Drawn Together

by Juliana Smith

My breath hitches in my throat. The thought of losing Sloane—the thought of losing anyone that I cared so near and dear for—is unfathomable. To go through that kind of grief with so much life left to go through without them. I don’t think I could do it.

“I’m so—” I cough and realize my eyes are watering at just the thought, and how pathetic it is that Lennon is giving me sympathetic eyes, like I was the one grieving. She lost him only six months ago. No wonder she was always gone. No wonder she lost herself. I don’t think I could ever be the same.

Then, a blip of a sentence. So tiny and quiet, I almost miss it. “His favorite color was green,” she whispers into the cool air, and I note to myself to notice all things green around me from here on out.

Lennon and I don’t talk about Ryan again for the next couple days, but every time I see something green in the bookstore, I wonder if I should push it to the back shelf where no one goes—except Edith and her ex-husband when they go to make out, or someone lost on their way to the bathroom.

I’ve been attracted to multiple men—that much is the easy part. Actually, I think it’s harder to find someone unattractive than the other way around. Everyone has something in them that I can get on board with. But, what’s the kind of guy that sticks longer than a fleeting moment in an airport or on the subway? Big brains, wild hair, slightly condescending in a flirty, but efficient way.

Fletcher must have cabin fever from working from home or something, because he keeps suggesting ways for us all to hang out.”

I’m jealous of other people, just because they don’t have to deal with me all the time.

Fletcher: You can ride a bike, right? Me: It’s been a while, but I think so. They say you don’t forget. Fletcher: They do say that. I have an idea for book club tomorrow. Me: Can’t wait. I went to bed giddy and restless. Turns out you can forget how to ride a bike.

“I walked all the trails that morning and ended up here. Thought you might like it.” He seems to have a knack for that—finding things I like.

I can hear the water trickling behind the trees around us, but I have no desire to move from this exact spot with multi-colored leaves swirling around in brisk sweeps of wind. My shoulders shake a little. With the steady drop of the temp since we left our bikes at the renting station, I should be cold. But my eyes are so caught up on what’s around us that I can’t be bothered to focus on something as trivial as body heat.

Fletcher clears his throat. I turn at the last sound and see he’s laid down a red and white checkered blanket in the broad span of green grass, and he is waiting for me to sit down first. He lifts his book of the week—Anne of Green Gables—and the pink flowers on the cover match well with the pink on his neck, cheeks, and the very tip of his crooked nose. It makes me want to pinch it.

“Alright…uh…” He glances around. “There’s a squirrel choking on a nut over there. Wait, no he threw it up. The ground is cold, despite the blanket. My backpack is really, uh, backpack-y.” “Wow. Laying it on thick, aren’t you.” “Let’s agree to leave the romanticizing to you and finding the horror in things for me.” “Agreed.”

“This is so nice.” I breathe in the crisp air. It’s clean and musky, I think from the damp leaves—earthy, crisp, and a little sweet. Then, there’s my delicious coffee, and Fletcher’s monstrosity in a cup. It all mingles together in a scent I’d like to push into a candle and light on my dining table next to some fresh cut purple and orange mums.

“But, I have like thirty pages left, if you don’t mind waiting for me to see if the grandkids escape.” His wicked grin gives me no spoilers on the book's ending, and I love it. “I don’t mind waiting for you, Flora.” I smile at that, flipping over on my stomach and kicking my feet up with my paperback, and climb into another world of arsenic-laced donuts and twisted desires. Shockingly, Flowers In The Attic is very much not about flowers in an attic. Who would’ve thought?

We stay like that for an hour, soaking in the warmth of the sun through our sweaters. Fletcher on his back, one arm triangled behind his head, and the other holding his book up to the sky. And I am on my stomach, kicking my feet in the air while finishing the last of the Dollanganger children. The breeze ruffles my pages a little, chill bumps tickling up my spine. Beside me, Fletcher hums softly—quietly—like he barely even knows he’s doing it. My eyes lock in on my current page, but my brain doesn’t take any words in. No runaway endings or plot twists can be kept in my head right now. Nothing but the steady thrum of conversations passing us by, the sound of the wind rustling the ever-changing leaves, and Fletcher’s humming slowly lulling me into a deep sleep—one I don’t think I ever want to wake from.

