Page 26 of Drawn Together

Twenty

Word of the day: Aspectabund

Definition: being able to let expressive emotion show easily through one’s face and eyes

Nausea crawls its way under my skin as I follow Lennon, Stephan, and unfortunately, Fletcher, to a small table in the back of ‘Hey, Y’all’—ironically, the name of the line dance place and not a phrase that my roommate suddenly picked up on.

I had full hopes of it being just Lennon and I tonight, but she informed me as we were walking out the door that we would have company as well.

Fletcher looks almost as sick as I feel.

But the goal of the night remains the same. I need a good distraction to pull me away from this insignificant thing that my brain incessantly pushes as significant.

Lennon sets a drink in front of me—it smells like red hots and spiced apples—and I take a hesitant sip and the liquid burns down my throat, warming my body as it travels.

By the time I set the glass back down, my roommate and her boyfriend are off.

Fletcher and I sip on our drinks under the neon lights as we watch the couple bob and weave around all the other dancers.

The smoke and beer in the air unsettles me, but the clove and rain scent wafting off him reminds me of autumn back home, so I lean a little closer.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” He leans in so he can hear better.

“Are you looking for a date tonight?”

I tell myself the answer is completely irrelevant. I almost believe it, too.

“Ah.” He shakes his head at the ground, ears turning pink. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

I’m temporarily saved from having to hear his answer as a large group of people scoot past us, forcing us to move, stomachs against the high-top table.

Fletcher lifts a hand over my temple to avoid getting hit from the amount of purses passing by and the sloshing drinks tipping just over the edge, little droplets dancing by our feet.

“It’s not really my thing.” We lean back in our chairs once the crowd passes.

“Dating? Or the line dancing?”

“Agh, either, I guess. I’ve had a few girlfriends here and there, but I don’t really like meeting them in bars or…I don’t know. I’m just here, alright?”

That doesn’t feel like an answer, but I don’t exactly want to know about his past girlfriends, so I zip my lips.

He leans down to whisper in my ear, breath tickling my hair. “Have your eye on anyone?”

I hum and glance around the bar, satisfied to find that there are plenty of good-looking men out tonight. All I need is just one to get over this weird feeling in my stomach so I can get back to normal.

My eyes lock onto a blonde man with an Irish flag jersey on, a lager in hand, and a tooth-gap smile. “Oh.” I point. “Him.”

“Him?” Fletcher deadpans.

“What?”

“He looks like his mom still pays his phone bill.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying to lower monthly costs.”

“Try again.”

I search the crowd again, eyes dancing from head to head for the next victim of Fletcher’s scrutiny. “Okay, the redhead at two o’clock.”

“You’re at two o'clock.”

“Oh. Then at the third table from the bar.”

He winces, chin jerking back and judgment in his eyes. “Flora, seriously?”

“What?” I laugh the word out, airy and scattered.

“You have poor taste.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

I take another sip of my glass, the burn easing up with each drink I take. “Then, you pick one for me.”

Fletcher scans the crowd with squinting eyes.

“There.” He points, and I track the motion to a man in cut off jean shorts and red boots, the flashing lights bounce off his head and nearly blind the other dancers around him.

He must’ve completely given up on learning the steps because he is just repeatedly doing this helicopter move with his hips, one hand raised and shaking in the air, the other is in his mouth as he bites at his nails.

“Oh my gosh.” I suck in a laughing breath. “Is that who you think is my even match here?”

“I don’t know if you have an even match in this entire city, Flora.”

Fletcher is grinning at me, gentle and soft, and my insides go all gooey again. My feelings are festering, growing at a rapid pace, and I have to nip this in the bud. No more messing around, I need to find someone right now.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” I shout over the loud music and stomping of boots behind us. “Do you want one?”

“Sure. Want me to go with you?”

“No, you’re gonna stand here and think about what you’ve done.” I jerk my head to the nail biter, and he shakes his head, grinning.

I make my way through the sweaty bodies up to the bar where the bartender gives me a nod. “Give me just a second.”

He is handling drinks like he’s juggling ten balls, and while I’ve never worked in the service industry, I can only imagine how stressful this crowd has to be with only two bartenders working.

“Take your time,” I smile at him. “I’m in no rush.”

That makes him look up, and oh, he is very cute.

