Page 29 of Drawn Together

On the couch, Stephan nods to his girlfriend as she climbs in his lap. “Excellent job as always, babe.”

She pops her shoulders. “Feels good to stretch my cosmetic muscles sometimes.”

I am locked in on Fletcher, everything else around us a blur.

His eyes keep circling my face to my ears to the slope of my neck to my hair, and I feel every moving glance like a brushing touch to my skin, light and sweet.

Fletcher takes me in, and I don’t know if I’ve ever known what it’s like it to feel pretty until this moment.

But, his wide-eyed gaze, standing up from his chair so fast like a lady entered a room, and the tick in his jaw all point me to the reassurance that none of Lennon’s work went to waste.

“You, uh, straightened your hair for him.”

“Well, technically, Lennon did it.”

Lennon throws a thumbs up over her shoulder at us.

“It’s so long…” His voice trails off.

That’s true. My straightened hair feels like I have never had a haircut before, reaching all the way down to my mid back.

“You…” Fletcher’s throat bobs in a swallow, and there’s that look again. That wonder in his eyes. I bet he knows that exact face on me—the look of watching him slip his glasses on when he can’t read street signs, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms on display.

“You look beautiful, Flora.” His lips continue to move, but no other sound comes. Instead, a smile replaces the ‘O’ he’s sporting. “I hope you have a really, really good time.”

The slight tinge of disappointment in my gut is proof of just how badly I need to go on this date. Distraction. Distraction. Distraction.

“Thanks, Fletcher.” I smile back. “I hope so, too.”

I am, in fact, not having a good time.

“Still waiting for your party?”

I’m sorry, did I say that Door Dashing Monistat was embarrassing? I was very, poorly mistaken. Nothing has been even a modicum of embarrassment compared to this right here.

I pick at the tablecloth resting above my thighs. “He’s coming, he just got stuck in traffic.”

My waiter in his lapels gives me a look of but did he though? And I can’t even blame him as he walks off to the other workers watching my sad empty table. The candle he lit in front of me as soon as I sat down has now melted halfway down the wick, it’s flames slow dancing in the dim light.

I look down at the read texts to Kane that are still left unanswered.

Me: Does seven still work for you?

Me: I grabbed a table for us just in case they gave the reservation away.

Me: I can definitely do another night if you need to!!

This isn’t happening, right? I’m not getting stood up on my very first date after two years of celibacy from a previous relationship.

It’s just not; there’s no way. Is this what dating is like in big cities?

If you got stood up in Whisper Bay, it would be a disaster—the whole town would riot, and stores wouldn’t even allow you to come near their parking lot for a month.

Or is it me that’s the problem here? I would be the common denominator in all things romance in my life. Maybe Fletcher was right when he said I had poor taste. It clearly hasn’t worked out well for me so far.

And, like the world thought that was just hilarious, right above Kane’s contact is a text from the one and only.

Fletcher: How’s it going? Has he asked you your favorite color yet?

Me: Funny story…

Me: He hasn’t shown up. I think I might be at the wrong place?

Fletcher: Westlight? The restaurant and bar in Brooklyn, right?

Me: That’s where I am.

Me: Maybe he’s just running late?

An hour late…

Fletcher: Maybe.

My fingers trail the last slice of bread, and I dip it in the garlic and oil mixture in the tiny coral dish.

If nothing else, this is the best free bread I have ever had.

And their water tastes like cucumbers. That’s something, right?

I can get dressed up all pretty and go out to dinner and eat bread and drink fancy water and it not be the most depressing thing in the world, can’t I?

My waiter comes back with expectant eyes.

Mouth full, I try to smile. “This bread is great. Really, compliments to the chef.”

I am given a stiff eye roll, and I can practically hear the other workers here counting bets on just how long the pathetic woman who got stood up is going to sit by herself, soaking in the only free things a place this nice offers.

A bartender with blonde braided pigtails gives me a sympathetic frown, and I wonder if she’s the one Kane said he knew the other night.

I wonder how often this happens. I wonder if I am the single most pathetic woman in this entire population of eight million, and I decide it’s best if I didn’t know the answer to that.

I text Fletcher after another twenty minutes, for no reason other than to just keep my hands busy.

Me: The staff here hates me.

Fletcher: No one could hate you.

Me : Tell that to the waiter.

Fletcher: Gladly.

I sigh and check the time again; if he was going to come, he would have said something at the very least, right?

I’m not sure. I have never had a great sense of judgement, and in the fifteen minutes I spent with the man—ten of which were about his plants—I had an overall okay feeling about this.

In one last attempt, I text his contact again.

