Page 17 of Drawn Together

Fourteen

Word of the day: sonder

Definition: the feeling of realizing that every other person you see has a life as vivid and complex as your own

The AC is blasting cold air down my shoulders, and I am suddenly wishing I had brought my sweater with me, but I am mid-dragon voice, and dragons are way too cool for thick cardigans.

Thirty tiny eyes stare up at me as I flip from page to page.

Their little huffs and gasps as Mikey gets closer to the Dragon’s evil lair are undeniably adorable, but I have no time to take them in.

Lennon is passing snacks around, keeping an eye on all entrances and exits, like I’m on tour and she’s my professional bodyguard, ready to knock out any five-year-olds that dare to get on my stage.

We have spent the last week or so completely flipping this place into an autumnal haven.

I strung slow-flickering fairy lights around the posts of the columns holding the store up.

Lennon has taken to taking all our children’s fall reads and placing them around the glass display holders for the kids and their parents to take in.

We went as far as making this week's snack October-themed, including pretzel sticks, chocolate chips, candy corn pumpkins, Chex Mix, and Bugles—which Lennon calls ‘witch fingers’ and likes to put them on to scare the kids.

My eyes catch the round clock resting above the reading nook area—it’s got little skeleton bones for the hands—telling me I needed to start walking five minutes ago to meet Fletcher on time.

But Mikey and this dragon are really taking their sweet time.

Unfortunately, some young readers are a little too locked in, and if I were to, let’s say, accidentally pinch four or five pages together to skip a few scenes, they would instantly clock it.

The book props on my lap, resting under my chest, and sits atop my thighs as my hands quickly sign along with the words I've memorized for years.

There is only one little reader that is hearing impaired here—she has a cochlear implant and can take in most of my words—but still, I want her to feel just as included as everyone else. Her big blue eyes track my every sign with a wide grin, and that alone feels worth it.

“Mikey reaches up, grabs the silver holder and—” I make an eeeeech noise, and the kids snicker.

“Pulls the door right open. It’s dark, nothing but a single light facing the golden chalice to bring home to his sick mother. It’s very quiet. A little too quiet for his liking.”

A blonde girl hides behind the leg of her mom, who is happily taking the last twenty minutes to nap off last night's restlessness. I check the clock again. I’m so freaking late.

My eyes make frantic help me signs to Lennon, but she is doing scans of the crowd, like she might have to confiscate some gummies or fidget toys.

“Who dares disturb my slumbbeerrrr?” I growl dramatically, and maybe this would go faster if the sound effects were out, but that takes away the whole experience, and I’d want to do it all over again. “You shall pay, Mikey, the boy who carries gold.”

We are mid-fight scene with swords and slashes and PG-rated wounds, when behind a row of young moms wrestling their toddlers, I see him—broad shoulders, crooked nose, raised brows, and a hint of amusement at my tone, as the tiny mice make their way in the story to save Mikey.

Fletcher’s arms cross over the wide expanse of his chest, shoulder leaning against the column beside him.

The golden glow of my fairy lights makes it look like he’s lit from within, an amber incandescence on his scruffy face.

His height allows him to easily gaze over all the other standing adults, and for some reason, my eyes clock the table and chairs I forced him into a few weeks ago.

I have to fight back a snicker that threatens to come up.

I never thought I’d be excited to see Fletcher Harding enter a room, but here we are. My heart speeds up, all giddy, as the cut-out leaves in the overhead display dangle enough to tickle his shoulder.

Our book clubs have now turned into two books a week, accidentally.

Ever since he annotated Wuthering Heights for me, I felt the need to do the same for him.

So, with my two-day shipping privileges, I got an entire annotating kit and went to town on the books I knew I wanted Fletcher to read.

Between one romance and one horror, we have both been covered with our reading.

Sometimes, I glance over to his apartment from the window and see him picking at the pink colored tabs poking out of the pages I assigned him, and it always makes me smile.

We’re texting more now, too. Last week he sent a picture of the ugliest pumpkin with a massive lump poking out like an orangutan nose and said, ‘Does this one remind you of me, too?’ I now have to send him pictures of every hideous pumpkin I pass on the brownstones’ steps.

We talk about books a lot, naturally. But we talk about more, too.

