Page 14 of Drawn Together

My arms curve around his stomach to his back and I squeeze him tight, a big umph coming from his chest and a puff of air over my ear.

“What…is happening?”

“A thirty second hug.”

“Why thirty seconds?”

“My mom always does it. It’s supposed to be the right amount of time—just enough to get all the endorphins flowing. How long has it been?” Right now, it feels like an eternity.

He looks at the clock on the wall. “Ten seconds.”

“Twenty to go.”

We stand there for a moment, my arms wrapped around him pulled tight, and he’s just…there. Existing.

“Are they hitting yet?”

“No.”

“Wait a little longer.”

Shockingly, after what has to be the full thirty seconds, Fletcher slowly leans in.

The arms above mine loosen, and while he doesn’t hug me back, he allows me to hug him.

His chest lifts momentarily before his chin reaches down just enough to settle above my head, like his body is letting out a great big sigh.

He smells like leather, cigars, and cinnamon coffee

“How long has it been?” I whisper, like if I speak up, it might spook him into realizing further how ridiculous this is.

But it’s been at least a minute, right? Enough time for the people at the table beside us grabbed their bags and left, I got to watch them curve to the end of the street out of view. That’s got to be thirty seconds right there.

“Twenty-five seconds,” Fletcher mumbles above me.

Oh. I’m not sure how to argue that when I haven’t been counting, but I hold my hug regardless.

When he lifts his head off of mine, my whole body is flushed, and I’m not sure what it says about me that a simple hug from a man—which he didn’t even return—has my synapses firing all over, but they’re there, and I can’t stop them. Or the elephants running around in my stomach.

“Did it work?”

He sits down and waits to answer until the sip of coffee is down his throat. “No.”

But, by the flush of red tinging his cheeks, I choose to not believe that answer either.

We get back to our coffees and books in front of us, and I tell him that this place is probably close enough to the bookstore for me to walk here after my next Friday shift.

“It’s quickest if you take back roads. Go to 16th by your apartment and take a left the whole way, then turn on this road. It’ll avoid crowds.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t really been around much.”

“You moved here in April.”

I keep forgetting he is friends with Lennon, and therefore knows more about me than I always presume.

“I did.”

“You haven’t been around the city much since then?”

“Not really. We used to take trips up here when I was little, mostly for spring breaks or quick holiday weekends. I saw all the big touristy stuff back then, but I haven’t found much else beyond the Trader Joe’s on 12th, this coffee shop, my apartment, the bookstore, trivia night, and a butt diner on 23rd. ”

“Lenny took you to Backside?”

“Exceptional pancakes.”

“Questionable pancakes.”

I smile, and he looks down into his mug. “So, where else have you been?”

“Nowhere. That’s it.”

“That’s…it?”

“Oh!” I sit upright, exclaiming, “And the park where I chased you down.”

“Prospect?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you have any other friends to show you around?”

There are two things I would like to note in that question: One, if I were to respond with the truth that I have no friends, on a scale of someone walking in on you working out alone in your room to Door Dashing Monistat, how embarrassed are we?

And two, he said other friends. Which, judging by my context clues, insinuates he thinks we are friends. Are we friends?

Is my first real friend in this city a man who stole my breakfast and despises the one genre that I adore with all my heart? I think, yes.

Regardless, how much do I have to lose by sharing the truth?

“I do not.”

His brow wrinkles at that. “Lenny would probably do it if you asked her.”

“Lennon is just now at a point where she doesn’t run out of the room the second I walk into it, so I think I’d like to keep what we have going intact.”

He seems to think on that a while. “Well, I could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Show you some parts of the city. We have to meet for two hours once a week anyway, might as well do it somewhere new each time.”

“Okay.” I smile. “That would be great.”

“Okay.”

So, that’s that. Fletcher is my dispenser of creepy books and now not-so-tourist guide.

We spend the remainder of our two hours going through his favorite districts of the city, the way they’re spread out, and easy ways I can determine where I am if I were to get lost. I find out that he, Stephan, and the friend who passed—who he has yet to give me a name for—were high school best friends at a school about an hour from here.

He takes great offense when I asked him if they all met in band, because he ‘felt like a saxophone player.’ He still has yet to give me the answer and I’m convinced now that it must be true.

We cycle through two more latte art-topped mugs. His always come out as hearts, while mine are always stars. I tell him it’s because the barista likes him, and he says I am delusional—this is likely.

When he reminds me the two hours are up, we both reluctantly stand up, and he hands me another paperback.

“I’m giving you a break this week. It’s still considered a gothic novel, but I thought you’d appreciate that there is some romance in this one.”

I flip the floppy book over and read the title aloud, “ Wuthering Heights ?”

“Have you read it?”

“No, but I don’t know why. It sounds very up my alley.”

His jaw ticks. “I thought so, too.”

I flip through pages and recognize the colorful tabs sticking out of the book: some dark orange, yellow, and green—like the changing leaves of the fall.

There are hand-written notes in corners, arrows pointing to certain phrases, and underlined words.

And while I try my best not to take in any spoilers, I can’t help but curiously continue searching for more cliff notes throughout the book.

“Was this…” I pause, not knowing his friend's name to fill in the blank.

“Ryan’s?”

“Ryan’s.”

“No, I just got it last week. I read it so long ago I couldn’t find my old copy—probably in storage somewhere.”

My entire body lights up at that. “So, you got this just for the book club?”

“Yes.”

“You bought this book,” I wave it around, fall colored tabs and all, “and annotated it for me?”

“Do you have to sound so surprised?” He parrots my previous words, and had I not been in such shock, I would have maybe laughed at that.

But, my mind is still trying to wrap around the hundreds of tiny tabs, notes, explanations, and comments like, ‘you will like this part, I think’ or ‘push through this scene, it gets better,’ that he left on this book just for me.

Maybe that says something about me, too. That my eyes water at the mere sentiment of a man buying a book for me and annotating it, but there I was on the verge of grateful tears.

I guess we are friends, then.