goodness.

It hits me as I am mid-sketch that this whole crush thing only came up after Lennon talked about my needing a rebound.

So, when looked at in that way, it’s really not my fault.

She planted a seed of a reminder that I am a single woman in her twenties in a town full of good men to go out with, and I—naturally and blamelessly—picked the first one I was alone in a coat closet with.

It’s like all the cobweb dusted corners of my brain that used to scream for a romantic relationship suddenly opened back up for normal business hours.

That’s all that was. A quick little blip of desire to an attractive man—it doesn’t have to actually mean anything. It doesn’t have to ruin anything. I can keep Fletcher in my life, thereby also keeping Lennon, Stephan, and the others, and nothing has to change. Que será, será and all that.

So, when Lennon and I are at work this afternoon, the first thing she asks when we are alone is, “Have you given any more thought to that rebound we talked about?” I almost laugh.

“Actually, yes.” I stamp the ‘staff approved’ stamp on another postcard to stick in the books beside us. “I’d like to try. Just once.”

Just one good date. A single night to ogle a man and realize that there is so much more out there in the world, and I don’t have to keep picking the person closest to me to fall headfirst into affection with.

Lennon beams. “A very good idea. We can go out tonight, if you want?”

“That would be great.”

“Are you still okay with that line dancing bar? You’ll like it, I promise.”

I give a nod and then wonder, “Is that where you guys met?”

She laughs. It’s big and bright, and I don’t know if I have heard it before, but I make a note to tell her how much I enjoy it later. “I don’t remember where we met.”

“You don’t?”

“We were probably still in diapers. Our moms were best friends, still are. And Stephan was Ryan’s best friend.

” She sucks in a little breath but tries to cover it with the stamp.

“We were friends, but nothing like they were. Then, when I was fifteen and started growing boobs, he noticed me a little more.”

I snort. “So, then you started dating.”

“Yep.”

You should talk to her about it. As much as I don’t want to think about Fletcher right now, I know he is right.

“What did Ryan think?”

“He was livid at first. He tried to ground me.” Watery laughter. “Threatened to throw my phone in our sink, then did the same to Stephan. But eventually, he caught on to what we had and realized it wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You’ve been together since?”

“Pretty much. Our ten-year anniversary was last month.” She’s quiet for a second, staring down at the stamp in my hands.

“I thought he was going to propose,” she whispers, like she's scared to let it out. “We talked about it before Ryan’s diagnosis. But then, everything was kind of…pushed to the side, you know? And when he passed, I lost so much sense of myself that an engagement wasn’t even on my mind. ”

She hisses a curse when her fingers slip across a book, a thin paper cut materializing at the tip.

“Sorry,” I say, as if I personally cut her, and grab a nearby band aid from the safety kit.

Lennon wraps the bandage around her pointer finger, hissing. “It’s the smallest ones that hurt the most.”

I wince in sympathy. “Sorry,”

“Stop that,” she deadpans and hops off the counter when she’s done. “Or, make it up to me by letting me fix you up and having a very fun night with a rebound that doesn’t love your mom.”

“Oh my gosh,” I laugh, cheeks flaming. “He did not love my mom.”

“Regardless, there is a very cute boy out there who you can wrangle up and do line dances with and talk about…bodice rippers and alien time travel books.”

So, that’s my plan. Find an attractive man. Go on my first, first date. Keep things casual. And finally, let these wild thoughts about Fletcher Harding leave my mind once and for all.