He told me that Lennon spends most of her time at art museums—something I noted to ask about later—and I tell him about growing up on the coast, and my very poor attempts at surfing.

“Run, Mikey,” the mouse in my throat squeaks. “For I will save you all.”

Two more pages.

“You mustn’t, Mister Whiskers.” I turn the page and go back to my mouse voice.

“It has been my honor, sir.”

Why do I always feel like the mice have to be British?

Thankfully, the ending wraps up very quickly.

I’ll spoil it for you: the dragon goes to eternal sleep, and Mikey gets the chalice and brings it home to heal his mother just in time.

The mice come to live with him and befriend his old dog, Maurice.

And the mouse who sacrificed himself comes crawling home to his mouse wife as a war hero. The end.

I am on my way to Fletcher with an apologetic smile when a four-year-old tugs at my pant leg.

“Oh,” I squat a little, “hi, Fern.”

The curly-haired girl stares up at me and blurts out, “My uncle sometimes has sleepovers with my mommy in her room.” To which I just smile and ‘Oh!’ at.

Another question for another day.

Lennon is directing them all to the spot where they could purchase the book if they chose to do so—they never do, but it’s a valiant effort.

“Hi.” I let out a puff of air as I finally get to the column where Fletcher leans. “Sorry I’m like, insanely late. How did you know to come here?”

“Lenny mentioned it was taking a while.” I glance back and see Lennon having a very serious conversation with a babbling two- year-old. She is nodding along with furrowed brows, and I think the dad watching the interaction is quickly falling in love with my quiet roommate.

“I figured I’d swing by and grab you.”

“I’m super glad you did, because there is a high chance I would get lost again and end up needing to cancel so I could make my way back to civilization.”

He nods like fair. “Is there anything else you need to get done before we head out?”

I double check with Lennon and she’s already waving me off, half of the crowd inching their way out of the store with no books in hand.

“I think I’m good. Let me just grab my bag.” When I go to reach for the tote bag with a bunch of red and white polka dot mushrooms that says ‘The Future is Indie,’ Fletcher’s hand sticks out in front of me, grabbing the handle before I can.

He settles the hefty bag on his shoulders, and I squint. “I think I just got déjà vu.”

“From?”

“That book you mentioned about the struggling artist? There’s a scene where someone is shoving their arm around her to tap their card on the reader before she could. Then, he steals her breakfast.”

“Sounds like a lovely character.”

“He could use some development.”

He shrugs again and we are off, walking down the street.

I breathe in the air around us; I'd love to bottle it up and save it for later. I think fall will always be my favorite time of year. I like that the moment it arrives, you recognize the change it’s bringing—the color of the leaves and the way they scatter around you, the blaring heat slowly turning into cool, brisk nights where you can see your breath as you talk.

I think everyone assumes that with change comes pain, and maybe that’s true.

But, fall is an excellent reminder of just how beautiful the in-between stages of life can be—the uncertainty and the wonder.

A point that sometimes it’s nice to not know what comes next, but to recognize the changes in us.

“I didn’t know you knew sign language.”

We round the corner. It’s my turn to pick our book club meeting spot, so I am loosely attempting to get us there in hopes we don’t get stuck halfway.

“My baby sister was born deaf.”

“Oh.” Fletcher is quiet for a moment as we pass a woman giving away free puppies out of a box.

“How old is she?”

I realize when I say baby sister, the assumption is of a five-year-old or younger.

“She’s eighteen. Just still a baby in my mind.”

“Ahh.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“Stephan’s a brother in my mind. Ryan was, too.”

I’m not sure where to go from here, but there’s a pressing button in my mind telling me not to ask anymore, so I stay quiet.

I let the wind do the talking for us, rushing in and around the buildings.

My hair keeps getting pulled from the loose bun at the nap of my neck, the stray curls catching my lip gloss every thirty feet.

A woman passes us with a puppy in a stroller, a man is selling questionable kumquats, and we pass street dancers with a crowd forming around them.

And above all else, everyone has somewhere they’re wanting to go. I like that part of it all, too.

“You’re close with your sister?” Fletcher breaks the silence.

“Yeah.” I smile. “She’s my best friend back home.” Or anywhere.

“That’s cool. I’m glad she has you.”