Page 27 of Drawn Together

Twenty-one

Word of the day: Basorexia

Definition: the overwhelming desire to kiss

Tonight's book club meeting is a little different.

Instead of discussing our choices of literature, we—and by we I mean I—switched things up and traded our usual book discussion for a cozy outdoor movie night.

Having explored various local online discussions, I found a mention of a skyscraper rooftop cinema showing movies every Friday evening, and I instantly bought tickets the moment I saw the film selection.

The Princess Bride flickers to life on the large projector screen, the familiar score swelling and echoing through the speakers behind us.

I am so thankful that I remembered to bring both of us blankets to ward off the evening chill while workers hand us buttered popcorn and hot chocolates.

Fletcher—bathed in the warm glow of the screen and shoveling popcorn faster than anyone I’ve met—has already animatedly planned our next gathering, voice full of excitement, as next week marks the beginning of their Halloween movie marathon.

Twenty minutes into my re-falling in love with young Cary Elwes, Fletcher leans so he’s more on my chair than his.

“So, uh, when’s your big date?”

“Tomorrow night,” I whisper.

“Oh, that’s…soon.”

I turn from the screen to his face, lit up by the flashing of blues and red in front of us.

Is it? My stomach is already in knots over the whole thing.

“I guess so.” I shrug. “I think I want it to be over already.”

“Flora, you shouldn’t be dreading a date.”

“I’m not; I’m just nervous.” Though, that in itself feels like a lie.

“It’s just drinks, yeah?” A woman turns in her chair and gives Fletcher the middle finger and some choice words at a much higher volume than his own. Fletcher tries to shrink in his chair unsuccessfully before scooting closer to me and whispering lower in my ear.

“Talk to him like you talk to me. Don’t overthink it. If he’s a solid guy, he’ll guide you in the conversation, and it shouldn’t be too awkward.”

My teeth gnaw at my fingernails. “What if he asks my favorite color?”

“Then you tell him.”

I ponder that. “What is my favorite color?”

Fletcher snorts. “Flora.”

“But what do I do?”

He sighs and sets his popcorn down, trying to keep the movement to a minimum for the cranky lady up front. “I don’t think I should give you dating advice.”

“Why not?” Apparently my offended voice is higher, because then the lady turns to me this time, and I can’t quite understand what she’s saying, but I know there is little chance of me making it off this roof alive if I don’t reel this conversation in.

I lean closer to Fletcher to whisper, “Why not?”

“I don’t have the best track record for dating. You’ve been in a relationship. You know how this goes. Do whatever you did back then, and you’ll be great.”

“It’s my first, first date.”

The confession catches in my throat, like a physical obstruction, as embarrassment grows.

“It’s— How?” He turns fully from the movie to me, all his attention on my burning face. “You said you had a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, from twelve to twenty-three. We went on dates when we were old enough, but I’ve never had a real first date. I don’t know…”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to keep him interested.”

“Keep him interested?” He shakes his head. Inconceivable. “Flora, your normal self should be more than enough to keep him interested.”

I don’t know if that’s a bad thing or not, but my mouth twists.

“Do people kiss on first dates?”

“Shit.” He pulls at his hair. “I don’t know, Flora.”

“Well, I mean, do you?”

“It depends.” He blushes.

“On?”

“Don’t worry about it. If he wants to kiss you, he will, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper back.

We sit like that for most of the movie, Fletcher’s eyes glued to the projector while I chew away at my bottom lip and stress eat the unlimited free popcorn, wondering how I am possibly going to pull this off.

The last time I kissed a man, he left me that very night.

And not in a casual ‘oops this doesn’t work’ but in a detrimental, full one-eighty life switch way.

Logically, Kane and this date will mean very little to my life.

Even so, if I have to hear about my poor kissing skills or how ‘too excited’ I am again, I will in fact move back home. Kidding. But kind of not?

“Fletcher?”

“Yeah?”

"What if… What if I’m a terrible kisser?" I blurt out, the question hanging heavy in the air between us. Now that the confession is out, he turns my way fully, expression unreadable behind his glasses in the dim light.

"Who told you that you were a bad kisser?" He squints, the playful glint that had been in his eyes moments before now replaced with a serious, almost intense look. He’s no longer whispering; instead, his voice resonates, a deep rumble in his throat that vibrates through me.

“No one,” I whisper the lie. “I just am.”

He shakes his head with a sarcastic laugh, completely ignoring the glares of the woman in front.

“No, you’re not.”

“How could you possibly know?”

“Just trust me, I know.”

“Okay, let’s say, hypothetically, someone is a bad kisser. Could he or she, I don’t know, somehow fix it?”

“Flora, why do you think you’re a bad kisser?”

“I’m too…” I search for the right word. “Enthusiastic.”

Fletcher pinches the bridge of his nose before letting out a long sigh and sticking his hands back under his plaid blanket. “If you’re not enthusiastic, then it’s not right.”

“I think maybe it’s that I was the only one enthusiastic about it.”

“Then that’s not on you.”

