Page 15 of Drawn Together

Thirteen

Word of the day: droke

Definition: to gaze intensely at someone while they are eating, in the hope that they will share their food

It’s been two days since I have seen my little mockingbird friend.

I like to think he has a family in a far-off nest, but he comes here to take a break from the non-stop screeching for Cheerios and screen time. Then, the mommy bird gets to do the same the next day, being sure to sip the leftover drops of an espresso martini someone left behind at a rooftop bar.

Point being, when I find myself looking through the window for any traces of my flying friend, I am left with nothing but the option to look out at Fletcher’s apartment. The curtains are open today, no lights on currently, but I can see a small bit of his layout.

I’m almost annoyed at how perfect his choice for my week is: Wuthering Heights .

I think up until this week, I’ve been trying to compartmentalize my brain into exact sections.

I can be the romance loving, banana Laffy Taffy sweater wearing girl who wants to draw pretty pictures anytime I want, until it comes time for Cedric Brooks commissions—then, I am a monster who uses blood to draw the outlines of her victims. Kidding, but I have found somehow that romance and light and airiness can co-exist with dark, gothic themes.

And apparently, the research Fletcher and I have been conducting through these books is working, because when Cedric Brooks emailed me back this morning, it was only one sentence: I didn’t hate this one.

I smile to myself at the memory. He likes it.

Enough where I can slip into the next scene and keep going on this commission, as long as he will allow me to.

But, before I can stop looking outside and put my focus back to the iPad in my lap, Lennon throws the door to our apartment open and sprints in to avoid getting caught in the draft.

I am so sucked into watching Fletcher’s neighbor do some form of dance yoga, I don't even lift my head up.

“Hello,” she sighs.

“Hi.” I smile. “How was your day?”

“Fine.” She goes around the counter like she’s heading to her room, but pauses just as she is at the door before turning to me. “Yours?”

It’s such a long pause between the two words I have to track backwards to remember what she is asking, but when the sentiment hits, my smile grows wide. “Very good.”

“Good.” She goes in her room and shuts the door, and I turn back to my window.

My ten minute break from sketching a particularly eerie scene—where Evie crawls through the wall, tearing into a surreal patchwork world—has turned into me obsessing over the next scene.

The ground is quilted, with varying shades of autumn squash and brown leather, the sky stitched, and the trees are made of golden tangled yarn.

The tunnel behind her seals itself with glowing stitches as she passes through, and I have shading around where the ‘glowing’ part will end up.

Dolls and plush creatures watch her from behind masks—some with tears in their seams—and Threadbare walks ahead, casting a much larger, shadowy silhouette beside the Seamstress.

It’s almost ironic how this story feels similar to the first one that Fletcher gave me.

Only, instead of button eyes, there’s stitched threads, and the other mother is more a seamstress who wants to take the lives of every lonely child around her and shove them into stuffed animals to haunt other lonely children.

Point being, he seems to read exactly what I need without even knowing.

And just as the man crosses my mind, there he is. One building away, nothing but glass and air separating my new friend and me. I reach a hand up to wave and realize he can’t see me, so I go to text him instead.

Me: Hi!

I watch it unfold like a scene playing before me—Fletcher hearing his phone vibrate, him turning to the side table where it rests, he unlocks it, reads my texts, and a ghost of a smirk brushes his lips.

Fletcher: Hello, Flora Anderson.

My stomach does a silly loop-de-loop before settling back down. It’s been so long since I have had a friend to text like this.

Me: Whatcha doing?

That ghost of a smile transitions into a real one, corners lifted, and I can’t see much, but I recognize the warmth it gives me.

Fletcher: I am about to pick up where I left off in my assigned reading for the week.

Me: Thoughts so far?

His back tightens and when a minute goes by with no answer while he is actively on his phone, I am rereading my own texts to see if I maybe did something wrong.

I’ve been known to do that over text—too many reactions too fast. I try to simmer myself down into something more palatable for Fletcher and Lennon, and even Edith, but I wonder if it’s all a useless effort.

Lennon opens the door to her room, bringing a wave of vanilla with her.

“Hey, do you have plans tonight?”

My heart jumps an embarrassing rate at the question. Almost as embarrassing as how I desperately shout, “Nope.”

“Do you want to go out with Stephan and I?”