Me: Look, if you aren’t coming, can you at least let me know now?

A moment passes by, and my phone vibrates in hand. I all but throw my cucumber water on the waiter staring down at me.

The number you have attempted to reach has been disconnected.

My heart's steady thumping slows back down. He must have given me the wrong number, he had to. He typed a two instead of a three, his thumb slipped. He’s been frantic, desperately trying to find my contact and waiting to tell me he couldn’t make it, but he had no way to reach—

Wait. No. That’s definitely not it. I scroll up the conversation, and he answered me twice the other night—once when I asked for his birthday, and the other when I told him my fiddle leaf fig leaves were turning brown, and he told me I was possibly overwatering.

He had my number right, and I had his; all my other texts delivered without issues.

This was no cute misunderstanding. Did he… block me?

My entire body rushes with intense heat, and I don’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment, but I have the strongest urge to scream into the white tablecloth in my hands.

I—Lennon—straightened my hair for this. I wore heels and earrings and sprayed so much perfume that I will never not smell like Dolce Gabbana Limpertance number three.

I thought of funny jokes to tell. I figured out my favorite color for this guy.

I studied topics to bring up on first dates.

I brushed my teeth so hard that I think I erased the last ten years of my eating and drinking history.

My waiter walks up again, and I feel like it’s still story time, having to sing the song about Timmy the turtle getting stuck by a log. We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we can’t go around it, we have to go through it.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to give away the table.”

“Can I at least—”

“I’m here,” a hurried voice carries across the room.

The voice is warm honey across my skin. Like jumping into a familiar book you’ve read a hundred times or lighting your favorite candle at night. Fletcher’s voice. Because of course he’s here.

“Hi, baby.” Fletcher leans down, pressing his lips against my hair, sending me a wink. “So sorry, I went to the Upstate location by accident.”

“We don’t have an Upstate—”

“You ready?” Fletcher doesn’t so much as glance at my waiter. “I think I can find us somewhere better to eat than this place.”

I look back to the staff and smile at their confused looks. “That would be great.”

Fletcher tosses a twenty on the table—despite us having no check—and we walk out, but not before he traces his fingers down my wrist to my fingertips, locking our hands together in solidarity.

The moment we’re outside, I pull him away from the crowd of people waiting in line to get inside.

“What— What are you doing here?”

There’s a hesitancy in his eyes, and I want to wipe it clean off. “I thought you might need me.”

No thinking, I lurch forward and toss both arms around his neck. He smells like clove, leather, and fresh mint—which has become my favorite scent—and I breathe him in, tucking the scent in my pocket for safe keeping, and whisper low in his ear.

“I did.”

Even if I know it’s pathetic, and even if I’m trying my best to stop it, my eyes water anyway. Tiny pricks of tears filled with disgust and humiliation and gratitude and joy—so much joy at having this man here with me.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he shushes me, as he pats my back, still holding me to him. “It’s alright.”

I pull back, and he’s smiling at me, my favorite dimple caved in.

“Where should we go?”

I sniffle. “Go?”

“You wanted a date tonight—a first date.” His hands tuck into his pants pockets. “And I am here to deliver.”

It’s that exact moment I realize Fletcher is in a suit—a full suit—with a white button-up tucked into black pants, shiny shoes scuffed on the toe, like he tripped on the way here, a simple black tie, and a jacket to top it off.

His hair is shiny and damp, and the scruff on his jawline is all cleaned up, aside from a tiny nick on his chin.

“You’re wearing a suit.” I wipe my thumb under my eye to catch the falling tear. “And your hair’s wet?”

“I, uh, had to take a quick shower before I got here.”

“And the suit?” I didn’t even think he owned one, not that I knew of at least.

“It’s my funeral suit.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That’s not first date talk. Sorry. It’s been a while for me, too.”

“Fletcher, you really don’t have to—”

“No. I don’t have to do anything. But I really want to do this. With you.”

I luck out with no chance to answer, because his phone starts ringing.

“Sorry, Lenny’s calling again. Let me just text her real quick.” He types away before turning his phone off and slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I freaked her out. When you texted, I sort of just…ran out without saying anything.”

I smile at the thought of Fletcher running from my apartment to his; I watch it play out like I’m Malcolm the mockingbird, witnessing him sprint around the apartment for his funeral suit, hair dripping, and chin scratched from a hurried shave.

Tonight was useless, wasn’t it? Trying to diminish how much I like this man was useless.

“So…” He pats his hands against his pants. “Back to before. Where would you like to go?”

He asks the question, and yet he seems to be the one with all the answers.