Page 42 of Drawn Together

Twenty-eight

Word of the day: mamihlapinatapai

Definition: a Yaghan word that describes the look shared by two people, each wishing the other would initiate something they both desire, but neither wants to be the first to do so.

The last party I attended was the one that changed the trajectory of my entire life. Ironically, also on Halloween. Which is—also ironically—my birthday, in case you forgot.

I still can hear the words leaving Austin's mouth, the acid creeping up my stomach.

Coming around the corner of the frat house to see him in his Men in Black costume, one that I matched as well in my own perfectly tailored suit and sunglasses, sitting right beside our other friend, Michelle Wilkins, dressed as Tinkerbell.

A perfect match, really, with her five-foot stature and the bright blonde hair in an effortless bun on her head that leaned against his shoulder.

I can still feel the dirt under my shoes. The sound of soft waves in the distance, taunting me. And, when I heard my name slip from his lips, everything else around me just drifted off. It was only the two of them and me.

“She’s just too much sometimes. So loud and always just non-stop talking to everyone she meets. I wish…”

“What?” Michelle's voice was like a cute garden mouse. Or a green-dressed fairy.

“I wish she was more like you. Flora’s got good intentions. And she’s funny, here and there. But she can’t take the hint that not everyone cares what she has to say all the time. She’s just too much. In every way. Even when we kiss, she leans all into it and it’s like, okay, I get it, you know?”

Michelle's response was a soft one, probably softer than I’ve ever spoken. Their lips inches apart. “If you want her to be like me, then maybe you should just be with me.”

For so long, their exchanged words were like an alarm clock, except instead of only waking you up only in the morning, it woke me up everywhere.

When I talked too long at the check-out and held people up behind me.

When I ordered my coffee and could hear Austin’s hefty sigh over my shoulder.

He doesn’t need to know why you’re ordering oat milk in your latte, just order the latte.

Thinking of letting my hair grow into natural curls then thinking of the shiny, straight as a board hairstyle that Michelle wore daily, before tackling it with a straightener.

In all things I touched or said or did, there were his words—too much.

If you want to give Austin any sort of credit here, I don’t, but more power to you—he did not technically cheat on me. When Michelle leaned in to kiss him, I stayed just long enough to watch him pull back and say, “I’ll talk to her. Tonight.”

And, true to his word, he did. In the frat house bathroom as I cried next to a man throwing up after winning a hot dog eating competition that only he was competing in.

“It’s not like when we were kids and only had each other. There’s a big world out there full of people for both of us. Someone for you and someone for me. It’s no longer just the two of us against the world. We’re adults now. We’ve outgrown each other.”

What he really meant was that he had outgrown me.

He then hugged me in this weird, shoulder squishing way before whispering in my ear, “Friends?” like he didn’t just take an eraser to the last ten years of love from me.

And, like the great big moron I was, I nodded and sniffled a watery smile. “Friends.”

The moment Austin left, the man pumping his own stomach in the toilet turned to me and shook his head. “Ouch, bro.” To which I could not agree more.

Fast forward a couple years, give or take, and here I am, about to attend another Halloween party.

Everything is different this time; I know that.

It’s pure logic that no one here will break my heart, because I have no boyfriend or extension of a Michelle in my life.

But, my brain can’t seem to wrap its way around that logic.

Even as I am sitting on my bed, fully dressed up in my God-tier fitting Christine costume, I feel so nauseous at the thought of a party with costumes and karaoke and drinks.

You know how you can conjure up an exact feeling of what it would be like to put a penny on your tongue?

Like some sort of sense memory? That’s what it feels like.

Like, my heart knows something that I don’t about what I’m going into tonight, and I should just stay here.

“Flora?” Lennon knocks on my door, and my back straightens. “You almost ready?”

I stand up, go to my mirror, pick a piece of lint off my dress, and take in the woman in front of me.

I’m not that girl who got her heart broken at a party this very night.

And in the same sense, she’s right in front of me.

Along with the five-year- old, pig-tailed version who painted rainbows on canvases and plastered them everywhere in the house.