Fletcher read every book Flora gave him at least twice before they met up. But he would happily reread it a third time if it meant lying next to her in a park, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. A gasp here, a whispered ‘no,’ to each plot twist. Taking her sweet time reading those last few pages, like maybe she wasn’t ready for this to be over either. And, when her breaths slowed into soft, kitten-like purrs—eyes closed and body lax—he allowed himself to really look at her. The freckles on her nose. The tight, big curls resting over her shoulders. The tiny prickles of goose bumps on the few spots her skin was exposed. The temp dropped drastically since they got on their bikes, and she kept shivering...

Fletcher lifts the cover on one of the tubs—the one furthest away—and the steam rises instantly, curling in the cold air like it’s exhaling. I don’t even realize how tense my body’s been until that heat wafts over and touches my face—my shoulders ache, my back pulls. Every part of me begs for that burning feeling of sliding into a hot tub with your skin all red and blood pressure questionably low. The air smells like rain that never came, mingled with the faintest hint of cinnamon from someone’s apartment below. The city lights glitter in the distance, just over the ledge, but up here it feels like a fall retreat, tucked away in some storybook version of New York I didn’t think existed.

“Speaking of, how's the romance column going at work?” I trail my fingers on top of the water and dunk them in, over and over. “Better, I think. He published my first yesterday and said it would ‘work for now,’ so I’m convinced he doesn’t hate me.” “Good to hear the vampires worked on you.” “Not the vampires.” “Darcy, then?” “Blame it on the books, sure.”

“What about you?” “I think in this world I’m more of a werewolf girl. I’d rather have the fur and not be cold all the ti—”

“Ready?” My nose twitches. “Can we stay a little longer?” “I would say yes, but I think your blood pressure is dropping.” “If this is what low blood pressure feels like, then I never want it to rise again.”

Fletcher’s monstrosity. A smorgasbord of prosciutto, fig jam, goat cheese, and fresh arugula, covered in a hot honey sauce. I can feel my teeth shriveling up at the thought. Goat cheese on a pizza should be illegal. Fletcher reaches past me and sets a slice of his pizza on a plate before holding it out for me. “At least try it.” I look up at him, silently. He looks back at me, silently. His eyes scream try it and mine holler you freak. In the end, it’s the sad, disappointed frown of his that makes me sigh and grab the slice from him. It tastes exactly how it looks. Healthy, spicy, and very wrong. I would like to spit it into a napkin at my earliest convenience.

“Are you going to be mad at me if I don’t like it?” “No Flora, I won’t be mad at you.” “Then, I hate it.” He laughs so loud it shakes my stomach all around. “You do not.” “I really do.” I smile. “Well, your favorite restaurant is Backside.” “So?” I have recently graduated from the pancakes to the burger, and I cannot believe what a hidden gem that place is. “So, you have questionable taste.” “Har. Har. Har.” My eyes narrow,

How rude of her, Fletcher thought. To come barreling into his life right when he was starting to figure things out, just to turn them all back upside down again.

Word of the day: cafuné Definition: the act of tenderly running your fingers through the hair of someone you love

The door cracks open, and I jump in my skin, knees tucked to my chest. Fletcher smiles, and it’s a goofy one. All wobbly and silly, and it makes me giggle. He dips down to the ground beside me, feet pulled in tight. He looks so young like this. “Hi,” he whispers. “Hi,” I whisper back.

The others’ voices slide down toward the nearest bedroom, so Fletcher leans forward to close the door before settling in to wait. This closet is far bigger than any of the ones in our apartment, but it’s still a closet, so when the sides of our thighs graze one another, my arms erupt in goosebumps. “They talk so loud,” he whispers. “Because of the wine?” “No, it's like this all the time.” “Oh,” I snort. Fletcher reaches a hand up, grabs a lock of my curls and twists it around his fingers, pulling them through the tight coils. It bounces back toward me at the end, and he watches it, fascination in his dilated pupils. So, this is what Fletcher looks like tipsy. All warm and fuzzy, grainy edges, and wobbly smiles.

