Page 34 of Drawn Together

He’s rage baiting me into a distraction, and I hate how much it’s working.

“What makes you so sure I’m lying about being sick?” I cough again like, ‘see?’ and his smiling frown grows higher.

“You magically got a bug right after you freaked out about us kissing.”

“It wasn’t right after.”

“The next morning, then.”

Well, yeah.

“It feels so much smaller here than usual.” I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them in closer so I’m nothing but a ball of mixed emotions.

“We’ve been stuck in smaller spaces,” he reminds me, and I’m thrown back to the closet in his apartment, our legs tucked in, and the secret smiles he gave me. Pretty, he whispered and played with my hair, causing the utter downfall of my stability.

I look up and he’s already staring right back at me—a question, I think. My heart is a traitor to my mind, thumping wildly and blood pulsing. My eyes flicker to the bags beside him.

“You said you brought soup?”

“I did.”

I raise a brow, and he sniffs a laugh. “Are we already getting comfortable?”

“Seems like we’ll be here a while.”

“Here, I’ve got an idea.” He stands up and reaches a hand down for me to grab. I stare at hesitantly.

“Do you want to get out?”

I sigh and stand up, wiping my hands on my yoga pants. Fletcher takes off his sweater before bending down in front of me, the back of his head lined up to my waist. Without his sweater, his plain white tee may as well be translucent, each curve and dip of his back and shoulders on display below me.

“What exactly are we doing right now?”

“Get on my shoulders.” He taps the spot, like that will make me want to jump quicker.

“Why?”

“To pass the time.”

“Huh?”

“To see if you can see anything through the ceiling tile, Flora.”

Oh, right.

His palm is held out to me, and while I can’t see his face, I feel him suck in a breath when I let my fingers slide against his. I raise one thigh to his left shoulder and the other to the right.

He groans beneath me, light—almost a whimper.

“Am I hurting you?” I adjust my thighs so they don’t cover his ears.

“Not hurting,” he mumbles below me, as his hands reach by his jaw, cupping around my thighs that wrap his neck. This feels oddly intimate for two people—or at least one—who have been avoiding each other the last two days.

With very minimal effort, Fletcher pops up standing again. The height between the two of us has me only inches from the ceiling, and I marvel in the view. Is this what he sees? Is he just constantly staring at my scalp when we walk?

He easily bounces me so my weight shifts evenly on him, and my hands wrap into his hair like I’m a rat teaching him how to cook. I squeal a little when he bounces one more time, faster than the others. I can feel his cheeks stretching to a smile between my thighs.

“It must be nice to be you at a concert; you’d always have a great view. How do you fit through door frames?”

“It takes valiant effort,” he deadpans. “Lift up a panel and see if you can find light from either side.”

“Woah, what makes you in charge?” I tug on his hair, and he groans beneath me.

“Who’s carrying who?”

Well, touché.

Hands raised, I push up the closest drop tile and see there is a small flicker of light between the wires and panels.

“I can see some light above us, but it’s just a small crack.”

“Okay.” He shifts me with his hands, and I momentarily panic.

“Tell me we’re not crawling up there to get out.”

“We’re not crawling up there to get out.” The amusement in his tone tells me that was probably a stupid question, but it felt worth asking. “I just needed to know if we’re in between floors or not.”

I didn’t even consider that for a moment.

“If we’re stuck between floors, what does that mean?”

His sigh gives more of an answer than anything, his thumbs on my thighs rub carelessly back and forth. I lean over him, my stomach resting against his hair just as he looks up at me.

“Hi,” he mumbles.

“Hi,” I mumble back.

We’re paused in this moment, right here—stuck with nowhere else to be, but also stuck in this steady rotation of no matter how much I push away my attraction to him, I came back to this spot.

“So, uh, stuck between floors?”

“It means no one would hear us.”

Oh. “If…”

“If we yelled for help.”

Right. Because we are stuck in an elevator, and not because things are meant to progress further here. Fletcher leans down, shoulders slumping over all our groceries gathered by his feet.

“I’m sorry; since when did you suddenly become John Wick?”

“No one in their right mind has ever made that comparison between us.”

“I’m sure Keanu Reeves is regularly asked if he’s related to Fletcher Harding from Ashford it is possibly the best thing I have ever tasted.

He opens his own lid from his cup and if I close my eyes, the smell that wafts in the air is enough to make me feel like we might just be at a small Chinese restaurant with fortune cookies on our table.

His would say something like ‘run now before it’s too late,’ and mine would say ‘it is too late; you adore this man.’ Both would be correct.

We agree to drink only half of our soups, just in case, and set the rest to the side.

When the boredom really sinks in, we start rifling through my groceries.

I’ve given up on my eggs and milk staying good by the time we get back to my apartment, but we do rifle through the seasoned pumpkin seeds and apple turn overs.

Before we know it, thirty minutes have come and passed and we’re still here, stuck in silence. I would say we could watch a movie or play music or do anything on my phone, but it’s at ten percent, and I worry we’re going to have to make calls again soon to say goodbye to our loved ones.

Which reminds me. “Can’t we just call Noah to come climb his way up here and flex his muscles and yank this thing open?”

Fletcher rolls his eyes so hard I think they might fall into the floor. “Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you?”

“Very much so.”

“You know, I’ll let you avoid me and pretend like nothing happened the other night and steal all my crackers and whatever else you want, but I am not going to watch you ogle Noah ripping open an elevator door.”

“Too bad, I’m already texting him.” My phone appears in hand, and I am just typing away.

The previous amusement on his face drops. “You have his number?”

“Yes.” No. But I can type in my notes and pretend like I do.

His nose scrunches, glasses lifting higher. “I hope you know that he has a permanent case of Athlete’s Foot that no antibiotic could ever cure."

“I hope you know I really don’t care.”

“If we ever get out of here, I’m taking the rest of your soup home with me.”

I respond, “If we ever get out of here, I’m spitting in your poor excuse for soup when you’re not looking.”

Of all things, that makes him smile a bit. “If we ever get out of here, you’re going to rack up more of that tab you owe me. I’m charging for the soup and a delivery fee.”

The mention of the ‘tab’ that he’s been running makes my skin heat.

I clear my throat, adjust my position, and check the time again on my phone.

None of it matters, though. I can’t hide from what he does to me.

How just a clear view of his veiny forearms is enough to push my desire and want higher.

The more I shove it down, the more it resurfaces.

“Flora would you please just—” He pulls his hands through his hair and the look is tortured. “Look— I’m sorry I kissed you. I really am. I thought maybe you wanted me to, and it was on your first date list, and I did it without really thinking.”