Beside her is the ten-year-old Flora in her Norah Jones era with her pink converse and butterfly hair clips.

There’s high school me and college me and fresh-to-New York me.

All these different versions of Flora Anderson are in this mirror right now, and I settle into the fact that I don’t have to pick which one I will be tonight. Because they’re all there deep down.

And, I would never tell that little pig-tailed girl who loved Spinosorous and pretending to fly and playing mermaids on the beach that she is ‘too much.’ So, why should I say it to myself now?

I take Austin’s words in my head, crumble them up into the world's tiniest ball, and toss them in the trash before dumping a day-old pumpkin smoothie over them. I then mentally fill the hole he left with Fletcher’s words from yesterday.

You bring everything you touch to life.

I settle into them like warm blankets fresh out of the dryer and wrap them around my heart, squeezing tight. No matter where I end up with Fletcher, he can never take those words back from me. They’re no longer his, only mine.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

Despite my earlier pep talk with myself, I spend the entire five-minute walk from our apartment over to Fletcher’s with my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear Lennon asking me if I could see her underwear in her red riding hood outfit.

I say no without thinking, then realize I’m the worst, so I check out her butt from all angles and give a definitive ‘you’re good,’ with a salute that makes her smile.

Lennon's smiles aren’t nearly as rare these days. In fact, I collect about four a day. Mostly at work when we talk about our newest obsession—a fantasy series called The Shattered Sigil Chronicles—where we agreed that the morally gray Kaelen Duskward is her newest book boyfriend.

“You look like a sexy runaway bride.” She points to my torn dress, and my skin goes warm under the scrutiny. How boob-y is too boob-y here?

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one, trust me. I’m looking forward to Fletcher picking his jaw off the floor.” I don’t have time to argue that, because the elevator dings and we’re there, right in front of the door, and everything feels shaky and off, like maybe I’m not supposed to be here.

Lennon doesn’t knock, just pushes the door right open into the dark kitchen space.

“Wait, are we here early?” I suck in a breath at my next thought. “Oh my gosh, did we just walk into the wrong apartment?”

Lennon answers by flicking the light on and a group of about ten people jump from behind the corner to shout “Surprise!” at full volume. There’s a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner just below mine and Fletcher’s balloon arch.

Is it Lennon’s birthday, too? I turn over my shoulder to apologize, but she is lifting a pink ‘Birthday Girl’ sash over my head and setting it on my shoulders.

“Me?” I look down to make sure I’m reading the words right.

“Obviously,” she snorts.

I look up to a proud Lennon standing next to her very wolf-looking boyfriend with her phone recording me. “You did this?”

“Not me.” She shakes her head and points over my shoulder.

I wish I could bottle up this exact moment right here.

That I could squish it into a frame and set it on my nightstand and keep it forever.

Directly behind me is Fletcher dressed as Erik from Phantom of the Opera.

Black tux, crisp white shirt, deep red vest with those fancy little embroidered details that I know he has complained about at least twice since putting this on.

Behind him is this long, dramatic cloak that flares with each step he takes closer to me.

Lennon was wrong. It’s my jaw they are going to have to sweep off this floor.

A faint smile curves his lips, only one half of my favorite dimples shining, while the other is covered by the porcelain mask.

He has somehow perfected the costume—maybe better than we saw in person with Sloane.

The one thing he didn’t match was his hair, which I am extremely thankful that he didn’t slick back.

It’s messy, like he’s been pulling at it nonstop, and I cannot wait for the chance to smooth it down with my hands.

“You?” I sniff and realize there is a rogue tear sliding down my cheek.

There are people here…somewhere. I should turn to see who. But then again, does it matter right now? When Fletcher is in front of me, mask on his face, thumb swiping away my tear, my heart in his pocket with no chance of me getting it back.

“Me.” His smile stretches. “You always wanted a surprise party.”

“How’d you know that?”

“You told me.”

Had I? When? “But…you were listening?”

“I’m always listening to you.”

Welp. So much for diminished crushes and hopes of keeping my heart intact. There are no chances left now, nothing but me and my poor unprotected feelings that I never had a chance at securing from this man.

I love him.