Page 33 of Drawn Together

Twenty-four

Word of the day: Mired

Definition: to become involved in a difficult situation from which it is hard to escape

Somehow, I manage to avoid being completely alone with Fletcher for the next two days.

After our kiss the other night—when I inevitably reached the apartment in my hazed mind—Stephan and Lennon sat in the kitchen with the widest, most knowing grins I had ever seen.

“Hi.” If the pink in my cheeks wasn’t hint enough that my night was just that excellent, then the shake of my voice was.

“Hi,” Lennon mocks, drawing the one syllable out to four. “Care to share some details here?”

“Mmm, about what?”

Stephan looks between the two of us and nods. “Well, it’s getting late, so I’m just going to…” He slips out the kitchen door, and I swear I hear him giggle on the way.

So, once it was just the two of us, everything slipped out like melted butter on a warm Backside pancake. The only withheld details being the privacy of Fletcher’s secrets of his past with Ryan—which were not my business to spread—but, everything else was all hers.

I told her about the date—the food, the boat, the dessert, and the slow walk home. I told her about the kiss, which she apparently had a clear shot of from the bay window, and I quote ‘could see tongues,’ so let that be whatever it’s meant to be.

She squeals and giggles and claps her hands at the end of my story, like we’re at the theater or on a plane that just landed after some rough turbulence.

It’s a mystery how I’ve gone so long without a girlfriend in my life—without someone to eat popcorn with and talk about your recent dates and wonder together where it’s going next.

And when I slip off into my room, Lennon croaks out, “Flora?”

I turn on my heel.

“Be careful with him, okay?” She smiles up at me, blonde bangs dangling across her right eye. “I know he seems solid, but this last year was hard on all of us and…he’s mine and Stephan’s best friend, so we just… Well, you know.”

I nod with a smile, but something in me recoils—tightens like a spring snapping into place. The reminder of the closeness in their friendship feels like a bucket of ice dousing my body.

It was just a kiss.

But even as I think it, I feel the lie echo in my chest. It wasn’t just a kiss. It had been slow and electric and frighteningly easy. The kind of kiss that shifts the axis of your whole inner world without your permission.

And now I was free-falling.

Because I knew what came next, didn’t I? I’d seen this movie before; I’d read this story a hundred times. The girl kisses the boy she shouldn’t. She lets herself believe, just for a second, that maybe it could work—that this could be the beginning of something beautiful. And then?

Then comes the fallout.

I sit on the edge of my bed, arms wrapped tightly around myself. My skin still tingles from everywhere Fletcher’s hands had held me—anchored me.

What if he regrets it?

What if I do?

What if I let myself want him—really want him—and I’m too much for someone again?

What if I’ve just repeated history by falling into this situation with the first friend I’ve made since Austin, and I’ll have to watch everything implode?

What if this little corner of joy I’ve built crumbles quietly around me, and I’m left alone to clean it all up?

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes so hard that granular stars form in my vision, like maybe, the harder I push, the more I can stop the whole thought spiral. But it just keeps spinning.

So, the next morning, with a clear head and my wits about me, I text Fletcher.

Me: Thank you again for last night. It was amazing, seriously.

Me: I also wanted to talk about the kiss—we should probably forget it. I know you were trying to give me the perfect date, and you definitely did! But I still need your help with the whole Cedric Brooks thing, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. So, yeah. That’s all.

Fletcher took an hour to respond back, and when he did it was a simple: Understood. Have a good day, Flora Anderson. Which I re-read a hundred times, searching for any animosity or despair or regret, only to find nothing there.

Which is why when he texts me Sunday morning asking if I want to go see Jurassic Park with him at the Vale Cinema Series, I promptly respond with: So sorry, I think I caught a bug. Can I get a rain check?

Fletcher being Fletcher, asks if I am okay, and I brush it off once more before also lying to Lennon when she asks why I have been glued to my bed for twenty-four hours.

Sure. Why not? This is who I am now, apparently.

Someone who is so devoid of her sense of reality that the mere thought of not having a man in her life could result in her whole being unraveling like those sticky notes that unfold like an accordion.

I wish I could say work has been keeping me busy, but that would also be a lie.