I soak in it, resting in the joy, the youth, and the giddy feeling of being in a closet with a boy who smells like rain and cloves. “You make me feel young again.” Fletcher’s mouth ticks. “You’re twenty-five.” “Yeah, but you make me feel like it.” “I think the wine has gotten to you.” “I think you’re right, but I stand by my statement.” That boyish smile grows, and there’s the dimple. Hello, old friend. Fletcher’s glasses are drooping low enough to where his eyes meet mine, just above the frames, and I like how they rest. I want to keep them right there.

I am so caught up in said eyes I don’t feel Fletcher fingers wrapping around the sleeve of my sweater. He tugs at the end, and I glance down. “What is this?” He lifts the fabric up to both of our eyes. “This texture?” “Wool.” “Like a sheep?” “I think so?” “So cool,” he whispers.

we scoot closer, like if someone were to open the door right now, we would be too tiny for them to find us.

“Did you love him?” He asks, quietly. I hesitate in my answer, because I don’t think I’d want to know his answer if these roles were reversed. Regardless, Fletcher takes the opportunity to respond for me. “Of course you loved him. You love everyone, regardless of if they deserve it or not.” My smile is sad—a little pathetic, and a lot reminiscent.

He types something out, and before I can ask what, he tosses the phone back to me. “Pretty.” My entire face is burning hot. Fletcher’s…really, really nice to look at right now.

The smell of him, like he just walked a mile in the rain to get to me. Every piece of this man is encompassing my senses, and the strange part is, I don’t think it’s the first time this has happened. The blanket on the park's ground. The way his hands wrap around a mug when we get coffee. The horrible bike riding and the way he makes me laugh, and even the way he frustrated me from the day we met. Fletcher’s always taken up space in my mind, but maybe this is the first time I’ve allowed him to stay there.

“You’re staring.”

“So are you.” “Yeah,” he nods, “I am.” I open my mouth and shut it. What do I say to that? Look away? Have your fill, young mage? Look at me and stare and gawk, because that’s all I want to do to you right now? I am bubbly and giddy and warmer than I’ve been since moving here, and I want nothing more than to just keep looking. Fingers reach, grabbing one tendril of my curls, and he studies it, then me. And just like that I’m suddenly jealous of all his paperbacks for experiencing what it’s like to be held and known so intimately by Fletcher Harding.

Fletcher wondered then if it would be worth it—the jail time repercussions, the millions of dollars he would be sued by his own publisher—to just leave it all at the table right now with this angel of a girl.

Word of the day: forelsket Definition: a Norwegian word that describes the euphoric, blissful first feelings of falling in love

Fletcher took a single throw blanket, his whole body on the carpet, minus a single foot propped up beside mine on my air mattress. It didn’t occur to me until the morning that he lived there—he had a warm bed and sheets and a nightstand to hold his water and Kindle—and yet, he slept in until ten o'clock that morning, happily on the floor beside me. That was when the crush really, really hit me.

My phone buzzes beside me, and when I see Fletcher’s name, I drop it into the laundry basket at my feet, full of clean socks and underwear and my vibrating phone. I have no clue what I would even say right now, or if he even remembered last night’s moment in the closet. I let the phone ring out until it’s fully silent before snaking it out of the basket and checking my recent text. Fletcher: Sorry if I made things weird last night. Me: It wasn’t weird! He starts typing, stops, then starts, and stops. I figure he’s not going to say anything else, but the vibrations come back, and he’s calling me again. With a violent effort, I throw my phone back in the laundry until the vibrating stops and pull it out to text him one more time.

“Oh my gosh.” I suck in a laughing breath. “Is that who you think is my even match here?” “I don’t know if you have an even match in this entire city, Flora.”

Fletcher is grinning at me, gentle and soft, and my insides go all gooey again.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” I shout over the loud music and stomping of boots behind us. “Do you want one?” “Sure. Want me to go with you?” “No, you’re gonna stand here and think about what you’ve done.” I jerk my head to the nail biter, and he shakes his head, grinning.

Everyone has the quote wrong, Fletcher thought. It’s jealousy that makes the heart grow fonder, not distance.

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.

“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.

NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. NO.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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