“Is it another trivia night? I should warn you I don't know many topics besides literature. And some of those ‘How is it made?’ shows. I enjoy watching the old guys make hard candy.”

She blinks. “No, we’re just going out for dinner.”

I look back to Fletcher’s apartment to see it’s empty now, my text still left on read.

“Then yes. I would love to go.”

I pull myself off the couch, legs tingling from being cross-legged too long, and head toward my room. The wood floor is cool beneath my wool socks, but not unpleasant—it’s the chill that makes you want to wrap yourself in a throw blanket like a burrito. Or drink something nutmeg-y.

I meant what I said about my closet to Fletcher—it is pathetically small—but it is host of my many sweaters still resting in their boxes, and this seems like a good opportunity to pull them out, along with my red leather boots and the scarf scrunchie I have been too scared to wear to work. Edith is not a fan of eccentrics.

There's something about dressing for fall that feels like preparing for a movie montage.

I always imagine someone out there narrating my movements—probably Meg Ryan.

I am in a dance of getting ready, throwing clothes on and taking them off, before going to the next option then back to the first. Somewhere in there, I throw on a toasted burgundy blush, realize I overdid it, and try to wipe off the excess with my middle finger.

Which, ironically, gives me the exact look I was going for.

When I leave my room Lennon is opening the door in her caramel coat and dark boots. The hallway is steeped in amber lighting from our neighbor’s ‘mood bulbs’ that he switches out for the season.

“Hi, Stephan—” I pause, because just behind my roommate's boyfriend is none other than Fletcher Harding. Dressed in denim jeans and a gray sweater below a dark green wool coat, he looks like he might read Bronte on purpose and knows how to make cider from scratch.

“You’re here?” My voice does nothing to hide my enthusiasm at his presence, and I don’t even mind.

“I’m here.” He pats his leg and rocks on his feet, so not fitting in this area. I smile at that, and while he doesn’t return it, his usual scowl is nowhere to be found.

“I was going to answer your text, but then Lennon said you were coming to dinner so…” He looks over my shoulder, and Lennon is licking her fingers in an attempt at tampering down Stephan’s cowlick. “I thought we could talk about it there. Since those two will probably leave halfway through dinner.”

“Sounds good.”

The cold autumn air rushes in as we step out into the night. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk like tiny dancers in the wind, and the city smells like roasted chestnuts and chimney smoke.

For the first time in a long while, I don't mind that the mockingbird didn’t show up today.

I’ve found something just as curious to watch.

The couple in front us weaves through the crowd, arm in arm, while Fletcher and I follow them.

I have no clue where we are going tonight, but I have to admit I am slightly disappointed it’s not Backside Diner.

I’ve been twice this week already, and I think I’d like the waitresses to know my order by heart one day.

“So, do you guys get together a lot?”

Fletcher goes to respond, but surprisingly, Lennon peaks over her shoulder at the two of us, and I swear she almost grins. “Usually, Stephan’s the one who pulls us all together for plans, but apparently Fletcher really wanted to come out tonight.”

“Alright.” Fletcher brushes the topic past before turning to me. “So, what were your thoughts?”

“On?”

“ Wuthering Heights .”

“Oh, I love it. I mean, it’s not something I think I’ll re-read, but I am having more fun with it than the others. And, I think it’s helped me realize the two can exist at once.”

“The two?”

“Dark themes and romance. That one doesn’t have to be without the other. They can bleed into each other.”

“Ahh.”

“It’s like people, I think. You know how some couples start out one way, then after a year she’s loading the dishwasher the way he does and he suddenly stopped using two-in-one shampoo because she has worn into him it doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Let’s not even joke here.”

Fletcher smiles.

Up close and personal, he smiles, and I feel like I have been lit by the sun from within.

It’s like that feeling when you stretch a little too far and your mind goes a little dizzy, calf muscles tightening to a cramp.

Fletcher’s smile is like the warm edges of a sunset and the cool breeze of an autumn night, and I am entirely grateful to be on the other side of it.

The causing of it.

“You have dimples!” I practically scream and gasp at once.

“How…did you not realize that before?” He’s still smiling, and the tiny craters in his cheek have me wanting to crawl into them with a patchwork quilt.

“You never smile at me.”

“I do, just usually when you’re not looking.”