Page 16 of Drawn Together

I have very little time to dissect that statement as Stephan turns around and points to a nearby restaurant. “It’s this one. Lenny said you’d like it because it would remind you of your dad.”

Lennon not-so-discretely pinches her boyfriend's elbow, and I smile.

“Oh?” The glowing neon sign says Piccoli Trattoria.

“You said your dad was Italian.” I don’t know if it’s the red sign above us or if the flush in Lennon’s cheeks is genuine, but I find it endearing all the same.

“Yeah, his whole family lives in Sicily.”

“Well, then.” Stephan opens the door for both Lennon and me. “You’ll have to tell us if it’s good enough.”

I feel like I should spoil this part for you, so I will: it was more than good enough.

We each ordered a different form of pasta, and while I had a small sampling of everyone else's at their offers, I quickly decide that Fletcher’s plate is my favorite.

A Grano Arso bucatini with braised duck ragu and mushrooms scattered on top.

It is magnificent. And though my black spaghetti with shrimp, chorizo and spicy calabrian tomato sauce is incredible, I can’t stop eyeing Fletcher’s plate and those perfect little mushrooms. My shoulders did a full shimmy at my first bite, and I have thought of little since.

My dad did not inherit his mom’s cooking skills, but he did inherit her excellent taste. And I like to think that’s been passed down to me as well. Though, I ate boxed mac and cheese for three meals last week, so who's to say I am a proper judge of this thing.

Fletcher’s elbow taps mine, and I look back up from his plate. “Hm?”

“Stephan asked if you like living here.”

“Oh.” Across the table, Lennon’s cheeks are stuffed with ravioli, and Stephan is patiently waiting for my answer. “I do. I like the views and the buildings. And that everyone minds their own business. And all the little stands and markets. Oh, and the coffee.”

There is exactly one cafe in Whisper Bay, and the coffee is subpar at best. Always a little burnt and always a little watered down.

“Good.” He smiles, and it reminds me of my dad a little—crooked and wobbly. “Lenny likes all those, too.”

Lennon's cheeks are pink again, and I suddenly feel like Stephan is trying to push us to agree to a playdate after school.

I look back over at Fletcher’s plate. There’s so much food left.

Mine is missing a mere three bites, and my stomach growls only for more mushrooms. I wonder if I could stop somewhere on the way home, grab the ingredients for a pathetic homemade version of his plate, and satisfy the craving just enough to not gnaw off my own arm.

Fletcher must recognize my deep longing, because he sighs and reaches across me for my plate, sliding it over to him.

“Wait—”

He then slides his own plate to the empty spot in front of me. Steam wafts up from the dish to my nose and it smells like duck ragu, sauteed mushrooms, and a little slice of heaven sprinkled on top.

I eye him. “You don’t like mushrooms?”

Fletcher shrugs. “Not exactly.”

I want to shout ‘why did you order the only pasta with mushrooms,’ but realize my gratitude would sound short lived, so I happily dig into the bucatini and sigh wistfully between each bite.

The rest of our meal is mostly silent, each of us stuffing out mouths too full for any words to form their own bite. Stephan looks like he might pick his plate up and lick it, and Lennon is staring at hers like it could whisk her away to a tropical island. Or maybe to Sicily.

Fletcher folds up his napkin and places it on his empty plate before leaning back in a tell-tale ‘I am so stuffed that you might have to carry me out of here’ way.

After paying our bills, Fletcher turns to me. “Do you want a to-go box?”

My plate still has so much on it because I lovingly chewed every bite into the texture of applesauce, and now I am too full to carry on. “Oh, yes please.”

“I need to get a cup to pour my drink in, too, so I’ll go with you.” Stephan and Fletcher stalk off to a bar where our waiter is tapping away on his screen.

“I wonder if I should have got a to-go cup too—”

“Are you sure you’re not sleeping with Fletcher?” Lennon blurts out, and I think I would have been less surprised if the ravioli on her plate stood up and did the can-can halfway through dinner.

“What?” My entire face heats up, and I don’t know if I should blame it on the earlier martini or the thought that Lennon would assume someone like Fletcher would willingly be with me. “I think I would know if I was.”

She hums. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” I pop the P. The idea of the topic has my face all hot and itchy again. “No anything for me.”

“I wondered. A man came with you to help you move in. I hadn’t seen him since.”

A man…

“My dad?”

“That was your dad? The one from Sicily?”

“Yes.” Who else would it be? “The woman with him was my mom.”

“Wow,” she whispers. “You have a very promising future.”

I snort and know now it has to be the alcohol hitting, because all my walls telling me to keep all of this extra stuff to myself has dissipated, and I let the smallest piece slip out.

“That seems to be a popular opinion. My best friend in high school started hanging out with me just so he could see my mom mowing the backyard in a crop top.”

It’s so stupid, but it has me giggling, which in turn has Lennon smiling.

“I had some shitty friends like that, too.”

I didn’t say he was shitty, but it’s funny how from one sentence, she knows it, too.

“I hate that.”

“Me too.”

It’s silent for a while.

“He was my boyfriend.”

“Who?”

“The friend from high school. He was my boyfriend for eight years.”

I don’t know why, but the thought has me cackling hysterically. Lennon starts laughing, too, and we’re holding our stomachs, gasping and pulling for breath.

“Where is he now?”

“In my hometown in Maine with his soon to be wife, I think.” I know.

“Is he why you moved here?”

I’m not sure where to even start with that.

“Partially, I think—”

Fletcher's arm comes into view, setting an orangey-pink drink in a to-go cup next to my plate, before putting an empty box down on his own side.

Stephan slips into the other side of the booth, slinking an arm around his girlfriend. Lennon breathes in deep and leans into him.

“What did we miss?”

I don’t know why, but the thought of talking about Austin to Fletcher has my skin feeling all itchy. Lennon must recognize that too, because she shrugs, reaching for her water.

“Not much.” She smiles at me.

Both men look at me to confirm, and I shrug.

“Yeah, not much.”