“But I—”

“Let’s watch the movie, alright? I will bet you a hundred dollars you’re not a bad kisser.” He hands me his hot chocolate, like it will make me feel better—it unfortunately does the trick. “I promise you are not the problem.”

I nod. “Okay.”

And I spend the entire rest of the movie thinking just how wrong he is.

“So, you liked Westley then.”

“I liked hearing about how much you like Westley, sure.”

“I said it maybe twice.”

“Yeah, but you gasped every time he came up in a scene and started clawing at my chair when he was shirtless.”

With a laugh, I feel the autumn evening chill settling deep within me as we round the corner to our shared street, making me grateful once more that I brought the blankets.

“Told you I don’t have bad taste.”

“He’s certainly an upgrade from the alien you made me read.”

“Ugh, a classic.”

He snorts and pushes my hair behind my ear. “Night, Flora.”

I go up one brick step, my fingers lightly trailing the railing beside me, cheeks warm and entirely thankful for the moonlit night hiding my blush.

“Night, Fletcher.”

I am about to go up another step, but from one moment to the next—like lightning hitting the ground in a crack—he’s there. Fingers curling around my arm, I’m pulled back to face the street. Suddenly, there are hands on either side of my face, thumbs digging in my jaw, and his mouth on mine.

It’s bruising, his soft lips pushing and pulling, finding a rhythm that I follow along with every motion.

We fit perfectly. I’ve only ever been used to Austin's lips. Thin and…boney? But Fletcher’s are thick and soft, and there’s just so much more of him for me to learn.

Fabric brushes against my fingers, I realize my hands are on his stomach, pulling at his sweatshirt as if to say off.

With one hand on my face and the other up my spine he moves me, angles me, molds me into what he needs, and I am nothing but clay against him.

His hard thumb presses into my jaw, like he’s trying to find the right button to open me up, and I do so, just for him.

My bottom lip drops, and he takes the opportunity to pull it into his mouth before pressing needy kisses everywhere.

The corner of my mouth. Just above my lip.

My chin. My jaw. Below my ear. He is everywhere all at once, but I only want his lips against mine right now.

I tug at him, pulling him down and going on the tips of my toes to meet him halfway, our lips finding each other again.

A sob, thick and desperate, claws its way out of me as Fletcher breaks the kiss, the sound swallowed by the sudden silence.

Whimpers bubble up when he pulls back just enough to tear off his glasses with what almost feels like anger.

I’m blessed with a fleeting view of his bare eyes—red-rimmed and intense—amplifying the raw ache in my chest, before he hauls me back into him, his grip around my waist an urgent vice.

Fletcher’s tongue slides in, a firm and tender invasion.

A soft, mewling plea escapes my lips, the sound barely audible.

Just for us. Just enough to fuel his fire.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he crushes me closer.

"Yes," he breathes in my ear, the tip of his glasses digging in my waist.

“Fletcher.” I don’t have anything to follow up, just…him. Everything in me calls for him. His touch, his taste, his sounds, his scent. Him, him, him.

“Incredible,” he groans into my mouth, and I think that might be my first tattoo. Incredible. Anywhere on my body—I don’t care—I just want this moment locked in time with him. I want a piece of this to be permanent.

But just as I think that, he’s gone. Pulled back with wet lips shining in the moon's light, nose pressing against mine as we each try to catch our breath.

I feel like a bow pulled tight and snapped shut, left to deal with the aching need for more.

Fletcher leans in, his mouth by my ear, tucking the rogue curls behind it once again so I can hear him loud and clear.

His words are warm against me. “Have a good night, Flora Anderson.”

I huff a disbelieving laugh, and he pulls back with an unabashed smile. I should say it back. But my whole body is numb, and my mouth can’t catch up with my brain.

Then he’s gone. Already turned on his heel and walking to his building across the street, leaving me like a soaked towel rung out to dry.

I end up upstairs—not entirely sure how—but I think the word ‘floating’ is the only way to describe hot I got here. Thankfully, Lennon isn’t home, so when I prop my kiss-ravished self on the windowsill and watch Fletcher move about his apartment, there is no one here to judge me.

When I get in bed that night, half asleep and still reeling, I get a text from him.

Fletcher: I take cash, check, or Zelle.

Fletcher: For the hundred dollars, I mean.

And with those words in my heart, I drift off smiling in my sleep.

Somewhere around two in the morning, I wake up, groggy and thirsty. After chugging a water bottle like a kid after sprinting around on a playground, I check the time on my phone and my latest notification rests at the top, taunting me.

Cedric.Brooks followed you.

I sit upright and rub my eyes. What? He doesn’t even know my name, unless the agent sent him the contract I signed, and he studied my signature? But even then…what? And he followed me at 2:37 A.M. on a random Friday night?

I open the social media app and go to my notifications to find it blank. Nothing in the last three days, since I posted a view from the park, with no new followers. Only a comment from Sloane saying, ‘save me a spot.’

A breath of air huffs out of me, and I lay back down. Of course, Cedric Brooks didn’t follow me on social media at two in the morning.