Page 18 of Drawn Together

“Oh no, be glad I have her. She is covered up in so many friends that my parents and I can’t keep up with who is who.”

“That’s good, then.”

I really try to keep the sigh and wonder out of my voice, but like I have no other choice, it’s there anyway. “Yeah, it is.”

“You sound like it isn’t good.”

“No.” I wave my hands out in front of me and my cheeks burn. “Oh my gosh, no. It is so good for her. I want her surrounded by all the love she can get.”

He lifts a brow. “But?”

“But… She has all these people that like…I don’t know how to put it.

She is always someone’s first, you know?

First invite, first call to ask for help, first person to run to, to share amazing news with.

” I kick a pebble down the sidewalk. “I think I’d like to know what that’s like.

To be the first person someone thinks about.

To be the one that everything someone else does comes back to you.

The one they always choose, to not be a maybe or a possible add-on, but to be a definite. That’s got to be nice.”

He’s quiet for a while, long enough for us to cross the busy streets twice and to only be a handful of blocks away from our final destination.

I did it again, my mind shouts. I’ve gone and overshared and pushed out these thoughts, that just because I am having, I assume someone else out there has to be, too.

I’ve tried and tried to change, but ultimately this is the ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ of oversharing.

I open my mouth to say an ‘oops, just kidding. I totally never have felt like that,’ but Fletcher cuts me off first with a nod.

“Yeah. I get that.”

Maybe he does. Or, maybe he’s humoring me. Either way, I don’t take the words back. And that alone feels incredible.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Why here of all places?”

“Why not here?”

Fletcher groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Last time I was here, I left with a stomach bug.”

“That wasn’t their fault.”

“Flora. Let’s try to be honest with each other.”

I stare up at the glowing neon Backside Diner sign with a sense of nostalgia. There’s a bikini bottom outline in the I of Diner that I hadn’t noticed before. Charming.

“If it’s the food you want, I will gladly pay for us to take it to-go and eat on a bench.”

“But, then I wouldn’t get the full experience.”

“Just further proving my point.”

“If we get it to-go, will you flip a pancake on your butt.”

“Sure.”

I cross my arms. “What happened to being honest?”

He groans, and I know before he even answers that I’ve won. “Okay, we’re in and out. No sticking around.”

I beam at him and fling the door open. “After you, sir.”

Fletcher’s entire face and neck are bright red throughout our entire ordering process. The waitress we got today is Diane, a seventy-two-year-old woman who is saving up to send her grandson through art school. I make a note to give her a hefty tip at the end of it.

“You’re not eating your burger.” I point with my pancake covered fork, a drop of syrup falling from it to my plate.

“Not hungry.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. I lost my appetite watching the cook handle money before touching raw ground beef.”

Mmm, fair. But, there is no chance of salmonella in pancakes, right? I happily chew on.

Fletcher pushes his plate closer to me. “So, how’s it going? The whole passion project, job possibility thing?”

“It’s…going.” I steal a fry of his. “I’m definitely making progress; it's just taking some adjusting to. I’m not so used to this entirely different style, and I feel like I have all these expectations—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are there expectations?”

“Okay.” I shift my legs so they are curled up in the booth with me. Fletcher gives me a look, telling me how unsanitary he finds it, so I curl them closer to me where he can see.

“So, you know I mostly do children’s book illustrations?”

He sips on his water. “No, I didn’t.”

“I didn’t say that?”

“Nope.”

Huh. It’s rare for me to under share.

“Well, I mostly do some small indie books. Some local Maine authors reached out after I started posting just some quick little bonus arts of my favorite books and what not.”

“So, would I know any work you’ve done?”

“Probably not that’s been published. I did some branding kits for a few companies, but ultimately that fell apart over time too. But, if I can nail this project, I think it’s really going to take off.

“And this project is?”

I look around us, the diner is mostly empty now except for a few regulars at the barstools and the waitresses flirting with the much younger cook that Fletcher keeps glaring at.

“So,” I whisper. “I don’t know if I can say it yet or not, since it’s not official.”

“I am utterly bewildered.” He deadpans as he grabs his drink, swirling the ice with his straw.

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to beg. I’ll tell you. I was reached out to work on a commission for the Cedric Brooks’s next release.”

Fletcher sucks in and sputters out his water, spraying across his side of the table and a little on mine, too.

He coughs sporadically, five, six, seven times.

The waitresses are staring at us, no one offering help, but more than happy to watch the show.

I reach for the box of napkins and start cleaning up the mess, but he stops me with a hand on my wrist.

“Sorry,” he croaks out. “Sorry, went down the wrong way.”

It takes him a moment to steady his breathing, and I almost consider giving him the Heimlich before he takes another sip of water and settles back into his seat.

“So, uh, Cedric Brooks, then.”

“The one and only.”

“He’s the recluse, right? No one knows who he is.”

I take a sip of my own drink and nod. “Yup. All I know is he’s a grumpy old man who hates exclamation marks.”

Fletcher guffaws. “Sounds horrible.”

“Right?”

I thought maybe he would be more impressed by the fact that I am actively working with the top children’s book author of our time.

I maybe expected some bragging rights to come out of this.

But, Fletcher is so determined to move the conversation chugging right along, that I have so little time to talk about it.

“Have you seen your sister…”

“Sloane.”

“Sloane, since you moved here?”

“Not in person, no. We text all the time and she keeps asking to visit, but I don’t think she’ll be able to make it here until her fall break.”

He must have gotten over his fear of money and meat mixing, because he takes a massive bite of his cold burger, cheeks poked out and voice muffled. “When is that?”

“Mid-October, I think? I’ll have to double check. I want to make it a really special visit for her, though, so let me know if you have any places you think we should go. Other than the obvious.” I point to the butt syrup dispenser, and he cringes.

“Does she look like you?”

Boy, he is full of questions.

“No,” I snort. “She’s like my mom’s mini me.

Everyone thinks they’re sisters when we go out.

I look just like my dad. Well, except my hair.

” I pull at the ends of the long, curly strands.

“Everyone in my family, except my sister and dad have my hair, it’s all from my mom’s side.

Though, hers looks like natural beach waves; mine usually looks like a lion stuck his claw into a socket. ”

Fletcher doesn’t laugh with me; he just stares at the curls resting on my shoulder for a beat.

“I like your hair.”

Judging by how he‘s looking at it right now—with a tiny glint in his hazel eyes—for the first time ever, I think I might like it too.