I’m not usually a mustache girl, but his is so well kept that I feel it beckoning me. There’s something about his eyes, too—a bright blue. Kind of intense, but calm.

Yes. This one. This one could distract me long enough to shift my mind back to normal.

He gives me a quick glance over and nods. When he turns to give the proper drinks to the couple behind him, I rub my finger against my teeth in case any rogue lipstick has made its way around.

“What can I get you?”

I point to my glass. “Can I get another apple cider margarita?”

He looks to my other empty glass—Fletcher’s. “And for your friend?”

I look back to said friend and see there is a blonde in a low cut top laughing at something he said, long nails grabbing his arm, and I will be honest, Fletcher is not that funny. I add it to the cons and turn back.

“I’ll get his later.”

“Cool.” He smiles, and I find myself a little sad at the lack of dimple there.

When he comes back with my drink he asks, “Are you local?”

I nod. “Moved here back in April.”

“Nice, are you staying long term?”

“That’s the plan.” If I can actually get hired full time.

“I grew up here,” he tacks on, and I realize I didn’t even ask where he lives. “Near Park Slope.”

I sit straight. “That’s where I am!”

Note to self: stop telling strangers where you live.

“Really?” His brows raise. “If you’re ever looking for a good place to get a drink, Westlight is great. Try to go at sunset; the skyline is insane.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” I sip my drink and try to conspire on where to go from here.

Ten minutes into my poor attempt at conversation, it turns out I didn’t have to do much work. Kane here has let me know of his divine adoration for plants, and we have had little else to speak about since he first brought up the need to water his peace lily.

“So, this is my ZZ plant,” He zooms in on the foliage for a few seconds before sliding to the next picture. “And here is my porch—it’s basically overrun with jasmine.”

I stare in amazement, “This is incredible, look how tall your money tree is.”

“If only it actually grew money.”

His smirk is a little much when he’s glancing up and down my chest to my mouth, but this was the whole reason I came here, right?

So, I smile. “You’d be a millionaire.”

“You would probably like my morning glories, they’re a cross hybrid with—”

I turn over my shoulder to see Fletcher alone again, and he keeps looking from the TV facing him playing 2000’s music videos on shuffle before he settles his eyes my way. His brows furrow, glancing from me to the bartender beside me.

‘You okay?’ he mouths, and this genuine worry and kindness in his eyes is pulling me away from the initial goal.

I give a big, convincing smile and a thumbs up behind Kane’s back.

“So, what do you say?”

My neck cranes back to the pictures of vines and flowers taking over his back yard again. It’s a little redundant, but to be fair, if I had any form of a backyard in Brooklyn, I probably would show everyone too.

“Hm?”

“Do you want to go see the morning glory? I get off in a couple hours, and you could come over and see it all?”

What kind of sense does that make? It’s already nine o'clock and has been pitch black outside for the last hour?

“Uh,” my chuckle is a little sympathetic. “It would be too dark to see anything.”

He seems to…buffer a moment. “Right, yeah. Well, if you decide to go to Westlight, I’m friends with the head bartender there. If you text me, maybe I can tell her when you’re going? The list is kind of crazy if you don’t know your way in.”

Like a tiny door cracked open, I slip my way in. “And you know your way in?”

He smiles. “I do.”

“Then maybe you could help?”

“I could.” He pulls his phone out and hands it to me. “Text your number, I’ll see what I can do.”

I do as he says and turn back to see Fletcher is still alone, arms crossed and eyes staring.

“Can I get something extremely girly for my friend over there?” I jerk my thumb back. “Preferably with an umbrella in it?”

When I walk back to Fletcher with a wide grin and a frozen pink and yellow drink in hand, he is staring at me with raised brows.

“Well,” I set the drink in front of him and the scowl he had been sporting is now replaced with amusement, “I did it.”

He takes a sip of the drink. “You did?”

“I think? He kind of asked if I wanted to go to his house to see all his plants outside, and I was like well obviously it’s too dark outside tonight, so no.”

Fletcher’s amusement seems to grow. “Oh? So, no date?”

“Well, then in a roundabout way he asked if I wanted to go to some exclusive bar in Brooklyn—Westlight, I think? I said it sounded cool, and he said he could take me, then made me text him.”

He nods. “Sounds like a date.”

“Oh my gosh.” I clasp the table. “I have a date.”