Though Cedric’s emails have doubled over the last two days, despite it being the weekend, he hasn’t pushed for any further updates in our drafts that I’m still waiting on the team's approval with. He has asked how things are going, and get this, even said he was there if I ‘needed anything.’ Which I don’t—not from him—but what kind of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity is that to pass up on?

So, I responded back and asked him to make a Pinterest board for each character of the books so I can accurately represent them.

Shockingly, he responds back that he does not own ‘a Pinterest,’ but he will ‘get right on it.’ And we leave it at that, with very little work left to do on my end without that approval.

I stay in my room as much as I can, only slipping out to pee, shower, and eat crackers right out of the box.

I’m on one of those kitchen adventures when I realize that I’m going to have to get groceries soon.

So, like the brave woman I am, I face the world and…

get them delivered. Less of a challenge than attempting a walk to Trader Joe’s five blocks over and increasing the chance of running into Fletcher on the street with a bag of Golden Glories again.

Only, it didn’t matter that I just went to the lobby. It’s like he knew just how bad I was wanting to not see him, because as I turn to go back into the elevator with my delivered groceries, I see him standing there, a load of paper bags in hand and a confused expression on his face.

His glasses have slipped while his hands are full, notched just below his eye line, so I have a direct view of those brown orbs staring out at me.

I can’t read a single thing about him right now.

The usual radar of his emotions is broken, and I’m left with this befuddled look on his unshaven face that feels like staring at one of those illusions that’s an elephant one way and a squirrel on the other.

I can’t piece together a thing right now, except for the constant dinging of the elevator as it’s held open by Fletcher’s foot, waiting on me.

“Hi.” I slip into the elevator, and the doors close behind me.

“Hi.” He lifts the bags in his hands. “I brought you soup.”

“Why?”

“You…said you had a bug. Lenny mentioned you’ve barely even left your room, I thought—” He shifts so his weight is against the back railing at his waist. “I thought you were really sick.”

“I am.” My cough is meant to reiterate the point, but it feels ingenuine. “I came down with something this weekend.”

“Uh huh.” He nods. “Before or after I kissed you?”

“Fletcher.” I hiss his name like anyone else is in here.

He’s saved from having to respond, thankfully.

Because the elevator comes to an abrupt halt, my groceries drop to the ground, and Fletcher clings to his own bags.

A quiet ding sounds over the speaker above, but nothing beyond that—no lights flicker, no flashing of buttons—just that one ring of a bell then pure silence.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, not daring to move a muscle.

“The elevator stopped.”

“Yes, but why?”

Fletcher grinds out, “I don’t know. Let me check the elevator manual I keep in my back pocket.”

My eyes squeeze tight. I’ve never been particularly claustrophobic, but then again, this elevator feels increasingly small next to the heat radiating from Fletcher taking up the whole twelve-square-foot room.

The plastic bags rustle at my feet as Fletcher moves to the button panel, reminding me that no matter how tight my eyes are closed, I’m still stuck here.

In the world's smallest room with a man who can’t stop haunting my every thought.

“What do we do?” I open my eyes and take in the space around us. Mirrored walls on the side behind us, two cream walls on the others, then the silver doors clamped shut in front. The yellow bell button below all the floor buttons lights up when Fletcher pushes it.

“I think this is the one that calls someone?” He pushes it again, and we wait in silence. Nothing.

“Maybe try just hitting all of them.”

“All the buttons?”

“It can’t hurt, we’re already here.”

He sighs but follows my suggestion, lighting up the whole 20 floors of buttons like a Christmas tree. Even the door open and door shut buttons don’t do anything.

I take a couple steps back and slip down to the floor.

My knees tuck to my chest, and I accept my fate that I could die here.

We’ll have to dedicate a pee corner and ration out my groceries and his soup out for the next thirty days.

We’ll leave here—crazed hair and black circles under our eyes—and people will marvel at us, wondering how we did it.

We’ll be trauma bonded for life, left to live out the rest of our days only taking the stairs from here on out.

“You know, this whole thing is your fault.” His frown is a traitor to his serious tone as it tips up in one corner.

“My fault?” My shriek mixes with a laugh. “How is this possibly my fault?”

“If you hadn’t lied about being sick, then I wouldn’t have come over.”